


Conscience

by sordidhumor



Series: The Conscience Series [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Catcher Dominant, Consensual Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Heterosexual Sex, Homosexuality, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, POV Multiple, Rape (Not Depicted), Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-01
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 19:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 68
Words: 577,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/323237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sordidhumor/pseuds/sordidhumor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a very fine line between being zealously good and undeniably evil. Unfortunately for man that line lives in our heads. For some it's called conscience, for others greed or self preservation. But what happens when those lines are tested?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hubris

**Author's Note:**

> **GENRE:** Noir, Action-Adventure Porno, Yo-yo-ing Dark/Comedy, Teen Coming-of-Age  
>  **RATING:** NC-17 for violence, language, sexuality and copious adult themes  
>  **SPOILERS:** post HBP, non DH-compliant  
>  **WARNINGS:** Warnings will always be chapter-specific. This story will contain multiple male/male (slash) relationships as well as explicit sexual content intended for adults only. This story will contain reference to sexual abuse of a minor, but will not depict it.  
>  **DISCLAIMERS:**  
>  I do not own them in a box,  
> I do not own them with a fox,  
> I do not own them while I'm bowling,  
> They all belong to JK Rowling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This chapter contains violence, gore, torture & snark.

* * *

 

 

 

 **  
**

_I don't mind torture._

 _Torture is a highly efficacious model for attaining desirable information._

 _I have no moral qualms in regards to torture._

 _  
_

These three sentences—strung together and repeated very quickly at a certain strategic level of consciousness—had served Draco Malfoy extremely well over the last fortnight. Talented Occlumens that he was, his mantra was often great enough to overpower the screams echoing through the basement of Malfoy Manor. However, on the rare occasions that both his magical and mental prowess escaped him, he would take to vandalizing his father's liquor cabinet.

It is after one such night of intoxicated bliss that we find young Mr. Malfoy standing blearily before an ornate sink, vigorously brushing his teeth. Still smelling strongly of liquor, he has the look about him of a once-polished gentleman who has awoken late in the afternoon once more, quite hung over and no longer demonstrating any concern for it. In simpler words; his soul had given up, his mind had accepted defeat, and his pride had yet to realize the general consensus.

But, lo! As (toothpaste dribbles from the corner of young Mr. Malfoy's mouth and proceeds towards his chin,) there is a knock upon the door!

"Draco," his mother's silvery voice called as the knocking persisted. "Dragon, darling, I know you're awake. I can hear the water running." The knocking died away. For a single moment, he dared to hope that she had wisely elected to leave him alone. "Will you open the door? He wants to speak with you." No such luck.

Draco sauntered over to his bedroom door and wrenched it open without emotion. Not wanting his mother to suspect that years of (in)breeding had gone to waste, he pointedly fixed her with his best Malfoy sneer.

"Thank you," she said, lowering her dainty hand and clasping it with the other. She looked at him beseechingly, searching his empty eyes for any sign of forgiveness. But Draco would never grant her that—not after the unearthing of operation Abandon All Faith In My Son And Enlist His Most Trusted Ally To Plunder His Due Glory From Him At The Last Possible Moment, Causing Him Immeasurable Pain and Despair... "Draco?" Narcissa Malfoy's head was angled in worry as she gazed at her son.

"Mfft?" Draco grunted around his toothbrush. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. This was hardly worth his time.

"Didn't you hear me?" Narcissa wrung her hands. "He wishes to see you immediately. You should hurry and get dressed." Normally she would have sent a house elf but Draco had barred the creatures from his wing, wishing to be alone. With her duty performed and head bowed, Narcissa began to walk away. Draco thought the moment deserved closure.

"Hmmmfft," he grunted again, turning away as well. His mother whirled on him.

"Draco Malfoy! Your father would not tolerate such insolence in this house! Since you've been home, you've hardly said a word to me..." Her expression conveyed worry of a less-than-maternal sort. Draco guffawed, nearly choked on his toothbrush, and strategically removed it for added pithy diction. Straightening to his full unshod height, he addressed her in lofty tones.

"Yes. How has the fortnight treated you, mother?"

"Fortnight?" Narcissa's blonde brows knitted confused. She regarded her son more cautiously, now believing her offspring quite unhinged. "Dragon, you've been home six days—" Draco let out a peal of derisive laughter, drowning out the remainder of her argument. He brushed a lock of hair from his eyes, signaling the termination of his outburst and the return of his cool, trained facade. His mother removed a piece of dirt from her fingernail. "Finished, Draco? He's waiting."

"Let him," Draco spat subversively before slamming the door in his mother's quickly contorting face. There was very little that Draco actually understood about his mother but the one thing he knew with acute certainty was when she was about to cry. He locked the door magically and went hastily to his wardrobe at the far side of the room, less than eager to hear his mother blubbering as he prepared for his very personal consultation with the Dark Lord.

Outside his locked door, Narcissa fumed. "Sleeping until three in the bloody afternoon, neglecting his duties to the Death Eaters, refusing to see the Dark Lord when commanded—he's going to get us both killed!" She adjusted her robes to better expose her cleavage as she scurried down the hall. Lord Voldemort was in her sitting room, demanding to see Draco. They were doomed.

 

\- - -

 

Now, Draco Malfoy was a very intelligent young man. Very little could escape his notice. Therefore it was logical that he put two and two together and came to the conclusion that the respectable number of Death Eaters encamped at Malfoy Manor were, in fact, torturing a great many people to death in his cellar. This was not surprising to young Mr. Malfoy; after all, if he had no moral qualms in regards to torture, why should he expect others to possess them? Mr. Malfoy was a very savvy and seasoned individual.

 

 _I don't mind torture._

 _Torture is a highly efficacious model for attaining desirable information._

 _There's blood on my shoe._

 _I have no moral qualms in regards to torture._

 _I don't mind torture at all._

 _There's blood on my shoe._

 _  
_

Draco couldn't get over the blood. It was _everywhere_ : it was on the walls, it was on the ceiling, it was on his very expensive Italian leather wingtips. Not to mention where all the blood had come from—the screaming, begging, pleading muggle woman groveling on the floor before him made very little visual impact in relation to the sheer amount of what should have been her insides now adorning her outsides.

"Crucio," the Death Eater beside him droned. The man—Draco recalled that his name was Mulciber—was humming faintly, smoking a cigarette with one hand and torturing the muggle senseless with the other. He was one of many Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban since the Dementors abandoned it. More Death Eaters were arriving at Malfoy Manor every day; they were running out of bedrooms for them all. Draco assumed that the Manor could not be the only Death Eater stronghold, judging by the number of owls coming in and out of the house and the regularity of groveling social calls from former supporters and new recruits. Draco knew what came after those letters and social calls: this.

For his unfortunate lapse in action during the assassination of Albus Dumbledore's, the Dark Lord had ordered Draco to a week of "study" under Mulciber. From his mother's lavish sitting room, Draco had been escorted to the cellar and treated to the present scene for the better part of an hour. Draco didn't think the woman could last much longer. And just as he thought this, Mulciber turned to him and cracked a wicked smile.

"Kill 'er," Mulciber chuckled. "Dark Lord's orders."

Draco blanched. He'd always done well casting the Imperius Curse—after all the practice he'd had with the house elves over the years, how could he not?—but the Killing Curse was different. With Avada Kedavra, a wizard really had to mean it. Draco knew what the Dark Lord was doing: he was being tested. _If you can't kill Dumbledore, can you kill at all?_

Well, this was it. He raised his wand, centered his concentration, and spoke the incantation.

After repeating this sequence several times over with no visible results, Mulciber took the opportunity to beat Draco forcefully and maliciously about the head before killing the muggle himself.

"Um," Draco was pinching a bloody nose, "I'm sure I'll get the hang of it one way or another." Mulciber smiled and shook his blood-matted, shaggy hair out of his eyes.

"Sure," he replied sardonically. "Let me give you a few pointers." Mulciber lit another cigarette and pointed his wand at Draco.

 

 

 


	2. Creatures of Filth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy's response to torture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** return of the blithe Oxonian narrator, crack!humour

 

 

Harry Potter lay flat on his back at two o'clock in the morning, covered in sweat and barely breathing. He felt as though he had been repeatedly run over by muggle construction vehicles. He thought he could still feel the imprint of their tires across his body... until he realized that the thing digging into his ribs was in fact a table which he had had the good fortune to land on, reducing it to a splintering pile of tinder. Being launched into the air must have been part of the struggle to remain conscious. He tried to move his head and managed to moan instead. 

“Yeh alright, Potter?” asked a gruff voice from the shadows of the room beyond.

“Yeah, I think so.” Everything was coming back slowly, as though from a dream.

He had been practicing defensive spells with Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody in the disused first floor parlor at number twelve Grimmauld Place. They had been working for several hours—making it now quite late. He had lost concentration, slipping into another one of those dreams that felt so unbelievably, undeniably real. Jerking awake, all he had seen was that ball of light rushing towards him, all he had sensed was a lifting sensation, an upward rush overwhelming him from the inside out, and then— _crash_.

“Alastor?” Harry felt like such an idiot; losing his grip in front of such a seasoned Auror! Surely Mad-Eye Moody wouldn't think Harry was capable of facing Lord Voldemort after such a pathetic showing. Moody had taken the time and energy to arrange these practice sessions for Harry and here he was blowing it! He'd have to do better—there was simply no other way.

“I'm sorry. I lost control,” Harry mumbled, pushing the table off his torso and sitting up very slowly, avoiding the Auror's gaze. The man's magical eye followed him even in the darkened, dusty room.

“Rubbish,” Moody growled congenially upon seeing that Harry was alright. “I hit yeh with one o' the most powerful restricted Confundus Charms the Ministry o' Magic has on record. I'm impressed yeh know yer own name, let alone mine!” He ended this little speech by inserting both hands under Harry's arms and physically hoisting The Boy Who Lived to his feet. Harry swayed drastically. “Dizzy?” Moody asked, his weathered face crinkling.

“Mfft!” Harry suddenly plugged his nose and ducked his head between his knees.

“NOSEBLEEDS!” came Molly Weasley's disgruntled shout from the doorway. She was holding a big steaming cup of tea in one hand and an unopened letter in the other. Her slippers padded against the carpet as she made her way to the two men at the other end of the long room.

“I think that's enough magic for one night, Alastor!” She continued, fast approaching Harry with a motherly arm outstretched. “He's not even _supposed to be doing magic_ , I'll have you know! Not until his birthday,” she continued to hiss and tisk, examining Harry's profusely bleeding nose. She forced him to sit on a comfortable old sofa that expelled dust when he sat. When finished attending to his miscellaneous cuts and bruises, she sighed and handed him the letter she had been carrying. 

“What's this?” Harry asked. “I haven't been expecting anything....” He accepted a bag of ice cubes which Mrs. Weasley had conjured for him, slapping it onto a swelling, blackened eye with a sigh of relief.

“It's urgent, Harry,” and—with a stern glance at Mad-Eye—she stood and walked to the other side of the room to allow Harry some privacy.

 

 

>  _Dear Harry,_
> 
>  _We have received word that a follower of Lord Voldemort is seeking asylum with the Order in exchange for his immediate extraction. Having no other safe locations available at the present time, I must ask to impose a guest upon you until more suitable arrangements can be made. Please send your response as soon as possible. Members of the Order will move on your word._
> 
>  
> 
>  _Regards,_
> 
>  _Minerva McGonagall_
> 
>  
> 
>  _PS- Please inform those you see fit of the content of this letter._

 

 

Harry paused, reading the letter through for a second time. By the time he reached the post script, the parchment had incinerated itself.

Harry rolled his eyes. Just because he was underage did not mean he was incapable of destroying his own clandestine post. Members of the Order may “move on his word,” but he certainly held no power within their ranks. He was a figure head, a poster boy—everything he never wished to be. And Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was perfectly aware of this. Harry had made sure of that on her first visit to _his_ house. Now she attempted to pacify him with comments like those strategically inserted in her last: “inform those you see fit” _my foot_ , Harry thought. Until the end of July, he wasn't even a pawn on the chess board—and everyone knew it.

All he could do was sigh, yawn, and ask Mrs. Weasley for a piece of parchment. Mad-Eye offered to charm it to light McGonagall's desk on fire, which did very little in the long run but made Harry smile.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco stood out on his balcony enjoying the night air, standing with the very gracious aid of a sturdy stone balustrade. While he had been able to heal the majority of his wounds with magic, there were a slew of deep cuts and angry purple bruises that refused treatment. Several of his ribs still felt decidedly out of place and he would need several doses of Blood Replenishing Potion if he wanted to wake up on this side of the mortal coil come morning. Needless to say, his muscles could barely support his weight. But the night air soothed his irascible spirit.

There was nothing wrong with torture—so long as said torture was aimed at someone other than himself. Every bone in his body felt aged a few hundred years overnight. His best set of robes had been ruined with his own blood. Their remnants were still burning away in the rubbish bin he had placed on the terrace with him. It is important to remain warm when one has lost a lot of blood, so he stood close to the little fire and wore his dressing gown despite the warmth of the summer night.

Draco felt at peace watching the owls swoop across the sky, their Dementor counterparts prowling his mother's rosebushes and the ornamental garden. The Dementors were responsible for the temperature fluctuations at the Manor. At any given time, there were windows and doors frosted over from their presence; one simply cast a warming spell and went about one's business. Or tried....

The sadistic whims of the Malfoy Family had finally gone past the point of reconciliation, in Draco's opinion. He had always measured the worth of a person or thing in terms of self-preservation. Crabbe and Goyle protected him—the fact that they never questioned him was an added bonus. His family was important because they sheltered him with power, fame and money—all excellent things to have when one wishes to remain well-preserved. The Dark Lord had provided a safe haven from squibs, mudbloods and muggle-lovers; that is, until the Dark Lord had ordered him brought to the last thread of life and sanity. His loyalties to the Dark Lord no longer served as bonds of self-preservation and thus they should be severed. And they would be. Imminently.

 

 

 

As young Mr. Malfoy stood out on his balcony in extremely ill heath, he certainly knew that he was behaving rashly. It would be clear to any rational person that young Mr. Malfoy should be resting after sustaining major curse injuries. Being a fiercely logical man, he must have known that his present course of action would alienate him from his family and friends forever. He certainly understood that abandoning the Death Eater ranks would warrant his immediate death, should his plot be discovered before Potter's people could spirit him away. This and much more should have been weighing heavily on young Mr. Malfoy's; however, at the time of our current visit, such clear and daunting facts are being overshadowed by the veracity of young Mr. Malfoy's outrage and the impenetrable magnitude of his ego.

And thus he waited for the telltale _pop_ at either side of the balcony. He waited for gentle, Potter-loving arms to engulf him. He awaited the whisking off to a better place which he naturally and intrinsically deserved.

What young Mr. Malfoy received was a slight shock as a squashy package made contact with the side of his injured head. Cursing under his breath, he levitated the object to eye level—snatching at it and peering disbelievingly, confoundedly at the writing it bore.

“Ultra-Ribbed, Lubricated, Her-Pleasure Triple Thrill Pack?” He read aloud in measured levels of disdain, still highly affronted that someone or something had had the audacity to throw such a plainly muggle artifact at him in his weakened state. “This is an—”

But the remainder of Mr. Malfoy's lewd and colorful comments were cut off when the portkey activated.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Incoming in fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve!” Mad-Eye Moody was standing in the main hallway of number twelve, his regular eye watching the countdown on a gold pocket watch while his magical one was trained on the portrait of the late Mrs. Black. A few wands were also aimed in the painting's general direction, anticipating an ebullition. The Order members were counting down until their former-Death-Eater-turned-political-refugee arrived.

The majority of those in the house were somehow involved. May Eye was handling reconnaissance with Tonks in the hall. Mrs. Weasley was preparing a quiet room upstairs. Headmistress McGonagall waited in the larger and tidier of the two parlors off of the main hallway. Hermione Granger was minding a pot of onion soup on the stove: “in case he's hungry, Harry!” she had informed him when he questioned her motives. Harry took a Butterbeer from the pantry and slapped a frozen steak over his blooming black eye, wishing that he could be upstairs and asleep like Ron and Ginny. As far as Harry was concerned, let the bastard creep into the house in the dead of night, collapse in the hallway and die of blood loss in a pool of his own vomit, bile and misery. Unless the git had any useful information, all the fuss will have been for nothing. Harry cracked his Butterbeer and downed half of it before entering the hallway and preparing to play host to some retired old codger.

“Places! Wands at the ready!” Moody bellowed and was rightly shushed by nearly half a dozen people. “Alright. Incoming in four, three, two—”

 _Pop!_

“Creatures of filth, you will unhand me _this instant!_ ” Screeched one Draco Malfoy at the very top of his lungs, waving his arms about like a lunatic and bearing a large and multi-colored package of muggle condoms. He was shortly joined by the late Mrs. Black and the remainder of the hallway paintings, creating a cacophony such as Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix had never before heard in their lives.

“ _You shall burn in the deepest circles of hell!_ ”

“ _Remove this detritus from our sacred home!_ ”

“ _Mudbloods! Blood traitors! Squatters! Thieves! Creatures of disease and filth_!”

“Silence!”

It was possibly the most effeminate shriek Harry had come across in quite some time... which is perhaps why he found it particularly confounding that such a sound should have come from Draco Malfoy. And that particular Malfoy—drained of all color, bruised and bleeding from a serious head wound—was dressed in his pajamas, slippers and dressing gown. Blood seeped through haphazard bandages, staining his linen garments. The box of condoms had slipped from his pale, shaking hands as he gasped for breath. Malfoy swayed dangerously, struggling to remain upright as his vision swam in crippling, reality-bending pain.

Silence was immediate. And in that silence, their eyes met for the first time since before Albus Dumbledore's death. There was such passion and hatred between these two young men that even the portrait world halted to mark it.

“You,” Malfoy drawled, doing his best to sneer as Mundungus Fletcher and Dedalus Diggle kept him on his unsteady feet.

“You,” Harry snarled from behind his frozen steak, Butterbeer clattering to the floor as he held Malfoy's dark, piercing gaze.

“Mr. Potter? Mr. Malfoy!” Minerva McGonagall could be heard approaching the scene. “What in _Merlin's name_ is going on here?”

While Mundungus and Dedalus began to explain that the condoms were simply the _only_ thing they could find for a portkey at the last minute, while many members of the Order attempted to close the momentarily bemused and intrigued portraits of the extended Black family, something far more important was going on. At least, it was the most important thing for those involved. Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter had begun The Menacing Stare-Down. Nothing else mattered as these two mortal enemies gazed unflinchingly into the deepest pits of their personal hell.

But hell didn't last that long, seeing as young Mr. Malfoy lost consciousness about thirty seconds into it.

 

 

 


	3. The Following Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy is in Potter's house: ensue freak outs and mental breakdowns.

 

 

 

“Eugh,” was Ron's opinion.

“I _hate_ him!” was what Hermione had to say. 

“I can't believe he's in my house,” Harry said quietly. He, Hermione and Ron were gathered in his room, discussing the events of a few hours ago. Ron—the lucky sod—had been able to sleep through it all. Harry only wished he could be so lucky.

“So, what do we do now?” Hermione asked from beside Harry, curled up in his bed covers with a cup of tea. “How long is he here for?”

“McGonagall said until she can make other arrangements,” Harry replied. “The Ministry is involved, I guess because he's still underage or something.”

“So it'll be awhile,” Ron put in sullenly. “Wish Fred and George were here....” But Fred and George were both very busy running their joke shop, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Harry would often receive gift packages from the twins containing their latest gizmos and gadgets, but their social calls were becoming less and less frequent. Fred and George could always make Harry laugh and he regretted their current absence in his life.

“Honestly, Hermione, I'm not sure what to do,” he admitted. Over the years, Harry had come to appreciate the level of trust and honesty that he shared with Ron and Hermione. Especially in such uncertain times, it was comforting to have that bond of friendship and support to fall back on.

“Maybe we can lock him in his room,” Ron suggested wistfully. “Or—better yet—the real Moody can make us another ferret!”

“While I am as keen to relive 'Malfoy the Amazing Bouncing Ferret' as much as the next witch,” Hermione said with a tight smile, “I doubt the  _real_ Moody would ever do such a thing.” 

“Was just a thought....”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, looking around his room for about the thousandth time since he had moved from the Dursleys to Grimmauld Place. He had moved into Sirius's old bedroom because it made him feel safe. The old furniture, posters and pictures adorning the space made him feel closer to his godfather and his parents; made him feel less alone in life. He'd always have Ron and Hermione, but at times he longed for a parent—a father to advise and motivate him, a mother to comfort and protect him and shield him from harm. The old wizarding house simply reminded him of all the things he'd gone without for so long. Sometimes he would sit in his room for hours on end, looking through stacks of old pictures or simply staring at the ceiling, searching for a greater presence to guide him. There was so much left to do, so much he didn't understand...

“Harry? Are you alright?” Hermione asked gently, touching his shoulder. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Alright,” Harry said, torn from his reverie and a little dazed.

“Can I get a cup too, please?”

“Of course, Ron,” Hermione smiled at them both as she closed the door behind herself. As soon as she was out of earshot, Ron left his chair and came over to Harry conspiratorially.

“So,” he whispered, “what are we really gonna do about Malfoy?”

“Er,” Harry was caught off guard, “I have no idea, like I said.” He paused. “You got any ideas?”

“Beyond tarring and feathering? Nope.” Ron smiled broadly. Harry chuckled and shook his head.

“Well, I doubt we'll have to be alone with him very much,” Harry sighed in relief. “There are always people around—because they're afraid to leave me alone for all of five ruddy minutes—so I'm not going to worry about it until I have to.” Harry wore a pensive expression as he continued. “We've got bigger things to worry about right now: I'm pretty sure they were torturing Malfoy.”

“Malfoy?” Ginny Weasley's voice floated in from the hallway as she passed Harry's room. “What about that dirty, greasy, slimy git-face?” she asked calmly, stepping into the room.

It was admittedly very awkward for Harry to have his ex-girlfriend living in his house, let alone having her entire family there to supervise. Truth be told, the ones who would be in need of supervising were Ron and Hermione. They were being very stealth about it but Harry had noticed the way they looked at each other when they thought the coast was clear. Harry had somehow seen it coming since their fifth year. His best friends were getting together just as he and Ginny had broken up. He realized the situation must be awkward for her, too. She was handling it well.

“WHAT?!” Ginny roared. Evidently Ron had told her about Malfoy's asylum-seeking arrival while Harry had been lost in thought.

“So Malfoy's here, right now, lurking around the house, eating our food and spying on our conversations?” She checked the hallway discreetly before slamming the door shut. “Merlin's beard!”

“The Order took him in thinking that he might have information,” Harry explained. “He's a confirmed Death Eater.” Ginny seated herself on the end of his bed to listen. “But I just don't see Voldemort trusting Malfoy with anything important—anything at all—after he failed so badly on the first go with Dumbledore,” Harry mused. “I'm not sure what the Order's up to. I mean, they've lost their main spy and, strategically, that makes things hard for them, but I just don't see any point taking Malfoy in. Unless they want him to go back and spy, he's going to be pretty useless in the long run.”

“Malfoy's been useless from the beginning!” Ron put in enthusiastically.

“Slimy git,” and a shrug was Ginny's input.

“Talking about Malfoy again?” Hermione was back with the kettle and a tray. She conjured an extra cup for Ginny. “I took the liberty of checking in on him when I passed his room,” she said slyly, pouring tea. “He's still pretending to be asleep. I think he'll hide out for a few days before he starts to test the waters.”

“Let's hope so,” Ginny said, taking her cup from Hermione. “The less we see of that rat-face the better.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Young Mr. Malfoy is know by his friends as a great many things: whiny, manipulative, immature, wanton, egotistical, recondite, irascible, bilious, bombast, choleric, vain... truly, those who know him well could continue on for a fair while, yet one attribute not appearing on that very extensive list was maladroit. Moving among varied social circles came easily to young Mr. Malfoy; he could flatter, cajole and charm with the best should he find it worth his wile. And in his current condition—still suffering the lingering effects of mind-shattering torture and confined to an ill-decorated suite in the home of his sworn mortal enemy—it was going to take a considerable amount of charisma and rhetoric to extricate himself from this predicament; that, or a minor miracle. Whichever involved less effort on his behalf.

 

 

Draco paced the length of the bed chamber. He passed the two twin beds, the wardrobe and the empty picture frame on the wall time and time again, wracking his brains for a solution to what was shaping up to be the worst catastrophe he had ever had to worm his way out of. Perhaps he could simply owl the family, informing them that he'd Apparated off the grounds against the Dark Lord's express commands in order to shag his lady-friend and would be home before supper for his scheduled torture session—they would surely remember how their hormones had been at that age! Then again, at his age his parents had been formally engaged and Aunt Bellatrix was probably off killing real people, having graduated from small, furry animals at the age of seven. Perhaps they wouldn't understand. An alternative approach might be necessary....

No matter how many lies and excuses he could conceivably pass off to the family at Malfoy Manor, he remained trapped by four walls, a locked door, and untold numbers of Potter-worshiping do-gooders beyond. He shuddered.

Someone was knocking impertinently on the door. Anyone familiar with the ways of a Malfoy would have known not to bother him before 10am without biscuits and a tremendous amount of coffee, but no one was familiar with Malfoy in this house—with the exception of the late Walburga Black, who was, of course, dead. He adjusted his shoulders to a stance of confidence, arrogance, and all-that-is-utterly-Malfoy before pulling open the door with an air of grace and well-practiced indifference.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor McGonagall was doing a good job pretending to be pleased by the situation. “I was wondering if we might have a few words.” She stepped into the room. “Are you feeling better after the potion I had sent up?”

“Yes, thank you,” he replied curtly, clasping his hands behind his back as he had seen his father do so many times in business dealings. It took a few seconds for him to realize the significance of this action. He released his hands and instead pushed them into the pockets of his borrowed trousers in an imitation of Potter. When in the enemy's territory, it is often safest to blend in. “May I ask you a question, Professor?”

“Certainly,” she said, conjuring a straight backed wooden chair and seating herself upon it. Malfoy sat on the edge of the spare bed.

“We're at... I can't remember the address per-say, but this was once the home of my great Aunt Walburga Black, was it not? I remember seeing—or hearing, rather—her portrait in the hallway.” McGonagall nodded. “How is it that all of... _you_ are here, of all places?”

“Well, Mr. Malfoy,” she pronounced curtly, “up until a year ago, this house had belonged to Sirius Black. When he was killed he left the estate to his godson.”

“Potter,” Draco supplied easily.

“Yes. Mr. Potter has allowed us to use his home as part of our organization.” She took a breath, as though about to change the subject.

“Professor?” Malfoy got in before she could open her mouth again. “What is your 'organization' called? I've never known....” He frowned; admitting his ignorance was unpleasant but necessary for his future survival. At least Professor McGonagall wouldn't have him beaten for asking too many questions. And that created in Draco an awkward but not entirely unwelcome feeling—comfort. He vowed not to get too used to it.

“We are called the Order of the Phoenix,” she said.

“Alright, then,” Draco's face went from inquisitive to impassive in a trained instant. “Why are you really here, Professor?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Malfoy?”

“You're not here to answer my questions, Professor,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'm not stupid—I'm a Death Eater, you know—well, I was.” He flinched. “You're not here to answer any questions of mine: you're here to interrogate me.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall actually smiled a bit, “our tactics are somewhat different than those you may be accustomed to. I am not here to interrogate you: I am here to inquire after your comfort and to ensure your safety.”

“I'm comfortable, thank you. What about my safety?”

“By this time, Lord Voldemort will know that you have defected. He will not stop until he lays hands on you and kills you. For your own protection, I must ask you to remain in this house until all this has gone through the proper channels.”

“What channels might those be?”

“The Office of Misinformation, as well as the Auror's Office. We're encountering some difficulties because you are still technically underage. I am using every resource at my disposal but I fear it may yet be some time before the Ministry recognizes your defection and provides protectionary measures.”

“So I'm locked up here with The Boy Who Refuses To Die Quietly. Is that all?” He folded his arms, closing off his body language and hoping she would take the hint.

“No,” she replied. “We're going to need your wand.”

There was an exclamation of wrath and utter fury heard throughout the entire house.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco was pacing again. McGonagall had left with his wand and a very smug look on her face. It would have been fair to say that young Mr. Malfoy was, at this point, a bit undone. Frazzled is simply not a strong enough word to describe the length and force of young Mr. Malfoy's pacing, the voracious twitching of the muscles surrounding his left eye, nor the chaotic state of his nerves. He felt as though he would never be whole again. That is, until....

“ _What?!_ ” Potter's scream of twin fury rent the morning air. “I have to stay here?! With _Malfoy_!?!” It would seem as though Professor McGonagall had given Potter a similar ultimatum. Somehow, young Mr. Malfoy felt exceedingly better.

 

 

 


	4. The Black Ferret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phineas Nigellus is bribed, the Order is called to order, and Draco... well....

 

Young Mr. Malfoy sat with his back pressed against the door, flicking dung bombs at the desk on the opposite side of the room. He had not bathed nor groomed since his arrival and was quite a sight. His current state of denigration—disheveled, reeking of dung bombs and body odor—ensured that no one came to bother him. They had sent members of their Order to interrogate him but he had not cracked; he merely took the plate of food from their hands and slammed the door without a word. Some very bright individual had had the idea of delivering his meals via house elf; an idea for which young Mr. Malfoy was secretly thankful.

He had discovered a stash of dung bombs in the bottom of the wardrobe next to the door. He was thankful it was such a large bag. He had entertained himself for the last few days, but his stash was running low—he had been in his room for over a week according to the elf and the only books in the room were _Hogwarts: A History_ and _Quidditch Through The Ages_ , neither of which provided the right type of stimulation: the mind-numbing, coma-inducing, time-speeding-up kind.

As he aimed another dung bomb at the windowsill, there was a loud sound like a man his throat. Draco started, searching the placid room for whoever or whatever had made the noise; the sound had come from within the room, not outside in the hall.

“Ahem.” There it was again. Draco jolted to his feet, the remaining dung bombs clattering to the floor and rolling under the nearby bed.

“Who is it? Who's there?” He demanded pompously of the empty room.

“Ah, young Master Draco,” the man's voice said calmly, very near. “I came to inquire as to exactly how long you intend to disgrace the noble name of Malfoy.” The voice was coming from the portrait on the wall. Draco neared, reaching instinctively for his wand before recalling that McGonagall had yet to return it to him.

“Show yourself,” Draco demanded sharply.

A squat little man wearing Slytherin house colors sauntered into the portrait and seated himself respectably, fixing Draco with a glare as solid as his substantial size.

“You look terrible,” the man said severely.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Your greatest advocate,” the man responded. “I am your Great-Great-Great Grandfather on your dear mother's side, Phineas Nigellus. And  _ you _ , ” he fixed Draco with a very dirty look, “are rather disgusting.” 

Draco's mouth worked for a response but couldn't find one.

“Now,” Phineas commanded, “you will bathe, dress in the clothing you have been given, and dine with the others. I refuse to protect anything of such foul appearance—family or not.” With that, Phineas stood and left his frame with a smug expression on his painted face.

_ Family honor _ , Draco sighed heavily. Even as a traitor, he could not bring himself to disobey. Left with little choice in the matter, Draco snatched up the clothes that were folded and lying on the spare bed. Muttering darkly to himself, he made his way to the bathroom. 

 

Phineas Nigellus shadowed him to dinner, prowling menacingly from portrait to portrait, watching Draco keenly, silently daring him to turn back. It was all terribly humiliating for young Mr. Malfoy. The displeasure of his most ancient and distant family members he could tolerate; the groveling house elf, Kreacher, he could ignore; but the simple fact that he was wearing Harry Potter's clothes—from head to toe, mind you—went well beyond his trained indifference.

Phineas shot him another look. Young Mr. Malfoy steeled himself and entered the kitchen.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Can I help at all, Mrs. Weasley?” Harry asked genuinely, limping slightly from his last encounter with Mad Eye Moody.

“Oh, no, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said, patting his shoulder in a motherly fashion as she magically orchestrated several boiling pots and pans with her other hand. “Why don't you sit down and rest, dear?” she suggested. Harry smiled and sat down at the table with Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. He easily entered into the conversation and did not see the kitchen door open behind him.

“Ginny, could you put those plates on the table, please?” Hermione called from the pantry, emerging with an overpowering armload of dinner rolls. Ron rushed to her aid.

“Sure.” Ginny smiled inwardly at her brother and his girlfriend. It certainly had taken them long enough to get together. She picked up the large stack of plates sitting on the counter and turned toward the table. It was at this point that she noticed the new arrival to the kitchen. She screamed and the dishes hit the floor with a great crash.

“You came out,” Tonks said mildly. She undoubtedly felt the tension filling the room and was actively choosing to ignore it.

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy,” Lupin said congenially after a moments hesitation and an elbow from Tonks. “Feeling better?” His bruises had mostly healed over and the head wound had produced a shiny white scar at his hairline. With his fair hair and fairer complexion, it was hardly noticable.

Hermione was putting the broken dishes to rights while Ron ushered Ginny to the other side of the room with brotherly concern. Harry Potter was staring.

“You're wearing my favorite jumper, Malfoy,” Harry said at last, rather blandly.

“Is it really?” Malfoy asked with a sneer, pulling at the overlarge knit sweater. He had the sudden urge to rip it off and run for his life—but Great-Great-Great Grand Uncle Phineas's hot glare at his back glued him to the spot. “It's...” Hiddeous? Unbearable? Worse than anything Mulciber did to me in that little room in my parents' cellar? He abandoned blithe and pithy. “Warm,” he finished, hands falling to his sides in defeat. The sleeves hung down to his thumbs.

“Anything I can do?” Malfoy asked Mrs. Weasley in as amiable a voice as he could muster. They were family, however distant or regretable. It would be in his best interest to keep her pacified. Perhaps she could be won over to his corner.

“No,” she said quickly—too quickly, she realized, “dear.” It was the most strained endearment ever uttered. “Why don't you have a seat?”

_ Smart _ , Draco thought absentmindedly as he sat down opposite Potter.  _ Say the same thing you said to Potter, build normalcy, create a sense of trust through association. Not bad. _ He turned his nose up at Potter just for old time's sake. 

“So, what's for dinner?”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

After one of the more awkward experiences of his life—serving dinner to Draco Malfoy, followed by nearly an hour of mindless Quidditch small talk—Harry pressed his back against the door to his bedroom; a room devoid of Malfoy's outrageous opinions concerning the debatable legality of a Transylvanian Tackle in international game play. At one point, there had been a vein visibly throbbing in Ron's neck. Only Hermione's reassuring hand on his knee—under the table and out of Mrs. Weasley's sight, mind you—kept Ron from launching himself at the slimy little prick.

McGonagall had said that Malfoy had to come out and make peace sooner or later. Malfoy had to adjust to his new life, a life without his family, his friends, his possessions, and everything else he had ever known or found comfort in. One way or another, McGonagall had said, Malfoy had to adapt. So Harry pushed him—big deal.

There was a quiet snickering coming from the opposite end of the room. Harry sighed heavily and went to sit on his bed, near the painting of a Quidditch pitch now occupied by Phineas Nigellus.

“What's so funny?” Harry asked through a yawn, massaging some of the stress out of his neck in an attempt to relax. Phineas continued to chuckle.

“Didn't think it would be so much fun....” Phineas wore a sadistic smile. “This is one favor you won't owe me for,” he smiled.

“I'll have a look at that portrait in the attic, anyway,” Harry replied, wanting to keep his end of their bargan. They had agreed that if Phineas could oust Draco from his bedroom brooding, Harry would restore a portrait of Phineas's mistress on the fourth floor. A mysterious someone had put a scorch mark right through her forehead a few years back. Apparently, she'd gotten mad at Phineas and hadn't spoken to him since, running off to some other man's portrait stored in the attic. Wanting to keep the politics of his house's paintings at bay, Harry had struck the deal.

 

Much later that night, Harry lay on his back, unable to sleep. He was awake to hear the telltale  _ crack _ as Dobby the house elf Apparated into his bedroom. He was awake as Dobby crept up to his bed, murmuring to himself. And he was awake as Dobby began to shake him. 

“Dobby, I'm already awake. What is it? Does McGonagall want me to take in Pansy Parkinson as well? Or maybe adopt Crabbe and Goyle?” Harry snorted. He was in a dark mood.

“Minerva McGonagall wishes to call a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby squeaked, ignoring Harry's sarcasm and opting for a dopey grin.

“Am I invited this time?” Harry groaned. The Order may conduct their meetings in his living room but that didn't mean they told him a damned thing. He now understood more acutely than ever how Sirius must have felt.

“I don't think so, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby went on without a beat. “It is about Mr. Ma—” Dobby froze. He pitched his voice an octave lower. “Harry Potter, sir's house guest, sir.”

“Brilliant,” Harry said, flopping back onto his pile of pillows. McGonagall had figured something out. Malfoy would receive Ministry protection; he would be given government sancrtary and taken off Harry's hands. Harry sighed in relief. “When's the meeting, then?”

“Tomorrow night, Harry Potter, sir. Eight o'clock.”

Finally. Only one more day with Draco Malfoy under his roof. Only one more day and his life could start getting back to normal. Only one more day of snide remarks, dirty looks and antiquated opinions interrupting his otherwise quiet meals. Only one more day and he could fumigate his favorite jumper. Suddenly, Harry was having a lot less trouble getting to sleep.

 

 

 


	5. Dark House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry finally learns what happened to Malfoy and why he wound up at Grimmauld Place. Fairly graphic descriptions of how Malfoy was tortured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** recollection of rather graphic torture, a good punching, mischief

 

 

 

Harry waited at the top of the stairs overlooking the main hallway, drumming his fingers absentmindedly against the banister. He would admit to no one that he was excited. He was just eager to get some definitive answers... and hopefully get sodding Malfoy out of his house. 

The members of the Order of the Pheonix began arriving some twenty minutes ago. They all came through the front door or in via the floo. Either way, every last one of them would pass by Harry's vantage point on the landing.. He was watching for Mad Eye Moody. If Moody was absent tonight, Harry might be able to sneak in with the aid of his Invisibility Cloak. He watched a few stragglers make their way to the parlor as a clock in the upstairs hallway struck the hour.

Minerva McGonagall left the parlor on her way to the kitchen to retrieve Mallfoy. Harry put on the cloak and crept down the stairs, meeting up with McGonagall and Malfoy just outside the parlor door. She entered before Malfoy, leaving the door open for him—and Harry—to follow. He crept in as close to Malfoy as he could without stepping on the git's feet or bumping into him. He tried not to breathe. He couldn't afford to be detected. If the Order was going to hold clandestine meetings in his parlor, he sure as hell was going to listen in.

Malfoy took the only remaining seat: one of the high-backed chairs McGonagall always conjured.

Malfoy sat uneasily, his gaze darting around to note all the stony faces. Harry stood behind Malfoy and watched him wring his thin, pale fingers in his lap. Most of those fingers bent to strange angles and Harry realized with a jolt that Malfoy had had his hands broken. Probably so he couldn't use his wand to fight back. Harry shivered.

“Thank you all for coming,” McGonagall began in a formal tone. “I would like to make a brief statement before we begin. For those who do not know, this young man is Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. He is a Death Eater,” there were a few muffled gasps, “and he has come to us of his own free will. He will renounce He Who Must Not Be Named and provide us with any and all information he possesses in exchange for our protection. He is an underage wizard and therefore does not meet the Ministry's qualifications for asylum. Is all of this true, Mr. Malfoy?”

Malfoy nodded to the carpet, incapable of speech. His eyes were distant and unseeing.

“Then we are to take a vote,” McGonagall continued.

“Before we've heard his information?” Tonks spoke up from her seat beside Lupin in the corner of the mulish parlor. No matter how much it was dusted and cleaned, the atmosphere remained dark and dreary.

“He may not have anything valuable. It might be information we already have! Why should we take the risk?” asked Hestia Jones.

“Because he is just a boy,” McGonagall replied slowly, “and he has no where else to go. We will vote, then. Those in favor of offering assylum until the boy is of age and can apply to the Office of Magical Law?” Almost all of the hands in the room went up, including Tonks, Lupin and Hestia Jones. “Those against?” Perhaps three hands went up. It seemed to Harry as though those who raised their hands were judging Malfoy based on a hatred for his father. Malfoy would never be Harry's favorite person, but when it came down to it Malfoy wasn't going to kill Dumbledore and many of the despicable things he'd done had been under durress—Voldemort's threat to kill Malfoy and his family if he didn't do as he was told. It wasn't a great defense, but it was still better than nothing. Malfoy was a coward with a strong sense of self-preservation. It had helped him stay alive so far.

“Mr. Malfoy, on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix, I extend to you our protection and assistance. We are pleased that you would turn from He Who Must Not Be Named and hope you will someday join us in the fight against him. But for now, we must ask some very difficult questions to determine our own course of action. May I begin?”

Malfoy's silent blonde head nodded. Harry had never seen his enemy so somber, so frightened. He really did seem, like the Professor said, just a boy.

“Mr. Malfoy, what happened the night Hogwarts was attacked? The night Albus Dumbledore was killed?”

Harry wished Malfoy would stop wringing his fingers. It was pitiful and a little gross, the way his fingers bent and warped in a way fingers simply shouldn't. He was white as a sheet.

“I—I was supposed to kill him. The Dark Lord said he would kill me and my parents if I didn't. And you don't want to know what Death Eaters do to you before they kill you. I tried to poison Dumbledore and curse him but... it didn't work. So I fixed the Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement to get the other Death Eaters into the castle. I let them in and found Dumbledore but... I still couldn't do it. He told me I wouldn't be able to. He said I could go with him and be safe—I guess he meant you people,” he sighed, the first Malfoy-like thing he'd done since entering the room. “Then Professor Snape came. My bloody mother went behind my back and somehow convinced him to make The Unbreakable Vow that he would carry out my mission if I couldn't. He saw I was about to lower my wand and he... he did it.”

“And what happened after that?” Professor McGonagall asked quietly, looking at Malfoy as if he were a frightened first year she wanted to console. He sure looked like one.

“We fought our way out of the castle. Potter attacked Professor Snape and he told me to keep running, but I didn't. I made it to the Forbidden Forest and watched them duel. Then Professor Snape came and found me. We were supposed to meet the others at the portkey, but Professor Snape said we should fall behind, so I agreed. He was... angry with Dumbledore. He said Dumbledore was beyond reason and he'd backed Snape into a corner. That's when I guessed he was a spy—there was a rumor the Dark Lord suspected a spy among the ranks, but I don't think Professor Snape was ever suspect. He was always so loyal, always at His right hand....” Malfoy trailed off into silence.

“What else did Severus say to you?”

“He said he was going to take me away because the Dark Lord would have me tortured within an inch of my life for my failure. The mission was a success, but I would still get it. H-he knew, um...” Malfoy wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. “I was bullied when I was young. I don't respond well to it. I think Professor Snape was trying to protect me. I think he was going to bring me to you, to the Order.” Malfoy stopped cold, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

“Why didn't he?”

“The Dark Lord found us first,” Malfoy whispered.

“You were escorted back?”

Malfoy nodded, unable to speak past the ball of rage in his throat.

“To He Who Must Not Be Named?”

“No. They took me home, to Malfoy Manor. Professor Snape said I was dawdling and they let him go to the Dark Lord to report our success. I was brought back to the Manor. It was six days before He came.”

“What did you do before He Who Must Not Be Named came?”

“What did I do?” Malfoy gave a tiny snort. “I broke into my father's liquor cabinet and drowned myself, that's what I did. I knew they would at least torture if not kill me, so I figured: might as well be foxed for it. That almost worked. He came right after I woke up, so I was hungover. I think it's worse when you're hungover. The screaming hurts more.”

“What did He Who Must Not Be Named say to you?”

“Him? Nothing. He just sat there. It was Professor Snape. He said that failure would not be tolerated and that I needed to be taught a lesson and should receive it obediently. I was sent to the cellar—they'd been torturing people down there since I'd gotten back. That was the other reason to get tanked—that and the Dementors breeding in mother's rosebushes.”

Professor McGonagall conjured a chair and signaled to Kingsley Shacklebolt that he should continue questioning Malfoy. Her hands shook as she folded them in her lap. Shackelbolt came forward from leaning against the wall and simply asked, “Who tortured you?”

“Mulciber,” Malfoy whispered.

“Did you fight back?”

Malfoy's watery grey eyes snapped up to look at Shackelbolt, his pale brows knitting together. His mouth worked soundlessly.

“How did they get you to the cellar, if you knew you were going to be tortured there?”

“They tricked me. Snape said I would be apprenticing Mulciber, watching his torture sessions. They brought me down there and he was working on a muggle woman. He'd already done most of the usual.” Malfoy waved offhandedly. These small mannerisms were poking through but it was as though Malfoy was a different person just pretending to be the Malfoy, remembering to throw in a little gesture or sneer now and then but getting everything else wrong. It was an eerie and disturbing sight: that such a strong personality could be broken down to this....

“What does 'the usual' entail?” Shackelbolt asked.

“Well, the basis is always the Imperius Curse—takes most of the work out of it. From there you can give them a knife and make them stab themselves. The trick is not to let them go too deep or anywhere in the chest cavity so it doesn't end prematurely. Mulciber used a dull knife, so that took a lot of the fight out of her. Some Death Eaters will just give them orders to stand and then leave them there for a day or two. They'll send in animals: rats, dogs, the weres. And there's always sex.”

Shackelbolt cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, you might rape them, stab them while you're raping them, make them stab themselves while you're raping them. Mulciber is a fan of all of the above. By the time I got there, the woman was already missing her breasts.”

Harry had to sit down on the floor before he fainted. It was one thing to face Volvemort, to know evil. It was another thing to hear in intimate detail the things he ordered done to people. Harry thought he might be sick.

“I see. Did she die?”

“Of course,” Malfoy replied. “She lasted about an hour after I got there. He told me to execute her with magic and I tried. I... it didn't work. I've never been able to. Not even the rats in the cellar. I'm a bit of a failure as a Malfoy, really,” he almost laughed. It was a strained, wheezing, sad little sound.

“Then Mulciber killed her?”

“Yes. And started on me.”

Harry was seriously regretting his decision to sit in on Malfoy's testimony. He thought it would be ammo for Malfoy-bashing with Ron. It was turning out to be nothing less than stomach-turning.

Shackelbolt managed to keep his face passive but Harry could read the outrage in his eyes. “Were you... sexually abused?”

“Not much. Mother came and put a stop to it.”

Harry shuddered to think what “not much” could entail. Shackelbolt didn't inquire any further and the bangers, mash and apple crisp in Harry's stomach were all very grateful.

“Were you put under the Imperius Curse?”

“Not at first,” Malfoy said with a hint of a smile. “I can throw Imperius like you wouldn't believe—you learn, with Aunt Bellatrix in the house. But after a few hours of Cruciatus and cigarette butts and fists, it gets harder to keep your defenses up. He got me eventually. Then it was the usual.” Harry shuddered at the thought of Malfoy screaming, burned and beaten bloody, being forced to stab himself over and over again. It was horrible beyond words and only made him hate Voldemort more. And he felt bad for Malfoy—a combination of emotion and direction he never thought he'd feel.

“How long did it last?”

“Two days, I think. Maybe three.” Malfoy twisted his fingers again. “I had to shave when I woke up, so at least two days.”

“Do you know why they stopped?”

“Mulciber is very, er, talented. He had to use magic to keep me alive a couple... dozen times. The Carrows came in and said he had to stop before I was beyond saving. The Dark Lord wanted me tortured at least a week for my failure. Someone brought me back to my room because that's where I woke up. After that, I owled Professor McGonagall and you all know the rest.”

“Do you know where You-Know-Who is now?”

“No idea. He moves around to different strongholds.”

“Do you know where any of these strongholds are?”

“Um, there's a house somewhere in the north, and I heard something about a group in Scotland. And there were these three Death Eaters who spoke Russian, and they stayed for days until a fourth showed up, so I guess there's a house or something out there. I was never given much information. I'm sorry.” Malfoy shrugged in a hopeless way. It sounded like he was just a punching bag to the Death Eaters. Harry knew what that was like growing up with Dudley and his gang.

“About how many Death Eaters were at Malfoy Manner?”

“Ten, maybe twelve?” Malfoy swallowed. Harry watched his pale Adam's apple bob. There was a little scar on Malfoy's pale neck that was mostly healed. “They all came and went. It's hard to say.”

“Do you think there are larger strongholds?”

“Yes. I got the impression we were a smaller, less important group. There were owls going in and out of the house. I'd guess there were at least eight other locations. There could be a lot more. No one told me anything. This is all guess work. And I was out of my mind most of the time, one way or another.” Malfoy tried to laugh, swallowed again and cleared his throat. Harry wished someone would get him a glass of water. Or something stronger.

“Mr. Malfoy, I understand you've refused potions that would prevent scaring. Is that true?”

Malfoy nodded. A muscle at his temple twitched.

“Why is that?”

Malfoy turned his face to look at Shackelbolt, giving Harry a full view of his expression. Harry had only had a profile view before. Malfoy's jaw was set and he was clenching his teeth. His eyes were huge in the poor light, cast in an eerie greenish blue shade, like the water in the Merpeople's village at the bottom of Hogwarts' great lake. Harry had always hated Malfoy too much to look at him as a person. He was slight and graceful and had very expressive eyes. He showed his emotions with his whole body. He looked about to rocket off his chair. Harry thought Malfoy was about to scream in fury, but instead he whispered tightly. “I need the scars. I need to see them. I can't ever forget.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry came down to breakfast the next morning and was not surprised to find his kitchen sans Draco Malfoy; instead, Hermione, Ron and Ginny were sitting at the table with plates of toast, bacon and eggs. Mrs. Weasley was preparing a cup of coffee.

“Oh, good morning, Harry!” she called when she saw him. “I just need to bring this plate upstairs and then it's off to the market.” She had a tray laden with food and a large cup of steaming coffee, which Malfoy seemed to inhale at other meals. Mrs. Weasley had loaded his cup with sugar and cream. Harry suspected she felt as bad for Malfoy as he did and was trying to comfort him in the only way he might let her. Harry sat and helped himself to toast and eggs, waiting for Mrs. Weasley to leave the room. As soon as she was out of ear shot, Ron rounded on him.

“So, what'd the greasy git have to say for himself?” he asked, practically rubbing his hands together at the thought of all the Malfoy-bashing to come. Harry finished chewing his toast and took a deep breath before responding.

“Ron, what I heard last night would turn your stomach. Malfoy may be a ponce and a bit of a coward, but he was tortured within an inch of his life. I can't repeat some of the stuff they did to him. Really, Ron, I won't.” Ron's protests fell silent at Harry's serious expression. “He's a real tosser, but no one deserves to have those kinds of things done to them. Not even Malfoy. I feel sorry for him.”

“Wow,” Ron breathed. “It was that bad, huh?”

Harry just nodded and took another bite of toast.

“I noticed there's a new painting running around now,” Ginny deftly changed the subject. “Where'd she come from?”

“The attic,” Harry replied. “Someone burned her face and she was embarrassed about it. A little cleaning solution and now she's good as new. The other paintings like having her around, so whatever keeps them quiet and happy is fine by me.”

Everyone ate in silence awaiting the morning owls. Mrs. Weasley returned with the breakfast tray untouched. Even the coffee. “The poor dear won't eat,” she sighed. Ron and Ginny raised their eyebrows at Malfoy being described as a “poor dear,” but kept their thoughts to themselves. Hermione—who had always had a large bone to pick with Malfoy—remained silent as well. The expression on her face now was sympathetic.

“Maybe he just needs something to channel his attention into,” she suggested. “A project. Or maybe just a good book.”

“Hermione, I think you're right. A little normalcy would do him good. It's unusual for a young man to stay locked in his room for hours on end.” Mrs. Weasley set to magically reorganizing the silverware drawers.

“Anyone know what Malfoy reads?” Ginny asked.

Any answer to her question was drowned out by Hermione at the arrival of a very large box carried by three big owls. She leaped upon the box and started ripping at the wrappings.

“Must be books,” Ron murmured to Harry.

“My books are here!” Hermione shouted a moment later, confirming his suspicions.

“But then where are our textbooks?” Harry asked. “If you ask me, it's way too early for our school lists to be out. Professor McGonagall is trying to kill us.”

“No, silly, not my Hogwarts books. My Muggle Relations books!” Hermione chortled, packaging string in both hands as she wrestled with the large box that undoubtedly weighed as much as a first year. “I've decided on Muggle Relations as a career and these are all the muggle books the Ministry recommends as background reading.” Only Hermione would make homework for herself in the absence of Professors. Harry, Ron and Ginny exchanged exasperated looks.

“Ooh! Oh!” Hermione cried once she got to the books and began pouring over them, lifting each one out like a newborn babe and gushing something about it. “Oh my God, I've heard about this one. It's supposed to be excellent. Maybe Malfoy would like to borrow it?”

“Sure,” Harry sighed. Between Hermione's fervor and Malfoy's sulking, it was going to be a long summer at Grimmauld Place.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry slammed the door to his room with a growl. Enough was enough. Today, he and Malfoy had arrived for lunch in identical plaid shirts and jeans. This was the end of the line.

“Something wrong, dear?” asked a concerned female voice from the other side of the room. Phineas' mistress, Sylvestra, hovered on a broomstick over the Quidditch landscape that hung above his bed. The remnants of the scorch mark on her forehead weren't even visible from a distance. She was smoking a cigarette while riding a broomstick in lilac dress robes. Harry wished he could slam his bedroom door again, slam it so hard that the picture frames nailed to the wall would shake, just to vent his frustration. Before he knew what he was doing, the door knob was in his hand again. With marked restraint, he let go.

“You don't want to know,” Harry said firmly as he flopped down onto his large, fluffy bed. He imagined his stress evaporating as the light comforter molded itself to his body. It didn't work, though—a strong muscle twitched in his chest. “Arrgh!” He sat up violently and threw off his shirt. Malfoy could have it!

“You can talk to me, dollface,” Sylvestra cooed from her broom, eying him from her vantage point directly above. “It's the blonde boy, isn't it?”

“He's driving me nuts,” Harry confided, rolling over to bury his face in the blankets. His voice was muffled by the eiderdown but his agitation carried. “He comes downstairs some mornings to mope. Every afternoon he sits in the parlor and looks out the window. And in the evening we're subjected to his ridiculous opinions on everything from kneazles to Quidditch!” Harry finished in a huff.

Sylvestra made no attempt to listen, being lost in the following rapture: could Harry Potter's butt be as perfectly formed as his immaculately sculpted arms? And what did that say for the other appendages? Too many uncertainties. She'd have to call for backup. Lysandra might have an opinion. And certainly Constance would enjoy the view. Yes, she'd call for backup.

“He can't go on wearing my clothes,” Harry grumbled, rolling over once more to stare at the ceiling as his stomach grumbled loudly. “I need my clothes back. I need my house back. I need my _life_ back,” he said firmly. “This has got to stop. I'm putting my foot down.” His stomach growled again and he winced.

Until his foot came down, he would have to start borrowing jumpers from Ron.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

It got worse that evening.

 

 

Young Mr. Malfoy stood before the window furthest from his host and the other guests, hands clasped behind his back and a surly expression darkening his features. He backed away from a standing lamp. He backed away from the house elf serving drinks. He backed away from the mudblood's inquisitive looks. He certainly backed away from the red-headed traitorous horde that stampeded through Potter's house, rousing portraits and breaking dishes like the impoverished barbarian clan they inevitably were. He shuddered. What would his ancestor's think if they could see him now?

Ah, yes. They _could_ see him; portraits of his dead relatives were all over the place. And if the occupants of said portraits were still alive or cognizant, they'd kill him for dishonoring the family and besmirching the name of Malfoy. Damn. Young Mr. Malfoy took to pacing the length of the darkest wall in the room. However, he was soon disturbed by one of those ghastly barbarians invading the house. He rolled his eyes in a utterly non-dramatic fashion that did not go unnoticed and fixed a bored expression onto his handsome face.

“Yes?” he drawled comfortably, having not spoken for several hours. “May I help you, Weasley?” He drawled loudly and slowly, that the barbarian pig might comprehend and not be reduced to the the age-old standard of raping and pillaging. Young Mr. Malfoy could do without that for the night. He was not desperate.

“Chess, Malfoy,” Weasley said forcefully. Seeing as only a small amount of spittle escaped the man's lips with the statement, Young Mr. Malfoy chose to acquiesce. After all, Young Mr. Malfoy was a social creature, not a monster.

 

 

“Check, Weasley,” Malfoy drawled. Ron turned a darker shade of chartreuse and might have snarled at Malfoy had it not been for Hermione's warning glare. Harry could have laughed. This game of wizard's chess had surely been Hermione's idea. _A good game of chess might help the two of you work off some of your past hostility_ , Hermione must have said to Ron. Harry knew it would all turn out to be bollocks and Ron and Malfoy would be holding wands to each others' throats in a few minutes; at least it would be interesting. Besides, Malfoy didn't have a wand. Harry might have actually snickered. 

“Where?” Ron demanded, glaring first at Ginny for not pointing it out to him, then at Hermione for suggesting the whole thing to begin with. Malfoy pointed at his pawn threatening Ron's nervous-looking king. Harry smiled some more—he loved being right once in a while. Ginny was smiling, too. She merely shrugged at her brother. “Is everyone against me tonight?” Ron bellowed. 

“Of course not, Ron,” Hermione cooed from the sofa, a textbook in her lap. “Don't be silly. It's just a game of wizard's chess.” 

“Exactly,” Malfoy imitated Hermione's motherly tone as his bishop took out Ron's last knight. Malfoy then sneered at Ron, folded his arms and leaned back in his armchair, lounging with the grace of a mountain lion about to pounce. Harry felt bad for Ron: the guy was doing all of this for Hermione. 

“Ha!” Ron shouted as he made his next move. Ginny cleared her throat. “What?” 

“You just moved yourself into check, Ron,” Ginny kept a straight face, God bless her. “You can't do that. Malfoy only left you one move. You have to go left.” 

Ron looked down and flushed at his mistake. Malfoy calmly examined his fingernails, digging out invisible flecks of dirt as he waited. “Smug” might have described the shape his lips had taken on. He licked them slowly, gazing steadily across the board at Ron.

“Go on, Weasley,” he intoned. 

Ron moved his king to the left with barely contained fury. On his next turn, he moved his king further to the left to escape Malfoy's advance.

Malfoy's queen swept in from the opposite side of the board.

“Check mate.” 

Malfoy smiled as his queen bludgeoned Ron's king until the poor piece's head tumbled off. Malfoy's queen then shouldered the king's corpse off the board and stood pompously in the king's place. She did a little victory dance. Malfoy continued to smile triumphantly at Ron, his eyes bright for the first time in two days.

Hermione sighed. Perhaps now those two could start thinking of each other as equals. This was a building block in a much greater scheme. Hermione almost had a chance to congratulate herself. Almost.

It was all very quick. Ginny turned her back to the chess board to start a conversation with Hermione, momentarily blocking Harry's view. The next thing he knew, Ron and Malfoy were on their feet, Ron's big Keeper fist sailing straight for Malfoy's toothy grin. There was a great impact, the sound of bone breaking, and a lumpy string of blood flew through the air. A large amount of dark blood splattered the queen mid victory dance. Then Hermione screamed.

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione was on her feet and had Ron by the ear, dragging him out of the room. 

Harry moved toward Malfoy. Blood threatened to gush out of his mouth even as he clamped both pale hands over the lower half of his face. Four little flecks of blood made a pattern on his forehead. Malfoy sat back down in his chair, as calm and arrogant as if it were Slytherin's throne. Harry took a few more steps before Ginny's arm made contact with his chest.

“Careful,” she smirked. “There's blood on the carpet. It'll stain if you walk on it.” 

“Oh,” he had no idea what to do. “Right.” Harry glanced back at Malfoy and was immediately fixed with a piercing glare. Even with just his eyes, Malfoy could be intimidating. He was just staring at Harry with every furious fiber of his being. His grey eyes were large and glossy, brimming with a lethal rage bottled up and with no where to go but out his eye sockets. It was probably a good thing he couldn't open his mouth. Harry got the message and froze himself to the spot. 

“I'll go get Mum. She'll be able to fix him up,” Ginny said in a neutral tone. His years of experience with the Weasley family told Harry that Ginny would be taking her sweet time. After all, Malfoy probably deserved it for being a nasty git to Weasleys most of his life. They were technically related, after all.

Harry turned away to escape Malfoy's big, angry eyes.

 

 

\- - -

 

That evening, Harry knocked on Hermione's door. She was curled up in a chair by the window reading one of her new muggle books. She set it down as soon as she saw him and waved him in. He sat on the ottoman.

“Hermione, I need to ask you for a favor.” 

“Sure, Harry,” She smiled. “What do you need?” 

“Can I borrow your cell phone tomorrow? I need to call a muggle place and I don't want the Weasley's to know about it.” 

“Of course, Harry,” Hermione said slowly. “I'm sure you have your reasons. You can have it now—it's on the dresser, there.” She pointed. 

“Thanks, Hermione. I appreciate it.” He gave her a winning smile before changing the subject. “So did you give that book to Malfoy?” 

She nodded. “He took it before closing the door in my face. Now we wait to see if he reads it.”

“I can't believe we're trying to help _Malfoy_ ,” Harry muttered. 

“It is a very strange situation, Harry, but we can only make the best of it. Malfoy will come around but it will take time and lots of patience. Giving him a book is just the first of many baby steps, all moving forward.” She sounded so positive that Harry couldn't help but be infected by it. 

“You know, I think you're right. McGonagall promised the Order would protect him until he's of age and that's not much longer, anyway. If we can keep the peace for the next week and a half, I'm willing to call that a victory on the Malfoy front.” Hermione nodded enthusiastically. He got up to leave. 

“Harry?” Hermione stood with him, setting down her book. “I... wanted to ask you for a favor in return. It's a little odd, but hear me out.”

 

 

  



	6. Light In August

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy goes batty and Potter seems to be the only one worried by it. He decides to help the poor twitchy fellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** crack!Malfoy, mental break down, potioning without consent, more graphic details of torture

 

 

There's a knock on the door. 

“Malfoy?”

More knocking.

“Malfoy? Are you decent? It's—it's Potter. I need to talk to you about something.”

The desired Malfoy yanked open the door with the warmth of an arctic blizzard.

“What?” he snapped.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Yes.” A dignified huff. Blonde locks were blown back into place in a practiced manner. “I happen to be reading. Can't this wait until, say, never?” The door began to shut.

A ratty-trainer-clad foot appeared in the door's path to be squashed by inertia.

“No, Malfoy, I'm not waiting until you deem me worthy of getting around to. I'm coming in and we're going to talk, so go hide your knickers.” And, with that, Harry shouldered the door open.

Once seated on the spare bed and facing Malfoy, Harry began. “There are two reasons why I came here to deal with you.”

“Really? Do you think you can remember them both?” Wide-eyed mockery. Harry was prepared for their encounter to be unpleasant but Malfoy's behavior was out-of-sorts, even for Malfoy. Harry ignored it for the moment and continued to disseminate information.

“Yes. The first reason is that there's going to be another guest in my home—”

“Another one?!” Again with the blithe irreverence.

“Yes,” Harry sighed. “Because you're not enough of a headache. I need more people in my house.”

“And where-ever will they sleep?” Pretending to care and doing a purposefully poor job of it.

“With the pigs, Malfoy,” Harry said sarcastically. As soon as the words left his mouth, Malfoy stiffened visibly. The expression on his face was closed, eyes nervous and shifty. Harry was a bit unsettled but continued on. “The second reason I came to talk to you—if this can even be considered a conversation—is that you have a birthday soon. Correct?”

“Awh! You remembered!” Malfoy shouted, grinning from ear to ear and hugging himself as though he were an overlarge stuffed animal. At this point, Harry wondered for the blonde's sanity. But Malfoy regained his former countenance almost immediately; the familiar Malfoy expression, delicate and sour, snapped over his pointed face like a mask. “How kind,” he drawled, every inch Malfoy... if a little deadpan.

“And before you ask me where-ever all the presents will fit—” Harry rolled his eyes.

“With the pigs, I remember.” Sardonic and droning.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed wearily. At least Malfoy was following the conversation, if somewhat sporadically. “There's an actual present you might be able to earn. From me. I have a proposition for you.”

“I'm flattered,” Malfoy batted dirty blonde eyelashes. “But no. I'm not that desperate.” And the deadpan expression returned.

“I don't understand you at all,” Harry looked away. “But if you want your wand back for your birthday, you have to agree to live here by my rules. It's my house. You'll follow the rules until your birthday. If you don't fuck up, you get your wand back. If you fuck up—”

“I sleep with the pigs.” Malfoy's face was unmoving but his gray eyes flash as his gaze darted around the room. He had yet to make eye contact.

“Actually, I was going to send you back to Voldemort wearing a Hufflepuff girl's uniform, but whichever.”

This proclamation was met with slow, even paced blinking and dead silence. At least Malfoy didn't start wringing his still-healing hands—Harry didn't think he could handle the sight. It would evoke too much sympathy and he needed to be firm with this neurotic son of a bitch.

“Well, my rules are simple. We're not your house elves, so you'll have to come downstairs for meals. Don't call anyone a mudblood. Don't insult anyone, for that matter. That includes the Weasleys. No fighting. No punishing or otherwise abusing the house elves. Be civil to all of my guests. _All_ of them. And their pets and personal items and things. And clean up your own mess whenever possible.” Harry paused after this, hoping for a reply. Malfoy sat corpse-like, except for the occasional blinking.

“Is that all?” the blonde's voice was barely a whisper.

“No. No Dark Arts, either.”

“Well, shucks,” he said sarcastically. There was a trace of energy in his tone.

“That's my offer, take it or leave it. You can follow the rules or not, that's up to you. Lord Voldemort, a Hufflepuff uniform and the pigs will be waiting for you, just in case.” Harry stood up, adjusting the overlarge tshirt he'd borrowed off of Ron. “Enjoy your reading, Malfoy.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“How'd it go with ferret-face?” Ron asked the minute Harry entered the sitting room.

“Um,” Harry paused, considering. “I'm not sure. Hermione, you'll have to riddle it out for me.”

“Of course Harry. I'd be glad to help.” She closed her textbook. “Ron, Ginny, would you like some tea?” Ron and Ginny were playing wizard's chess. Everything seemed very strange to Harry after his odd exchange with Malfoy. Everyone was just a little too calm.

“I'll take some, but not if you're making it just for me!” Ginny said brightly. Ron made his move and Ginny shifted to concentrate on defending her remaining pieces on the board.

“Harry,” Hermione turned to him, “would you like tea?”

“Er, yeah. I'll come with you. The kitchen?”

Hermione laughed, nodding.

“Yes, Harry.” She drew nearer to place a hand on his arm. “You're acting funny. Are you feeling alright?”

“Um,” Harry was nervous now. He wrung his hands and won't make eye contact. “Tea?”

“In the kitchen, dear.”

 

 

 

The first words out of Harry Potter's mouth upon entering the kitchen may or may not have been “Draco Malfoy fucked with me.” It is still debatable. But that's what Hermione heard fall out of his mouth, so that's what we're going with.

 

“Draco Malfoy fucked with me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I can't think straight, Hermione! He's gone batty, I swear. Can you catch crazy?”

“Harry, calm down,” Hermione rushed over to Harry and made him sit down on the bench at the kitchen table, flicking her wand to orchestrate tea. A cup floated out the door for Ginny. “Just calm down and tell me what happened.”

“It was like a dozen crazy people were talking to me through Malfoy. And none of them seemed to actually _be_ Malfoy. I donwanna talkaboutit.” Harry accepted a cup of tea.

“You sure?” she posed quietly, raising a questioning brow.

“I... made a joke about pigs, and he just kept going on about it, finishing my sentences with things about the pigs and then going all crazy and happy and hugging himself and yelling cause I mentioned his birthday and then it was back to deadpan again and—Hermione, I don't think I can handle talking to him. Maybe the torture addled his brain and it all just caught up with him.”

Hermione sighed.

“Harry, you've got to calm down. Drink your tea.” And he did. “He's just messing with you, playing power games like always. He wants us to think he's crazy so that we'll underestimate him.”

“That's why you told me to threaten him with Voldemort, right?”

“Exactly,” Hermione nodded before urging him to drink more tea. “We know what he's really afraid of and we have to use it to our advantage until we find a better means of communication or until he's ready to cooperate and play nice with us.”

“But what can we do to make him cooperate?” Harry asked.

“Beyond threatening him?”

Nodding, Harry sipped his hot tea.

“I suppose we ought to create a sense of normal life for him. Encourage him to join us for dinner or time in the library. Maybe he'd care for a new book. He's been holed up with that last one for four days. I'm sure he's quite sick of it by now.”

“Which book was it? I didn't notice.”

“It's a famous muggle book,” she supplied. “It's called _Light In August_ by William Faulkner.”

Harry slurped his tea.

“Hermione, how is it that you always make everyone feel better?”

“I put Calming Potion in your tea.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Late that night, once everyone was asleep, Harry put on his dressing gown and snuck down the warm, shadowy hall to steal _Light In August_. Malfoy slept curled up in a ball at the edge of his twin bed, his arm hanging off the side and the muggle paperback dangling from his thin hand. A few pages had been dog-eared and Harry vowed to figure out why. Malfoy had a firm grip on the book, forcing Harry to take a knee in order to pry it from his pale, spindly fingers.

Harry spent the better part of the next two days holed up in his room reading the book. After two days, he came down for dinner. He had no appetite; instead, he glared at Hermione across the old kitchen table, not bothering to take a seat before he embarking on a solid tirade.

“How could you possibly think giving that book to Malfoy was a good idea?” he demanded.

“Hm?” Hermione took a sip of her Butterbeer. Ron ate calmly beside her. Ginny fixed him with a Mrs. Weasley-like frown while the matriarch herself was no where in sight.

“Hermione!” Harry countered angrily, banging a fist on the table so hard the silverware rattled. “The main character of that book is an orphaned social outcast who has sex with animals, murders his girlfriend, cuts her head off and lights her house on fire! When the authorities catch up with him, a deputy named Grimm castrates him and makes him eat his own parts before executing him. Grimm has red hair—like half the people in my house—and Malfoy was tortured and unstable to begin with! So I repeat, _how_ could you think this bollocks was a good idea?”

Silence met his proclamation.

“Er—I,” Hermione stuttered, “I suppose I should have read the cliff notes first. I knew it was a famous American novel, but that's all.”

“And I'm no longer hungry,” Ron announced, throwing down his knife and fork, a nauseated expression overtaking his face at the mere mention of castration.

“Do you think I should go speak with him? Apologize?” Hermione asked.

“Definitely not,” Harry replied. “The story revolves around the idea that women always have their own agenda and can't be trusted. I'll go talk to him,” Harry huffed, pushing away from the table. “But don't be surprised if Malfoy stays up there for the rest of the summer.” _Or the rest of his miserable, lonely little life_ , Harry thought with more than a twinge of guilt.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

There was a quiet knock on the door. Draco rolled away from the sound and pulled the heavy blankets over his head, willing it to go away. The knocking came again, soft but insistent.

“Fine,” he grumbled from under his blankets. “Come in.”

With a squeak from the door's hinges, the fine hairs at the back of Draco's neck stood on end: he knew immediately that it was Potter. He threw the blankets off and bolted upright in bed. Potter stared at him. Draco knew he must look a right mess but he was beyond caring. He studied Potter's face, reading a mix of anxiety, nerves and... pity. It was unbearable. He got out of bed and tugged on a shirt. He kept wearing Potter's rather ugly, oversized jumper because the long sleeves hid his arms. But said jumper was no where to be found; instead, he faced Potter in an old Chudley Cannons tshirt, his Dark Mark and ugly scars exposed.

“Malfoy, I...” Potter trailed off, not meeting his eyes.

“Well, if you're not here to kill me you might as well sit down,” he gestured towards the spare bed. Potter shrugged and sat. Draco did the same.

“I took this,” Potter said, reaching behind himself to pull a familiar, dog eared copy of _Light In August_ from the waistband of his jeans. He held it out between them. “I'm sorry for sneaking around, but I wanted to read it.”

“Potty, you always sneak around. Since first year. It's in your nature. Don't apologize for it.”

“Alright, then,” Potter sighed and tossed the book onto Draco's bed in defeat. “You're making this bloody difficult, by the way.” 

“That is _my_ nature,” Draco said quietly, “and I'll not apologize for it.” 

“I would never expect you to apologize, Malfoy. I'm the one who needs to apologize.” 

Draco was stunned. “Oh?” he breathed at last. Unconsciously, a pale hand went to cover the Mark at his arm.

“Yes.” Potter's hands fidgeted at his sides and his gaze wouldn't settle. Draco watched his face, the man's jaw vastly in need of a shave. He looked as though he hadn't slept well for days, if at all. His round glasses were smudged. “Hermione should never have given you that book. She hadn't read it yet and didn't know what it was about. I'm sorry I let her give it to you. And I'm sorry it upset you. I...” Potter gulped and started over. “No one's going to castrate you, or kill you, or send you back to Voldemort. I just said that to scare you so you'd stop being such a prick. I don't want to hurt you, Malfoy. You've been hurt enough.”

“What about Weasley King?” Draco muttered. “I'm sure this 'apologizing' business wasn't his bright, shiny epiphany.” 

“No, it wasn't,” Potter admitted readily. “That's not in his nature, either. I'm sure you can understand that. But he knows that you're a guest in my house, too, and he has to be civil. I can't threaten to send _him_ back to Voldemort, but he's my best mate and he'll do as I ask just the same.”

“Alright,” Draco said uneasily. “What about Granger?” 

“I told her what the book was about and she felt awful, after what you've been through—”

“What do you mean, 'what I've been through?'” Draco spat. “You don't know the first thing about what happened to me.” He squeezed his arm so hard he knew it would bruise. He needed to get the tension out and speaking just wasn't enough.

“Er,” Potter blushed a bright pink and cleared his throat. “I did some sneaking around in my Invisibility Cloak when you met with the Order. I sort of heard, well, everything.” 

Potter knew. Potter knew “everything,” apparently. Potter knew what that fucker Mulciber did to him. Draco could feel the vomit rising in his throat.

“I'm gonna be sick,” he gasped, stumbling for the bathroom. Sodding Potter followed and stood there while he wretched his guts out. He took his time washing his face and spitting cool water into the sink. Potter waited, a hand on the counter and the other in his pocket. He looked like he expected Draco to collapse any second.

“I'm fine, Potter,” the blonde spat at last, drying his face with the hem of his tshirt. Potter's eyes went as large as dinner plates when he saw Draco's stomach. There were shiny pink scars where Mulciber had set a dog on him at one point. He'd learned not to look at his body—he barely recognized the pale expanse of flesh that had once been his meal ticket to a satisfying and varied sex life. What kind of sick pervert would want him now—scarred, half chewed up and spit out, broken, marked and undone? He was a man in disgrace.

“It must've been horrible,” Potter whispered, a far-away look in his eyes as though he were the one who'd nearly bled to death a few dozen times. 

“It was a walk in the park, Potter,” he drawled defensively. “You should try it sometime. Does wonders for the libido.”

“Really?” 

“No!” Draco snapped. “I don't even know if my dick still works.” Suddenly dizzy, he sat where he was, slumping against the cupboard. Voicing the thought was somehow a thousand times worse than thinking it.

“I'm so sorry,” Potter said awkwardly, sitting next to him. He leaned against the cupboard, too, so they wouldn't have to look directly at one another. “Is there anything... um, I can do?” 

Draco actually laughed. It was a weak wheeze. The sound shocked him as much as it did Potter, but it was an actual laugh.

“No, Potter. But... thank you.” 

They sat for a few minutes in silence, Draco's legs stretched out in front of him and Potter's brought up near his chest, elbows resting on his knees. Draco realized he must be using Potter's shampoo and such, because they smelled alike. He realized it might be a very long time before he could pick up a bottle of his favorite sandalwood cologne. And what money would he use to buy it? He was penniless and friendless, now. He looked over at Potter who returned his gaze, dopey green eyes holding an uneasy truce behind smudged lenses. Draco would have to take it—there weren't exactly any competing offers.

“You gonna be okay?” Potter asked. 

“Sure. I just need to rest a minute.” Draco assessed his aches and pains and came up with a few more than he'd like. “McGonagall didn't send a potion today?” 

Potter shook his head of spilled ink hair. “I'll owl her. Maybe she can send the ingredients and Hermione could make it for you, instead. That way we won't run out. We'll always have some when you need it.”

“That would be much appreciated.” Draco massaged his jaw. It had been magically broken several times and in several places. Weaselby's facer hadn't exactly aided the healing process. Now vomiting had given him a headache as well as knocking something out of place. Pain bloomed as he tested the bones so he stopped, letting his head thunk against the cabinet. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a scar on Potter's arm just above where the Dark Mark was on his own. “That must've hurt,” he said, indicating the scar. 

“Oh,” Potter jumped, then appraised his own arm. “Like hell, actually. I got it fighting that basilisk second year.” He paused, looking at Draco. “Probably didn't hurt as much as those,” and he pointed to a line of burn marks running from Draco's collar bone up his neck. They had almost faded away with the aid of magic, but Potter was close enough to see. 

“I'm still alive,” he shrugged. 

“Can I ask you something?” 

“I don't know, can you?” 

Potter snorted. “May I?”

“I'm too dizzy to stand, so ask away.” 

“How?” Potter asked very softly. “How did you get through it? How could you stand it?” 

Draco sat breathing for a long time, trying to put together some semblance of a response.

“You don't have to answer, Malfoy. I was just curious. It gets me in a lot of trouble sometimes.” 

Draco spoke to the borrowed socks on his feet—Potter's socks that had been darned, undoubtedly by the Weasley woman. His voice wasn't as steady as he would have liked it to be.

“I thought of biting his stubby little dick off every time he pulled it out. Of course he only made it hurt worse when I thought stuff like that... but it was the only way I could fight back. I'm stubborn that way.” Draco smiled, even though it hurt. “Does that answer your question?”

“Yeah,” Potter's head of dark hair nodded beside him. “I guess I know what you mean. I'm pretty stubborn, myself. It's how I throw off the Imperius Curse.” 

“Me, too,” Draco sighed. “There's that voice in the back of your head that tells you to give in, give up. You just have to fight it with everything you've got.” 

“That's how I feel about fighting Voldemort.” Draco flinched when Potter said The Name. The Chosen Bitch had balls. “I just have to keep fighting.” 

“Do you think you'll stop him?” Draco couldn't help but ask. 

“Honestly? I dunno,” Potter's jaw was set, “but I have to try. I have to fight. If I don't fight with everything I've got, then I've already failed.” 

They sat in silence again. Draco's head pounded and he closed his eyes. It was good to know there was another person in the world as stubborn as he was—even if that person was Harry Sodding Potter.

“Malfoy, you're in pain,” Potter said all of a sudden. 

“What tipped you off?” Draco was indignant with his eyes shut. 

“You moaned, just now.” 

“Did not.” 

“Did too.” Draco heard Potter get up and opened his eyes to slits. Potter was hovering over him, a hand extended to help him up. 

“What on earth are you doing?” Draco questioned. He wished he could summon the energy to sound indignant again. Even to his own ears, he sounded knackered.

“I'm helping you up. You're obviously in pain and need to go back to bed. Let me help you.” He said that last sentence in the same matter-of-fact tone as the rest, but it landed on Draco like a Hungarian Horntail. 

“This doesn't make us friends or anything, Potter,” Draco muttered, using the counter to leverage himself to his knees. The cold tile bit into his joints and he might be forced to take Potter's hand or risk falling. He waited a moment on his knees. 

“Of course not,” Potter agreed. 

“You pity me,” Draco said out loud as the realization hit him. He tried to hoist himself up using the counter and found at the last moment that his arms wouldn't hold him. When he started to lilt to one side, Potter caught him. With Potter's arm, Draco steadied himself enough to whip around and glare at the stupid git. He had the counter to lean against and was able to focus his energy into a piercing glare.

“I did,” Potter admitted, meeting his gaze with an angry one of his own. “Before. But now, I fucking respect you. I don't want to because you're a prick and you've made my life and my friends' lives miserable, but there it is. I didn't know there was another man alive as thick-headed and stubborn as I am, but here you are. And I have to bloody respect you for that. I didn't think you and I had anything in common,” Potter's rage seemed to die out, arms falling to his sides. His look was still dark, but it didn't bother Draco one bit. 

“But, as you say, there it is,” Draco said in conclusion. “I don't like this situation any more than you, Potter, but we're both stuck in it and we might as well make it liveable. I will never be your friend... but I respect you, too.” He couldn't help but add, “you cunt.” 

Potter started laughing and it broke what little tension remained between them. He leaned against the opposite wall and roared with laughter, exclaiming, “Shit, Malfoy!” Draco chuckled a bit, himself. They had a good laugh until one of Draco's knees buckled and he slapped both hands to the counter in order to remain upright.

“Okay,” Potter said, “time to get you to bed. You'll take my help?” Draco, chasing the laughter from his abdomen, just nodded. “Good. Um, do you need me to carry you?” 

“I don't think that will be necessary,” Draco said, eating his pride with a chaser of shame. Potter might end up carrying him if he fell. He steeled his nerves. “Just... get me to bed? And don't let me faint where Granger or Weasley King might find me.” 

“Done,” Potter replied, stepping forward. “Which is the bad knee?” 

“The left,” Draco said, trying not to sound as weak and winded as he felt. 

“Okay, then.” Potter reached out and grasped Draco's arm. That calloused hand, warm and heavy, had him by the Dark Mark. Draco flinched involuntarily. Potter just lifted his tattooed arm and rested it across his muscled shoulders, bracing and then taking most of Draco's weight. “Go ahead and lean on me,” Potter said, his other arm wrapping around Draco's waist. “I'll get you back.”

“Thanks, Wonder Boy,” Draco drawled. Somehow, he was no longer able to summon the venom and hatred he'd always felt for Potter. Maybe he'd taken their truce a little too much to heart. 

“You're welcome,” Potter whispered, smiling. “Ya cunt.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry knocked on Malfoy's door the next morning on his way to breakfast. The response he received was alert but disgruntled. He went in anyway.

“Feeling better, Malfoy?” he asked, receiving only a quiet grunt in reply. Malfoy was sitting at the foot of his bed, tugging on Harry's socks. He'd showered and his hair was still wet, dripping onto the shoulders of his jumper. It was Harry's favorite jumper. He normally wore it in the winter because it was so warm. Malfoy would be sweating by the time he arrived downstairs. 

“Are you cold?” he asked. Malfoy just shrugged and went to put on some trainers. “Then why do you wear that? You must be boiling.” 

Malfoy turned and fixed him with a scathing look.

“Sleeves,” he said simply, waving his arms a little, and Harry instantly understood. “The Mark makes your friends uncomfortable, I think.” 

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “That and it reminds them that you really were a Death Eater. I kept telling them all school year and they never believed me. So it's kind of a reminder that I was right.” 

“Oh,” Malfoy stopped tying the trainer, a thoughtful look ghosting across his pointed features. “In that case, get me a tshirt.” 

“You're sure?” 

“If it'll annoy Granger and Weaselby,” Malfoy smiled. Harry was a little shocked by its genuine nature—devoid of arrogance and entitlement. Malfoy looked almost pleasant, although plenty devious. Harry dared to hope that maybe the Malfoy he'd known at Hogwarts was a public façade and this was Malfoy's real self. Harry smiled back before going to his room to find a shirt small enough for Malfoy. He was scarcely an inch shorter than Harry but girlishly slender. Harry would never say that to his face, though. Well, not now, anyway. He returned and threw the plain cotton tshirt at Malfoy, who caught it and promptly stripped off the wooly jumper. 

Harry made a strangled sound when he saw Malfoy without his shirt. He couldn't help it. The burn marks and scars were devastating to look at. A chunk of flesh had been taken out of his side, apparently by an animal's jaws. The healing skin was vivid red and angry looking against the paleness of the rest of him. Malfoy caught sight of Harry's flinch and shrugged on the grey tshirt, covering the terrible marks covering his body.

“Is it really all that bad?” he asked, starting towards the hall. 

“Should get you some serious chicks,” Harry joked. Malfoy just rolled his silver eyes. 

“What's that?” Malfoy asked, pointing to Harry's hand. After seeing Malfoy's injuries, he'd forgotten. He'd brought a navy cardigan that was tight in the shoulders for him, so would fit Malfoy just fine. “In case you get cold later,” he said, handing it to him. 

“Thanks.” Malfoy pulled it on and hiked the sleeves up to his elbows. Harry started towards the kitchen but Malfoy ducked into their shared bathroom. Harry stopped to watch him fuss with his hair in the mirror. 

“You coming or what?” 

“Unlike some people,” Malfoy drawled but Harry sensed it was empty of malice, “I care about my appearance. You might want to do something about your hair, Potty. It looks like you combed it sometime last week.” 

“Very funny.” Harry watched Malfoy go back to adjusting his appearance. Malfoy always was a snappy dresser. He even made Harry's simple clothes look well-thought-out. The dark sweater and his light skin drew your attention right to the Dark Mark. Harry couldn't help a smile—Malfoy really wanted to piss Ron and Hermione off and he was going to do a bang-up job. “Well, my new house guest should be here any minute. I'd better go. But you should come down. I think you'll like him.” 

“Why on earth should I like him?” Malfoy asked absently, trying to decide whether to neatly roll the sweater sleeves or just bunch them up. He decided to roll them and set about fixing both sides to mach. “He's friends with you, isn't he?” 

“His surname isn't Weasley,” Harry offered. 

“You're right, I do like him,” Malfoy tossed Harry an easy grin, his eyes bright and a bit of color coming to his cheeks. Harry realized with a jolt that Malfoy was actually a very attractive bloke. Years of hatred had apparently barred this fact from surfacing. If it weren't for his personality, Malfoy might make some lucky girl very happy one day. As it stood, he was still a bloody bigoted tosser. But a very good looking one—handsome, even. Real easy on the eyes. 

“Scoot!” Malfoy was saying, adjusting the fall of his platinum hair. “I'll be along in a minute.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry entered the kitchen to find Hermione, Ginny and Mrs. Weasley entertaining his new house guest: Viktor Krum. This had been the favor Hermione had asked for. Viktor had repeatedly requested to visit her in England and Hermione had felt compelled to refuse each time, her parents not approving of an older and very famous wizard coming expressly to see their daughter. Harry suspected Hermione wanted to try to get Krum involved in the Order, which wasn't a bad idea at all. Harry had also worried that Krum still harbored some romantic feelings for Hermione, but she'd waved off his concern with the old “he's just a dear friend” line. In this case, Harry wasn't so sure. Perhaps Hermione wanted to invite Krum to give Ron a little push. Harry decided he wasn't going to interfere and instead went to shake hands with Krum.

After ensuring that the man was well settled with a comfortable room and a large breakfast plate, Harry saw Hermione beckon him to her side of the table and into the seat furthest from Mrs. Weasley.

“Harry, I'm surprised to see you in one piece!” Hermione hissed under her breath. “I heard you and Malfoy laughing last night and thought you'd finally hexed each other to bits.”

“No,” Harry actually smiled at the memory. It struck him as odd to be thinking about Malfoy and smiling, but not enough to make him stop.

“What, then?” she pried. “Don't tell me the two of you are getting along now?” 

“A little, yeah,” Harry admitted. “Malfoy's actually really funny.” 

“So he opened up to you?” 

“I dunno if I'd put it that way,” Harry shrugged and helped himself to a piece of toast, “but we talked. We came to an agreement.” 

“And what agreement would that be?” Mrs. Weasley asked. Their conversation hadn't escaped her notice. Harry shrugged.

“That we're not gonna lose our tempers and curse each other into oblivion, I guess.” Harry tucked into his breakfast and Hermione and Mrs. Weasley left him to it. Breakfast was especially ample that morning and Harry helped himself to a little bit of everything. He secretly suspected the ladies had wanted to impress their famous guest.

“I must zhank you again for inviting me to visit,” Krum leaned over and said to Harry. His English was much improved but his accent wasn't much better. Harry had to concentrate in order to understand him. “I had no idea you had such a lovely home.” 

“Thanks. I actually inherited it last year from my godfather. He passed away.” 

“I'm so sorry to hear zhat,” Krum replied. “Was it natural or—” 

“Death Eaters,” Harry said. Krum nodded soberly, so Harry didn't feel the need to say more. 

“I lost an uncle last fall. Zhe Death Eaters are getting stronger in Bulgaria. Zhey have overrun Durmstrang. Very unpleasant. Many people are dead or missing.” 

“Speaking of Death Eaters, Harry,” Ginny said, pouring more tea all around. “Where's ours?” 

Krum looked startled. Hermione put her hand on his meaty arm.

“You remember, Viktor? I told you about our classmate who's staying here until the Ministry can help him.” 

“Oh, yes. Zhe one who vas tortured,” Krum nodded knowingly. “Sad case. I know vot zhey do.” Krum gave Harry a meaningful look. He didn't want to discuss the worst parts in front of Hermione and Ginny. It wasn't the sort of thing women should have to hear. Harry agreed in full. 

“What do they do?” 

“Ginny!” Mrs. Weasley scolded. 

“I want to know! Maybe I can forgive Malfoy for acting like a ponce if I know what they did to him.” Ginny folded her hands and looked at Harry expectantly. 

“Malfoy was telling me about it last night,” Harry said slowly, “but he didn't give me permission to share, so I can't say much. He was getting sick in the bathroom. By the way, Hermione, he needs more of that potion McGonagall was sending. I owled to ask her to send the ingredients instead; I thought you could make it for him? You're the best at potions. And I think he'd appreciate it.” 

“Sure,” Hermione sipped her tea. “I could use some potions practice.” 

“Harry, you didn't answer my question,” Ginny persisted. Mrs. Weasley made a tutting sound and opted to go into the pantry. Harry couldn't blame her for not wanting to hear. 

“Well... they broke all his fingers, healed them with magic, and broke them again,” Harry began. That was the mildest thing he could think of. “So he couldn't defend himself. They burned him. They used magic to keep him alive when he should have bled to death. They set an animal on him—from what I could tell it was a dog, maybe a wolf or a werewolf, even. Whatever it was, it took a bite out of him, here,” Harry showed the place on his own side. “He showed me. It was a pretty big bite.” Harry cleared his throat. “I think that's all I can say. Everything else was in confidence.” 

“Wait, so now we're trusting Malfoy now?” Ginny spluttered, absorbing the information Harry had provided and only looking a little ill for it. 

“His name is Malfoy?” interjected Viktor. “I know zhe family—very involved in the Dark Arts. Ve almost had a Malfoy at Durmstrang. Vould he be zhe same man?” 

“Yes,” Harry nodded. He turned to Ginny. “And we're giving Malfoy common courtesy now. It's like I met a real person last night. He's not that bad. He's smart and funny... and not as much of a coward as I thought,” Harry admitted. Ginny looked dubious. Hermione's expression was neutral. Krum looked happy that Harry was sticking up for a Death Eater victim. Harry gathered Krum's uncle had been tortured, too. 

“Oh, by the way,” Harry added as Mrs. Weasley bustled back into the room with an armload of tinned tomatoes. “Visible Dark Mark today. It was my idea, so pretend like you don't notice.” 

“Why on earth would you suggest that?” Ginny exclaimed. 

“Because he can't go on wearing my winter jumper in the summer,” Harry tried hard to keep his tone even. “And because we can't ask him to cover it up, to cover himself up, what he was. He came to us for help and we owe it to him to accept him without condition. I know you guys don't like him but you have to give him a chance. I met a different person last night. If you can't trust him, then trust me,” Harry implored. 

“Zhat vorks for me,” Krum said, which put a final cap on the discussion. 

“I'd better go warn Ron,” Ginny said, getting up from the table. “We can't have him screaming like a banshee when he sees Malfoy's arm.” 

“True,” Hermione agreed. 

“I think Ronald is still asleep, Ginny,” Mrs. Weasley said. She was trying hard to leave Harry to his own devices in his house and he was very thankful. It was hard enough having the Order camped in his parlor almost once a week. Having some say in his own house was a small but significant victory. 

Ginny gave a little chirp from the hallway, announcing Malfoy. She stuttered her good morning to him and a moment later Malfoy entered the kitchen. He froze, mouth slightly open.

“Slytherin's balls,” the blonde whispered, setting eyes on Viktor Krum. Mrs. Weasley then set eyes on the Dark Mark and contained herself to a small scream—just long enough to be a shout of fear rather than surprise, but she decided to pass it off as surprise just the same. She put a hand to her heart and apologized. 

“

 

 _I'm_

 

sorry, Mrs. Weasley. I didn't mean to sneak up on you,” Malfoy said agreeably before returning his attention to the table. He sat down across from Krum, taking Ginny's place beside Harry.

“Mr. Krum,” Malfoy said reverently. “Draco Malfoy. I am a tremendous fan,” they shook hands over a platter of fruit as Malfoy continued, “and a staunch supporter of legalizing the Transylvanian Tackle. Bulgaria's use in the '95 quarter finals was unquestionably a display of tactical genius.”

“Zhe officials are absolutely backward vhen it comes to regulations,” Krum replied. “One need only look to zhe Falmouth Falcons or zhe Vratsa Vultures. Even Heidelburg.”

“Exactly!” Malfoy leaned forward in his seat, elbowing Harry for his support. “ _Quidditch is a game of planning, skill, and above all, quick thinking. If you can't play the game—_ ” 

“ _Get off zhe pitch!_ ” Krum finished and burst into laughter. “I can't believe someone remembers zhat speech.”

“Remember it? I _memorized_ it!” Malfoy's grin was so broad Harry thought it would crack his face. It didn't even fade when Ron entered the kitchen and almost passed out at the dual sighting: the Dark Mark and Viktor Krum proved to be too much too early for poor Ron Weasley.

 

 

 

 


	7. Heart's Desires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang tries to get to know the new Malfoy—including Malfoy. Relationship drama. Malfoy's birthday rolls around and Harry has engineered a special present.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** relationship drama, a moment of terror, awkward teenage boys flirting  
>  **DISCLAIMERS:** The English version of “Can't Help Falling In Love With You” was written by George Weiss, Hugo Peretti and Luigi Creatore for Elvis Presley, 1961.

 

 

Potter had kidnapped Viktor Krum and so Draco was left with Granger for company lasting at least until lunch time. They sat in the front room reading; or rather, Hermione tried to read while Draco quickly became bored with _Quidditch Through the Ages_ for the thousandth time and decided to be friendly instead. 

“I'm going to take a wild guess and say that _you_ asked Potter to invite Mr. Krum here,” Draco said into the silence. “What's left to determine is whether your motives are altruistic or more personal.”

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione placed a marker in her muggle book and glanced up at him. She did well keeping a neutral expression on her face. Draco had heard Potter's lecture to his friends that morning and was curious how closely they would keep to his request.

“Viktor Krum,” Draco said slowly. “He obviously has feelings for you. Do you return them, or are you using him to force Weasley's hand?”

“That's really none of your business, Malfoy,” she returned to her book.

“If I had two galleons to rub together, I'd put them on fits of jealousy leading to a declaration,” Malfoy sighed. “But I only say that because I have a rather base opinion of Weaselby. Perhaps if I thought well of him, I might peg him for the kind to step aside. But as it is the man's a rutting barbarian—”

“Enough, Malfoy,” she snapped, slamming her book shut and rounding on him with an icy glare. “Harry said you were committed to behaving yourself but I see you have no such intention. I certainly don't have to put up with this.” She got up and slammed the door behind her. With the front room now empty, Draco took the opportunity to ferret around for something of interest. And he quickly found it.

 

 

Harry and Krum entered the front sitting room to find Malfoy rooting around on all fours behind an overlarge trunk backed against one wall, his ass in the air and dust on his knees. Harry cleared his throat loudly. Malfoy straightened to his knees and looked at Harry and Viktor around the side of the massive trunk.

“Oh, Krum!” he called. “Glad you're here. I can't seem to find the mechanism for this piano. Would you mind?”

“Not at all!” Krum said, rubbing his hands together and making his way over to the trunk.

“Piano?” Harry followed, bewildered.

“Yes,” Malfoy responded, behind the trunk once more. He seemed to be feeling along the joints for a mechanism, as he said. “I'm not surprised you weren't able to open it, but the Weasleys are close enough to the blood line that one of them should've.... Well, never mind,” he sighed. “I can't find the damned thing anyway.”

Krum sighed too and scratched his head. “Maybe it's underneath,” he suggested. “It could've been moved around and accidentally placed on its side.”

“Maybe,” Malfoy replied, picking a cobweb out of his hair. He seemed full of energy. “Could you two lift it and I'll have a peek?”

“Sure, you're zhe smallest.” The way Krum said it, it sounded like a compliment. Harry walked to the other side and found himself a decent grip by which to tip the massive thing on its side. With Krum's strength, they were able to lift it a third of the way off the ground.

“A little more,” Malfoy said, squirming under the trunk. If either Harry or Krum lost their grip, the blonde would be dead in a heartbeat. Harry redoubled his grip and clenched his teeth. The “piano,” trunk, or whatever it was was damn heavy. “There, I see it. I'm coming out now.” Malfoy backed out, pushing with his arms. Harry and Krum lowered the thing with a clang Harry thought sounded vaguely musical. Maybe there    
_was_   
a magical piano inside. Apparently one cued to the Black bloodline, as Malfoy had suggested only he or one of the Weasleys might be able to open it. 

Malfoy was brushing dust from his knees as he spoke to Krum. Something about having to move some furniture around first. Harry did as he was told and helped shove a sofa and two chairs to the center of the room, leaving a healthy-sized patch of floor for this piano.

Once again Harry and Krum braced themselves on opposite sides of the massive old trunk. Just as they were about to lift, Malfoy stopped them.

“It needs a wand,” he said. “And I don't have mine on me. Either of you?”

Harry shook his head. He didn't typically keep his wand on him around the house, but perhaps he should start. Krum nodded and removed his wand from his pocket. As Harry remembered, it was short and thick with a little whip to it. Malfoy gave it a few introductory flicks, producing white sparkles and several feathers, before returning his attention to the box.

“Alright, let's give this a whirl.”

Harry and Krum strained and the box tilted half-way off the ground, giving Malfoy ample room to crawl beneath it. Harry watched him curl up and wedge himself in tight, taking a bit of the trunk's weight onto his hip and shoulder. Harry wasn't sure that was such a bright idea but he kept that thought to himself. Malfoy prodded the wand into a small indent on the underside of the trunk and began muttering a complex incantation. He repeated it for about a minute or so before stopping. Harry had begun to think it didn't work when he heard the tiniest of    
_clink_   
s from inside the box. Then Malfoy was scrambling out as fast as possible as the trunk began to levitate, its material twisting and contorting to quickly take on a recognizable shape. Harry knew nothing about pianos, but this one was of average size and made of the same cherry-lacquered wood as the trunk had been. The piano even had a few of the brass hooks, nobs and braces from the trunk. Harry thought it was very attractive. Its innards were the last to find their places and it floated down with a soft thud. Malfoy and Krum exchanged grins. 

“You play?” Malfoy asked.

“Of course,” Krum replied with a hawkish grin.

“What on earth is—” Mrs. Weasley came rushing into the room at the sound. It must have been louder than Harry had thought. “Oh, my!” Mrs. Weasley cried in delight. “My mother had a little case piano when I was a just a girl. I never knew there was one here!” She clasped her hands over her heart and gave a little sigh. “I've never seen one so large! Did you boys open it all by yourselves?”

Krum and Malfoy had it tuned shortly after lunch. Mrs. Weasley kept requesting Malfoy play Celestina Warbeck songs and she sang along. Ron retreated to his room to escape his mother's singing but Hermione stayed on, though she read her muggle books while sitting on the sofa, her back to Malfoy. Harry flipped through    
_Quidditch Through The Ages_   
and listened. After a while he noticed from his vantage point that Malfoy would stop to rub his hands while Mrs. Weasley thought of another song she'd like to sing. He hadn't had his potion for a few days and must be in pain. If he was, he didn't say anything as Mrs. Weasley thought of one song after another. Sometimes Malfoy wouldn't recognize a title. Mrs. Weasley would hum a few bars and then he would smile and play the song perfectly. Harry got the impression Malfoy was humoring her in order to have another ally in the house. As it was, he was being utterly charming. Seeing him smiling at Mrs. Weasley, thin fingers expertly playing one pleasant tune after another, it was hard not to like him. He was handsome as well as talented. Then Harry noticed his hands actually shaking as he played the chords to yet another request. When the song was finished and Mrs. Weasley gushed, Harry came up and put his hand on Malfoy's shoulder. The blonde started, sounding a discord of notes on the instrument. 

“Mrs. Weasley, I think I'm going to have to steal Malfoy from you,” he said apologetically. “Professor McGonagall sent the potion ingredients and, well, I really need the Potions practice. I'm sure Viktor might play something for you. I hear he plays,” Harry gave Krum a little nod. Krum looked at Hermione who was seated across from him and buried in her book.

“Hermiohne?” he asked, putting a big hand on her knee. She jumped. “Is zhere anything you vould like to hear?”

“Do you know any muggle songs?” She closed her book but left a finger at her place in it, expecting the answer to be no.

“I know one or two.” Krum made his way to the trunk piano and Mrs. Weasley urged Hermione to follow. Krum sat and plunked out a few chords.

Malfoy moved to stand next to Harry. He didn't even sense the blonde until he was whispering near Harry's ear.

“We might want to get out of here, Chosen One,” there was a very devious smile on Malfoy's lips. “Krum's taking his shot.” Malfoy gave Harry's arm a tug to get him moving towards the door. Before they were into the hall, Harry heard Krum begin to hum the melody. The song was “Can't Help Falling In Love With You.” Krum's humming held a decidedly Elvis Presley-like lilt. Good thing Malfoy had gotten them out in time.

Harry sent Malfoy ahead to the kitchen while he ran upstairs for his cauldron and potions kit. He came into the kitchen to find Malfoy seated at the table, his head resting in both hands as he poured over the instructions. Malfoy looked drawn and ill.

“You really shouldn't push yourself so hard, you know,” Harry chastised, unpacking his things and getting a little fire going under the cauldron. “You're still recovering.”

“Like I don't know that, Potter,” Malfoy vituperated. His voice was scathing but didn't have its usual heat or verve. “And you had to rescue me.” He caught Harry's gaze to stare him down angrily. “What a fucking hero you are, Potter, rescuing the poor little Death Eater from the big bad piano. I'll have you know I was actually enjoying myself, for once.”

Harry could feel his ears burning; apparently, Malfoy did not accept assistance very graciously. “I'm sorry,” he said quietly. “I was just trying to help you.”

“You've helped me plenty, Potty,” Malfoy snapped. His mouth opened to continue but Ginny entered the kitchen and he had the good grace to shut his trap. Harry peered around Malfoy's arm at the instructions.

“Mum refused to let me into the front room just now,” Ginny said slowly. “Any idea what's up?” She directed her question at Harry, as though Malfoy was not even in the room. Harry was trying to uncork a bottle of rose oil with his teeth, giving Malfoy time to answer for him.

“Krum and Granger are—” Comprehension dawned on Ginny's face.

“Where's Hermione?” Ron had entered the room, speaking over Malfoy.

“Front room, Weaselby,” Malfoy smiled serenely and handed Harry a moon stone for the cauldron. Ron took off before anyone else could say a word.

“Do you know what you've just done?” Ginny put her hands on her hips and glared. “You're such a bastard, Malfoy.”

Malfoy shrugged and went back to resting his head in his hands. Was Harry the only one who saw how sick he was?

“It's Granger's elaborate plot, not mine,” Malfoy drawled softly to the kitchen table. “Slytherin knows _I_ don't scheme anymore. This is what she wants, isn't it? To make your brother so jealous he'll admit his feelings for her and then they'll live happily ever after, flowers and bunnies and kittens?” He snorted.

Ginny let out an affronted gasp.

“Potter suspected,” Malfoy continued. “I thought you'd be in on it, if anything. That brother of yours needs a shag worse than Potter. If I had two galleons to rub together I'd buy them a tom myself.”

“You are unbelievably vile, Malfoy, and I'm sorry the Order rescued you,” Ginny's anger was a palpable crackle about her. She turned her attention to Harry. “Good luck finding a shred of human decency in this creature. I don't know what you see worth saving.”

Ginny stormed from the room, but Harry could hear glass and woodwork creaking as she stomped down the hall. Having his ex-girlfriend and her family live with him for the summer was possibly the dumbest idea he'd ever had. That or befriending Malfoy.

“What in the hell was that?” he demanded of the blonde in exasperated tones.

Malfoy folded his arms on the table and laid his head down on them with a huff. “I didn't insult her, her brother or Granger. I didn't abuse a house elf or practice the Dark Arts. And I was perfectly civil in expressing my humble opinion that you and Weaselby are quite repressed, sexually, and could do with a bit of filth to polish your wand now and again. Where's the problem, Potter? _She's_ the one who said I deserve to be tortured to death. Not exactly civil.”

“Malfoy, you are incorrigible,” Harry muttered, preparing the next ingredient for the potion.

“No, I'm stubborn,” he muttered. “And three Ursin petals, not five. Read the bloody instructions before you kill me.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry flopped down on his bed after walking Malfoy to his room. Malfoy had protested until Harry reminded him that if he fainted in the hall it would be Hermione, Viktor or one of the Weasleys who found him. After that, Harry got the impression Malfoy would've let Harry tuck him into bed. He had an ample supply of the potion to manage his pain and help him heal. When he thought Harry wasn't looking, he snuck a few Lettlock berries into the brew. Lettlock berries were a sedative Harry would sometimes swallow straight when the nightmares got bad enough, so there had been a few bumping around in his potion kit. Perhaps Malfoy was having nightmares, too.

There was a knock at the door and Harry dragged himself across the room. Ron stood on the other side of the door, looking like he'd taken a Bludger to the stomach.

“What happened?” Harry asked. Ron came in and sat on Harry's trunk at the foot of the large four poster bed, his feet dragging.

“Hermione,” he whispered. “Krum. Kissing.”

“I'm sorry, mate.” Harry sat next to him and stared ahead.

“I—I think I like her, Harry. I think I really like her.”

“Maybe,” Harry suggested, “you love her?”

“Wha'?” Ron's forlorn eyes set on Harry.

“Have you told her how you feel—however you feel, that is?”

“'Course not,” Ron shook his head. “Should I?”

“I think so, Ron. Otherwise you might lose her to Viktor Krum.”

“You think I've got a chance in hell against him?” Ron's voice was incredulous.

“Seriously, Ron? You have to ask me?” Harry could have laughed. “She's loved you since first year. Do you know why McLaggen missed his last goal in Keeper trials last fall?” Ron shook his head. “Because Hermione Confunded him, that's why. She's always been nuts about you, Ron. You just have to take some initiative. Isn't it worse to never try at all?”

“You know, you're right, Harry.” Ron picked at a loose thread on his trouser leg. “But... how can I tell her now? With Krum here and all. What can I do? I can't compete with that.”

“You're selling yourself short, Ron,” Harry slapped his friend on the back. “I'm sure you'll think of something. Just be yourself—that's the person Hermione likes the best.”

“Thanks, mate.” Ron started for the door, already muttering to himself.

Maybe Malfoy was right. Maybe he and Ron needed to get their brooms waxed something fierce. Otherwise they might become permanent pushovers.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Not much changed over the remainder of the week. Krum continued to go out for Hermione's affection, Ron paced the house mumbling to himself, and Hermione waffled between the two of them like an especially frizzy brunette ball in a tennis match. Ginny refused to be in the same room with Malfoy while Ron and Hermione would tolerate his presence but only in small doses and typically over meals so that meaningful conversation could be avoided. Krum entertained Malfoy whenever the lack of progress with Hermione became overpoweringly sour—which was often for poor Viktor. Mrs. Weasley took Malfoy aside every afternoon to entertain her at the baby grand. Harry usually sat in the front room with them and listened, faithfully calling Malfoy away for a game of wizard's chess after an hour or two. Malfoy was sour over the interruption at first but stopped complaining after Harry left a generous supply of Lettlock berries on his pillow. Harry always lost their chess matches but it was never on purpose. Malfoy was a brilliant tactician and always managed to outsmart Harry, Ron and Viktor... even when they teamed up against the blonde.

In short order, the day of Malfoy's seventeenth birthday arrived. Tonks delivered some Office of Magical Law Enforcement scrolls for Malfoy to fill out and despite Harry's offer to do the writing for him, Malfoy insisted on doing it himself. He sat alone in the front room for most of the day in order to finish it all, going through most of his potion reserve in the process. A more stubborn son of a bitch there never was.

Harry entered the front room to find Malfoy at the small writing desk. He was just sitting quietly, the empty potion goblet still in his hand as he stared at the piano. His blonde head bobbed slowly, as though he was hearing its music in his head. Harry cleared his throat and Malfoy seemed to come out of his trance, his eyes coming into focus and rounding on Harry.

“Were you able to finish?” Harry asked.

“Of course, Potter.” His tone was terse. “I am capable of completing my own paperwork.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly, clasping his hands behind his back to have something to do with them. “It's not a bad thing to accept help when you need it, though.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically and slammed his cup down on top of the stack of scrolls with considerable force. His hand shook a little.

“Do you intend to rob me of my pride as well as my dignity?” His sharp tone cut across the empty room.

“I—I didn't...” Harry stuttered, searching for words to prevent Malfoy's outburst from escalating. Stress and fatigue made the man especially testy, but Harry couldn't blame him for having a shortened fuse. “I'm not—”

“You didn't come here to pick a fight, Potter, and you didn't come to stutter at me. So what is it you want? I'm tired.” Malfoy turned in his seat to face Harry fully, draping a hand over the ornate chair back. Malfoy had the uncanny ability to disarm Harry with this sort of sudden, honest expression. It was distinctly Malfoy and Harry was coming to almost enjoy it.

“I'm sorry, Malfoy. I figured you would be tired,” Harry replied. “I just wanted to tell you that dinner is ready.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The number of people in the Grimmauld Place kitchen must have given Malfoy quite a shock—he jumped at least six inches in the air and reached back to clutch Harry's arm. Maybe he was just the nearest person, but Harry sorely wanted to take it as a sign that Malfoy was beginning to trust him just a little. Malfoy's thin fingers dug into Harry's arm as he reigned himself in. Harry moved to stand beside him, patting Malfoy's hand at his arm to help pass the gesture off as pleasant surprise rather than momentary, illogical terror.

“Happy Birthday, Malfoy,” Harry said. “We wanted to give you a little party—nothing special, just dinner and cake. But we thought you'd enjoy it.” Harry thought he could see the cogs working behind Malfoy's cold grey eyes. He was trying to work out whether Harry was actually doing something nice for him or if the food was laced with Veritaserum or perhaps poison. He looked around at all the faces: mostly Weasleys and a few Hogwarts professors Harry had snuck past Malfoy via the floo. Bill had come with Fleur—with their pale hair, delicate features and expressive eyes, she and Malfoy could pass for cousins, perhaps siblings. Harry brought Malfoy over and made the introductions. Malfoy was especially quiet, stringing a few words together here and there but never more than two sentences together. The surliness was very un-Malfoy. Harry was glad he'd spoken to Mrs. Weasley regarding the seating arrangement for the evening. Malfoy was between himself and Viktor, both relative allies, and across from Professor Flitwick, who would never have a cross word for anybody.

As everyone took their seats, Harry realized the reason for Malfoy's discomfort as he watched the blonde tug at his sleeve to cover the Dark Mark. Harry hadn't noticed the uneasy stares until they abruptly ceased. Harry felt sick to his stomach for not warning Malfoy, for wanting to make it all a big surprise. He should have prepared Malfoy; after all, he was responsible for the man's well-being. Harry knew how awful it was to be stared at because of a mark, because of what people thought you were. He used pouring some wine in Malfoy's glass as an excuse to lean closer.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered in the blonde's ear.

Malfoy started and looked at him sideways. His gray eyes reflected the dark navy of his cardigan and flashes of sparkling silver from the table settings. Harry had never seen someone's eyes pick up colors quite like that before. He couldn't help thinking it was very pleasing to look at.

“I should have known better than to surprise you,” Harry continued. “I wanted to try to do something nice for you.”

“You _are_ nice, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, his face unreadable. “You don't have to try. Pass the rolls, please.”

Malfoy made him feel like a bumbling idiot. Harry smiled. A moment later, he caught the ghost of a smile cross Malfoy's face, too.

Dinner was passed amiably with several toasts offered to Malfoy's continued recovery and good fortune in the coming school year. No one was ridiculous enough to affect anything more than a pleasant but distant acquaintance with Malfoy and so conversation stuck to very neutral topics: Malfoy's favorite subjects in school, whether or not he would go out for Quidditch in the fall, and his candidacy for Head Boy—the last of which was news to Harry. When he thought about it, though, Harry wasn't surprised. Malfoy always seemed knowledgeable, even when they were magically lobbing spit balls at one another during shared classes. Harry found himself laughing at a joke Malfoy made about N.E.W.T.'s, refilling his wine glass again: Malfoy was a healthy drinker. At least, Harry thought, the wine helped him loosen up enough to make a joke. Everyone was seeing the real Malfoy now, like he did. Malfoy certainly had his faults: he was self-centered, short-tempered, and highly judgmental—but he was also bright, charming, and wickedly funny. He could also be disarmingly humble—vulnerable, even—given the right circumstances. Harry knew what was wrong with Malfoy yet he couldn't resist the urge to get to know him just a tad better. Tonight would demonstrate whether Malfoy was willing to accept the offered olive branch.

When Mrs. Weasley had approached him about Malfoy's birthday cake, Harry surprised himself by knowing exactly what Malfoy would like. Years of staring daggers at Malfoy across the Great Hall during feasts and mealtimes had given him a vast and specific knowledge of the man's eating habits. Every desert, Malfoy went right for the nearest piece of chocolate. He drank his coffee with cream and extra sugar and his tea with a little milk and no sugar at all. And when fruit appeared with morning porridge, Malfoy would always eat the blackberries and ignore the porridge. So Malfoy's cake would be chocolate with chocolate icing, blackberry sauce and extra berries on top. And they should have coffee. Malfoy's face was immobile with surprise as Mrs. Weasley set the cake before him. He didn't hear everyone singing 'Happy Birthday' to him and Harry had to elbow him when it was time to blow out the candles. As the cake was cut and served, Harry went to the sideboard to collect a small package. Returning, Harry waited until Malfoy's mouth was full of cake before he spoke: it would give Malfoy a reason not to respond right away.

“I got you a gift,” Harry said quietly, placing the box next to Malfoy's plate without ceremony.

To his credit, Malfoy only choked on his cake a little.

“Quite unnecessary, Potter,” he muttered, getting himself under control. “But thank you.”

“Aren't you going to open it?” Professor Flitwick inquired.

“Well,” and Malfoy actually blushed. “If you _insist_....” He ripped at the paper, pulling off the matching silver ribbon. Inside was a pretty little wand case Harry had ordered from the Flourish and Blotts catalog. It was black lacquered wood polished to a mirror shine with silver bracings and Malfoy's name inlaid in silver on the lid. Malfoy opened it to find his wand inside. When Harry had posed the idea to Professor McGonagall via owl, she'd said it was as nice a thought as any—and certainly better than just handing Malfoy back his wand without pomp or circumstance. Malfoy was a believer in pomp and circumstance. Harry had polished the wand and case, both of which seemed to attract fingerprints and smudges like the devil, knowing Malfoy was the type of person to keep his possessions immaculately clean and tidy.

“Why thank you, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, closing the case. “It's lovely. Very much my taste.”

“Er, there's something else inside,” Harry said quietly, pointing at the wand case.

Malfoy opened the box and peered at it, expecting the “something” to jump out and bite him. Harry reached over and lifted a corner of the black fabric lying beneath Malfoy's wand. Malfoy got the idea and stuck a hand under the fabric. He withdrew the piece of plastic and eyed it skeptically.

“It... has my name on it as well,” he said slowly. “I'm sorry, Potter. I don't know what this is.”

Hermione struck up a loud conversation with Ginny just then. The other guests quickly followed suit, allowing Harry and Malfoy a flimsy screen of privacy.

“Well, I know you'll be staying at least a little while longer and... I wanted you to have some things of your own. Clothes and personal things, whatever you need. My clothes don't fit you, anyway; and I'm sure it's getting old, having to borrow everything off me and Ron.” Malfoy gave only a slight nod to show his understanding. His eyes were unreadable. “This is called a credit card. Muggles take it as money. Hermione and Viktor are going to take you out tomorrow. I—I didn't want to pick things out for you. I thought you'd rather do that yourself, get out of the house for a bit.”

“And... what?” Malfoy slowly rotated the card in his hands. He was speaking to Harry's collar instead of his face. He was anxious. “I would owe you?”

“No,” Harry shook his head and smiled. “It's a gift. Get whatever you want.”

“What's in it for you, Potty?” Malfoy whispered. The question was playful, rather than charged. He was still toying with the plastic in his hand but the look on his face was pleased.

“I get my favorite jumper back,” Harry replied.

“And?”

How did Malfoy know there was more to it?

“I, er, want to help you,” Harry sighed. “We're not friends but... I'm finding I no longer want to hex your face off.”

Harry watched Malfoy digest this bit of information. For the moment, his features were utterly transparent. Perhaps for the first time, Harry saw genuine hope on Malfoy's pale, pointed face. And possibly trust. Malfoy was taking the olive branch.

“I...” His mouth clamped down to a hard line as he struggled to get the words right. He bit his bottom lip—there was a bit of chocolate on his tooth. “Me too, Wonder Boy,” he said at last.

“You don't sound too sure about that,” Harry chuckled.

“Let me have some cake,” Malfoy said playfully, picking up his fork. “Maybe I'll change my mind and blast you one.”

Malfoy was such a little shit. And Harry was getting attached. He forked a bite of cake off of Malfoy's plate and ate it. Malfoy let out an indignant growl.

“Definitely going to hex you,” the blonde muttered.

“Bring it,” Harry shot back. He leaned close to whisper in Malfoy's ear. “Ya cunt.”

Malfoy let out a squealing, delighted laugh. He laughed like a little kid, his hand flying up to cover a mouth with chocolate cake in it. That rambling, happy squeal was Malfoy's real, honest-to-goodness laugh. And it cracked Harry up. Everyone stared at them. Cake threatened to come out both their noses, they laughed so hard.

“Not supposed to... call me names... on my birthday,” Malfoy gasped.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

“ _Reaaaaally_ , Malfoy?” she couldn't help but whine.

“Really, Granger.”

Malfoy hadn't liked any of the clothing stores so far. He said everything was plebeian. Thankfully, he'd restrained himself from using the word “muggle” or whipping out his wand in the streets of London. But he was still being a git. To her, he stood out like a distinctly magical sore thumb—like a blast-ended skrewt in the W.K.C. dog show. Hermione watched Malfoy saunter into the very overpriced designer store he had just pointed out. It was the first shop he'd actually wanted to go into and they'd been out for almost an hour already. Viktor shrugged and opened the smoked glass door for her.

They had less than three hours left. That was how long the Auror detail shadowing them could be spared from their real jobs. Harry had recruited a few Aurors as well as Hermione and Viktor to accompany Malfoy on this little shopping trip, it being too dangerous for Harry and Malfoy to step out together. Malfoy had been beyond upset when he had come downstairs to only to learn that Harry would not be going with.

Hermione watched Malfoy flip absently through a rack of shirts, the Gaunt Family ring glittering on his finger under the shop's elaborate lighting. Upon being told that Harry would not be shopping with them, Malfoy had taken Harry by the shirt collar and dragged him into the hall. They had returned some twenty minutes later, the black stone ring on Malfoy's scrawny finger. Even now, Hermione could feel the Shield Charm Harry had placed on it pulsing. Really! Harry wasn't supposed to be doing magic, but here he was catering to Malfoy's every whim. And Malfoy had come to expect that kind of behavior from Harry—his whining and teasing became more elaborate every day, all designed to elicit certain responses from Harry. If Hermione didn't know better, she'd say Malfoy had a crush.

She watched a salesman approach Malfoy and engage him in conversation. After a moment he led Malfoy to another part of the store, Hermione and Viktor trailing behind. The salesman showed Malfoy a suit and began guessing at the blonde's measurements. Viktor caught her arm and turned her to a nearby dress rack. It displayed a tiered, floor-length dress in a dark pink.

“Do you know vhat zhat reminds me of?” he asked.

“My dress for the Yule Ball?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning closer to put an arm around her shoulders. “You don't wear dresses anymore, Hermione.” It was more of an observation than anything else.

“No. We're at war, Viktor. I just don't see a reason to dress up,” she sighed.

“You always look beautiful. But you should have beautiful zhings, war or no. You deserve zhat. I could give zhat to you, Hermione. Zhat kind of life.” His grip tightened as he turned her body to face his. He gazed fondly at her with his handsome, dark eyes. “I could take care of you,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you.”

“Viktor, I....” Hermione looked away. She hadn't been prepared for Viktor to breech the subject so soon. She was still unsure of her feelings. Would Ronald ever come around? She loved him, but he was still in many ways a boy. Viktor, on the other hand, was all man. He was older; he had a career, passion and ambitions. He was polite, intelligent and reserved. He was everything she'd ever thought she'd wanted in a man, a husband. Try as she might, she couldn't dismiss thoughts of Ron. He had potential. She would bring it out of him if it killed her. Viktor was looking at her. He was waiting for her reply.

“My friendship with Harry puts me in the middle of this fight, whether I like it or not. But I choose to fight. That's why I put in to join the Order last week.” For now, her answer would be to change the subject. At least until she figured out how to reject Viktor without breaking his poor heart. He was very dear to her, after all. She wouldn't want to lose his friendship over this.

“You truly believe in zhis Order?” Viktor asked slowly, his hand warm against her arm.

“Yes, I do,” she nodded. “The Order and Harry, too.”

“Zhen so do I.”

“Viktor, I'm so glad,” she said, giving in to the urge to hug him. “But—you're doing this because you believe in the cause, not because of me, right?”

He was silent long enough to cause her worry.

  
“I believe in you,” he said, hugging her to him. “I trust you. If you say zhis is zhe way to stop    
  
Безименния   
  
, zhen I am vith you. Ve have groups in Bulgaria but maybe not as organized. The Order of zhe Phoenix is serious about stopping Лошия. You're a part of my decision, but I'm doing zhis because it's zhe right zhing to do.”    


“Oh, Viktor!” she squeezed him just as tight.

Malfoy clearing his throat broke them apart. He had emerged from the dressing room in a truly spectacular black suit and was having alterations noted as he stood before a large set of gilt mirrors.

“Granger, they say it'll be a week for the tailoring. Can I pick it up or must we have it sent?” His expression was sour but he kept his back perfectly straight so as not to ruin the tailor's measurements. It all looked very practiced on him.

“We'll have it sent,” she replied, smoothing her hair. “Harry keeps a post box for these sorts of things.” Any packages that arrived were scanned by Aurors before being owled on to Grimmauld Place. It was an expensive service but it guaranteed no one poisoned Harry or the Order via any mundane muggle purchases. It also served as protection against any more love potions being sent Harry's way.

Malfoy looked put-out that he wouldn't have another outing to the lavish store. Hermione saw some of the price tags: Malfoy was being very free with Harry's money. No wonder he'd kept the credit card a secret from everyone! Harry had a particularly soft, guilt-ridden spot for Malfoy. Hermione couldn't wrap her head around the idea of those two not only getting along but actually being remotely fond of one another. It was just a little too much.

 

 

  
After the first shop, Malfoy developed a knack for finding the most expensive stores around Hyde Park. He'd dragged them through most of Chelsea, Green Park and parts of Soho. She and Viktor had followed him into the most famous of the upper echelon—Dior, Prada, Thomas Pink, Gucci and Armani—where Hermione had watched Malfoy pay £   


  
14   


  
for a single pair of boxer briefs. Now Versace. She sat on a beautiful white sofa facing the dressing rooms, shopping bags arranged in a little ocean around her.    


Malfoy stepped out of the dressing room and Hermione almost choked. She was so used to seeing Malfoy in Harry's clothes that the sight was only more jarring: Malfoy wore a sharply pressed dress shirt in dark green, the top few buttons left undone and the sleeves rolled up so his Dark Mark was visible—accented, even. The nerve. His black trousers rode low on his bony hips. And tight. Very tight. So tight she was left in no doubt of the generosity of Malfoy's anatomy. It was obscene. She preferred men with a bit more substance. And sense. The unbuttoned shirt displayed his scarred, muscled chest in a rakish way. He looked like sex on a stick.

That was why Hermione liked Hogwarts robes. Everyone looked about the same in school robes. It created an even footing. She wished she had a set of robes to throw over Malfoy right now.

Malfoy's salesman returned, bringing Hermione a glass of water. She took it and drank deeply, glad for an excuse to look anywhere but Malfoy's crotch.

“Does everything look brilliant on you?” the salesman teased Malfoy, who was preening himself in a large mirror as the salesman flirted with him.

“I feel like it's missing something,” Malfoy said, deep in thought as he examined his reflection.

“A vest, maybe? Or a solid tweed blazer?”

“A blazer?” Malfoy said pensively. “I saw a gray one with blue stitching. Do you have it in my size?”

“I'll go check,” the man replied. “Great tatt, by the way.”

As the man walked away, Hermione watched the color drain from Malfoy's already pale face. He spun on his heel and walked away from the dressing rooms in the opposite direction. Hermione watched him turn a corner and, when he thought no one could see him, he leaned his whole body against the wall and gingerly closed his eyes. He looked about to cry. It was the oddest expression she'd ever seen on Malfoy's cold, sneering face. She couldn't exactly feel sympathy for him—he was a cruel, spoiled, bigoted little creature, but he'd been through the wringer, so to speak. She surprised herself and mustered up a dash of compassion. She was about to go check on Malfoy when Viktor returned from conferring with the Aurors keeping watch over them. She offered him a sip from her water glass.

“Ve have maybe thirty minutes,” Viktor said, drinking. “Zhey are suggesting Ve take zhe underground back. If somezhing happens, it vill be easier to Apparate out.”

“Okay, sounds like a plan. Now we have to drag Malfoy away from the clothes.” Viktor gave the smallest roll of his eyes. He was getting sick of Malfoy's antics, too.

Malfoy and the salesman returned at the same time. The salesman handed Malfoy his blazer and Malfoy held something out to Hermione—a very red, feminine something.

“You,” he said casually, pointing toward an open dressing room. “Try it on.”

“Oh, really, I couldn't!” Hermione spluttered. She looked to Viktor for support; instead, he gestured with the half-empty glass that she should try it on.

“Please?” he asked, a smile twisting his thick red lips. “Humor me.”

The dress fit like a glove, falling just above the knee and showing more cleavage than she was aware of possessing. Viktor insisted on buying it for her. “A beautiful woman needs beautiful things.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Absolutely not!”

“But—please, Granger?!”

“We can't,” Hermione reminded the recalcitrant blonde. He was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring with naked longing at the display window for Liberty of London.

“You're no fun at all,” Malfoy whined but his feet began to carry him away from the shop. He walked backwards, forlorn, waving good-bye to a particularly handsome leather jacket in the window. Hermione, who normally didn't give two straws about clothes, could tell it was expertly made. The leather was so supple, the cut so rugged and romantic, it made you want to jump through the window and kiss the mannequin. A banner proclaimed the name of the designer to be Vivienne Westwood. The black jacket was the only thing in the window and rightly so.

“It's a brilliant coat, Malfoy, but Harry will worry if we're not back soon.” She knew it was a cheap shot but she had to take it.

“Fine.” Malfoy let out the most wistful little sigh, as though he were leaving the love of his life behind instead of a jacket. Hermione felt compelled to retort: the softness of her own words came as a real shock.

“Maybe we can come back another time.”

“Oh, Granger, I could kiss you!” Malfoy bounded up to walk beside her.

“Please don't,” she muttered. She let Viktor hold her hand through all the shopping bags. After an afternoon filled with Malfoy, she needed the comfort. They walked to the Oxford Circus station in silence. Hermione demonstrated to the men how to work the turn-style and then they were waiting on the platform for the next train. Malfoy began shifting from one foot to the other, absently twisting the ring on his finger. Hermione cast him a sideways glance.

“God, you're impatient,” she said.

“Something's wrong,” Malfoy replied, looking nervously down the platform. Hermione followed his line of sight but didn't see anything in particular.

“Vot do you mean?” Viktor asked.

“Um...” Hermione watched Malfoy swallow. He blinked wildly, fighting down competing emotions. “Never mind. Just stay alert.”

The train arrived and nothing bad happened. They rode a few stops before connecting to the line that ran closest to Grimmauld Place. The next train was more crowded and Viktor and Malfoy were unable to find seats. They stood nearby and held on to the rail.

Suddenly, Malfoy gave a wracking gasp and doubled over, clutching at his arm. It was the Mark. It sounded like Malfoy was choking to death, unable to draw breath. Then Hermione saw a man in a dark suit struggling through the crowded train to get to Malfoy. His wand was out, a nasty expression on his face.

“Rookwood,” Malfoy managed to gasp the man's name. The blonde looked small and frail, about to faint.

“Quick!” Viktor said, holding out his hand. The muggle people in the car were beginning to panic.

Hermione had only a moment to react. She took Viktor's hand.

Viktor reached in his pocket and threw a handful of something at the approaching Death Eater: Peruvian Darkness Powder. The entire car was instantly engulfed in an impenetrable black cloud. Had she not been holding Viktor's hand, she would never have found him after that. Malfoy let out a terrible yell. Hermione worried Rookwood had gotten to him. And then Viktor was Apparating, bringing them along.

 

 

 


	8. Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's house guests begin to pack up as outside dangers rise. He is trapped in Grimmauld Place with a cranky, alcoholic Malfoy just in time for Harry's birthday. Begin the epic flirtation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** painfully awkward teenaged boys flirting, Wizard Swears

 

 

  
Hermione landed hard on her rump. Malfoy had arrived beside her with no less grace. She watched him pull a squashed shoe box out from under his skinny backside. Viktor towered between them, looking menacing as he drew his wand.    


“Where are we?” she asked as he pulled her to her feet.

“My team's safe room,” Viktor replied. “No one can Apparate in or out except for us players and a few of zhe staff. You'll be safe here.”

“What do you mean? Won't you be safe here, too?”

“I have to go back out,” Viktor said simply. “I have to find a way to get us back to Potter's. I von't be gone long.” He kissed her forehead.

“Do you think it's wise to go alone? And can't we contact someone from in here?”

“I vill be fine. You two stay here.” Viktor gestured toward Malfoy, who had remained on the stone floor. The entire room was stone with no windows or doors. It reminded her of the dungeons at Hogwarts. “He doesn't look so good. Look after him?”

“Okay,” Hermione agreed. “Just hurry back.”

After Viktor Disapparated, Hermione bent down to examine Malfoy. He was white as a sheet and kneeding his arm. The scene reminded her forcibly of Harry when he was younger and his lightning bolt scar would hurt him. He would rub at it in the same absent way.

“Will you be alright?” she asked the blonde.

“Sure,” Malfoy brushed off her concern. He still looked about to pass out. “Surprised me, that's all. I'll be back to normal in a minute.”

“Goody,” Hermione huffed. That got a tiny chuckle from Malfoy, but nothing like the howling, honest laughter he shared with Harry. Malfoy backed against the stone wall and sat perfectly still. Eventually, he pulled Harry's cardigan sleeve over the Mark. They waited maybe half an hour in silence before Viktor returned.

“What's happening?” Hermione asked, getting to her feet.

“I found your Professor, McGonagall. She's opening zhe floo at Grimmauld Place,” Viktor explained rapidly. “Potter's floo knows mine, so ve should Apparate to my apartment and zhen floo.”

“Alright.” Hermione rubbed her hands together against the cold of the room. They were very likely deep underground. “Should we Apparate now or wait?”

“I think we should wait,” Malfoy piped up from the floor. “At least this place is secure. No offense, Krum,” Malfoy gestured furtively. “You haven't been to your flat in several days. It could be compromised.”

“You're very right,” Krum said, all business. “Ve shouldn't expose ourselves unnecessarily.” Krum dropped to a sitting position to wait. After a beat, he turned to Malfoy again. “You play Quidditch?”

“Not as well as I talk about it, but I play,” Malfoy conceded. Hearing anything resembling humility from Malfoy's lips gave Hermione a very hopeful feeling. Maybe Harry was a good influence on the Slytherin, after all.

“Once your government gives you asylum, you should come fly vith me. Bring Potter. Ve all like a good challenge.” Hermione found that to be a very astute observation of the three men.

“Thank you,” Malfoy said. “That sounds brilliant.” Krum waved a hand but Malfoy pressed on. “Really. I haven't flown in almost a year. And I know Potter's always keen for a game. I'll owl you.”

Viktor smiled. “Well, tactician, how should we proceed?”

Malfoy wore a lop-sided smile at Viktor's casual praise. Hermione had to admit that Viktor was right—as poorly as some of Malfoy's schoolboy schemes had worked out, he was an excellent planner. He could see the wide scope of possibilities and weigh his options with more skill than most. His problem lay in his decision making once in action.

“We're aiming for least exposure, so I'd suggest you shuttle us out of here individually. Take Granger first and get her to the floo. Come back for me then watch my back when I go through, as I seem to be their target.”

“That's remarkably good,” Hermione sighed. “I would have suggested the same thing.” She hoped this didn't turn out like Malfoy's old stunts. This time, her life was on the line and Crabbe and Goyle dressed as a Dementor just wasn't going to cut it. She wrung her hands.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry, Ron, Ginny and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley waited by the fire at Grimmauld Place. Professor McGonagall had opened the floo and Hermione, Krum and Malfoy should be returning through it at any moment. Harry watched Ron pacing a hole in the threadbare carpet. Harry wanted to know how this happened when the Aurors had their backs.

Hermione came through the fireplace first. Mrs. Weasley let loose a wail and threw her arms out, racing for Hermione. But it was Ron who made it to her first. He scooped her into a fierce hug, pressing kisses to her hair. “I was so worried,” Harry read on Ron's lips. Hermione allowed herself to be lifted three inches off the ground as Ron squeezed her. She held him tight.

Popping from the fireplace announced Malfoy. He emerged from the green flames with a _whoosh_ , laden with shopping bags in all different colors. From the look of it, he'd never have to borrow Harry's things again. Then Harry saw the blonde's gaunt, drawn face. He was tired and in pain. He needed to rest.

To everyone's surprise, Mrs. Weasley gathered Malfoy up in her arms and pressed his white blonde head to her bosom. And Malfoy let her. She stroked his hair, encouraging him to leave the bags and she would see to them. She absently felt his forehead for fever, muttering, “You poor dear, let's get you up to bed.” Harry didn't have a chance to so much as establish eye contact with Malfoy before he was ushered away. Mr. Weasley looked confused as he watched his wife coddle the spoiled Malfoy brat but he knew better than to comment. His expression maintained lines of a serious nature as he watched the fire turn green for a third time.

Krum came through the floo just as Ron and Hermione were separating. The way their arms stretched—his at her waist and hers draped around his neck—it certainly appeared as though they'd been kissing. Harry felt his stomach lurch uncomfortably. Viktor might not be staying much longer.

Harry met with Professor McGonagall and Mr. Weasley on behalf of the Order that night. They wanted to let him know that the combination of the Order, Harry and Malfoy under a single roof was proving more of a security risk than they'd anticipated. Professor McGonagall thought it would be best if the Order began holding meetings elsewhere.

“Really, Potter,” she'd said. “I do think we've encroached upon your hospitality long enough. You're almost seventeen. I'm sure you have a personal life you'd like to get to.” She was referring, of course, to Ginny. That remained a sore spot for Harry—both the way their less-than-mutual break up lay between them like an oversized pink suede Hippogriff that nobody wanted to talk about and the way she and Malfoy turned one another into crazy people. Maybe, with the members of the Order no longer popping in and out and diverting his attention, he could finally sort out his problems with Ginny. He very desperately wanted things to go back to the way they'd been before the two of them had gotten together. Ginny was a beautiful person... but not when she was angry enough to spit fire at him.

Professor McGonagall was looking at him. He needed to say something.

“Er, thank you for considering my feelings,” he said awkwardly. “I know you have a lot on your plate right now, between the Order and Hogwarts. I appreciate your maintaining a channel of communication. And I'm sure there will be a lot more for us to talk about after my birthday,” he said meaningfully. “But for now, it'll be nice to have a little holiday at home with friends.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The Order met for the last time in his parlor to discuss with Hermione and Viktor what had happened that day. They'd wanted Malfoy to join them but he was still asleep in his room when the meeting began and nobody had the heart to wake him; that, and he was insanely cranky when woken prematurely. Harry understood their holding the meeting sans Malfoy. Hermione and Ron filled Harry in after the Order had gone their separate ways—four of them staying in his house for the night.

It was a small contingency that attacked Hermione, Viktor and Malfoy. They had gotten past the Aurors using what Hermione called Public Apparition Points; essentially, places the Ministry maintained as secure and anonymous for witches and wizards traveling about the muggle world. There was a big debate in the legal system about requiring identification at Public Apparition Points but nothing had been decided yet. Hermione explained it would be an encroachment on magical people's right to Apparate wherever they wish so long as they're licensed; but at the same time, it might help prevent incidents like their harrowing afternoon, or at the Ministry of Magic last year.

Harry nodded, listened as she explained what had happened. The Death Eaters had come looking for Malfoy. What she said about Malfoy holding the Dark Mark when Rookwood cursed him made Harry worry down to his bones. It reminded him of when he felt the link to Lord Voldemort through his scar. He knew the instances were separate, yet something in his mind continuously drew a line connecting the two.

Harry ended up going to bed with a lot on his mind. The three witches in the painting above his bed, twittering to each other on their broomsticks, didn't help him get to sleep. He wound up tuning the radio to static and dragging the eiderdown over his head. He nearly baked to death, but he slept.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

The next morning dawned bright and early. It turned out Harry wasn't the only one in a dark mood. Viktor Krum caught him in the hall.

“I know I planned to stay a little longer,” he began nervously. He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. Harry knew what this was really about but was happy to take whatever lie Krum fed him. “But I feel zhere's a lot zhat needs to be done for zhe Order back in Bulgaria. Vhat happened yesterday really got me zhinking about zhe safety of my family and zhe team.”

“Of course,” Harry nodded, giving Krum's arm a hearty pat. “I understand. I'm responsible for people, too. It's been a real pleasure having you, though.”

“I mentioned to Malfoy—have you spoken?” Harry shook his head, so Krum went on. “I'd very much like it if you vould stop by for Quidditch sometime. Both of you,” he added intensely. “Zhat Malfoy's got somezhing. Maybe not pitch material, but he vould make one hell of a coach. I'd love to pick his brain.”

“I know the feeling,” Harry agreed. “Too bad he's so tight-lipped.”

“If anyone can get to him, my money is on you,” Krum smiled. “And zhat's a lot of money!” They both laughed. Harry couldn't help it—Krum was kind of a cheeky shit. Like Malfoy. Like himself.

“Um, why do you say that?” Harry pressed as they made their way to breakfast.

“He is getting to trust you,” Krum replied. His English was still a bit rough in places. “And he, uh, he...” Krum fumbled for words.

“I think he wants to trust me. He's come a long way,” Harry offered. “At least we're not at each others throats like we were at Hogwarts. We spent the better part of six years trying to hex each other's parts off. At least now we can have a conversation.” Harry was expecting to get another laugh out of Krum, maybe cheer the guy up. What he got was an odd look. Krum's brows rose so high they threatened to become one with his hairline.

“I don't know zhe English vord for it,” Krum replied slowly, making himself clear. “But I zhink Malfoy is more interested in somezhing else vith your parts.” 

“Y—you think he's gay?” Harry spluttered.

“Is zhat vot you call it? Vhen a man prefers other men?”

“Er, that's what muggles call it.” Harry didn't know if wizards called it something different; hubberdy-buggery or some other cute-sounding nonsense. Maybe it was a terribly bad thing for a witch or wizard to be gay. Harry had no clue. He had no idea what to say next, either.    
_Thanks for warning me that my former enemy might have the hots for me?_   
He had to dismiss it before his face went red as a Gryffindor flag; instead, he focused on walking, putting one foot in front of the other. 

He didn't have to focus long. Malfoy was seated at the breakfast table. His clothes were decidedly new. He wore a crisp black dress shirt with tailored trousers and loafers. The outfit looked expensive.... Harry prevented himself from going down that road. What was the point in having money if you couldn't help people with it?

Harry tucked into breakfast and tuned out the rest of the world like he'd tuned out the noisy witches above his bed. For a bloke who technically lived alone his house sure was noisy! Even though he was wholly focused on pouring his second cup of coffee, he still heard Malfoy's disappointed protests when Viktor announced he would be leaving that afternoon rather than staying through next week as planned.

Harry gathered some toast and his coffee before leaving the table. He needed to get away from people for a while. He needed some time alone. A moment later, he found himself sitting in a linen closet off the main hallway, looking for a place to set his coffee. Maybe growing up in a cupboard had done some damage—the cramped, tight space didn't make him feel any more peaceful (or comfortable, for that matter) but it certainly helped him think. So what if he sat in a cupboard every now and again? Everyone was entitled to a few vices.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Later that afternoon, Harry emerged to say his goodbyes to Viktor. To the man's eternal credit, he hugged Hermione and shook Ron's hand, saying only, “You watch out for her, now.” He and Malfoy shared a dignified hug. Malfoy looked distraught: he wanted to jump up and down because his idol had just declared him a personal friend and flying buddy. He wanted to go break something because he was losing an ally in the house when he had so few to begin with. It was disturbing to Harry to be able to read all these things from the little lines on Malfoy's forehead, the set of his jaw, and the way he shoved one hand casually in his pocket as Viktor stepped into the floo.

Malfoy offered everyone a drink before conjuring a generous glass of wine for himself and stepping into the hall. Drinking at tea time? After years of Hogwarts rivalry, Harry followed the blonde on instinct. Malfoy went straight for the piano, setting his glass atop the instrument before seating himself. Desperate to make a point, he played “Can't Help Falling In Love With You.” He even played heavy on the pedals, just like Viktor. Harry absently flipped through one of Hermione's books as he listened for the telltale    
_squeak_   
as Malfoy eased up on a pedal only to    
_swish_   
down on another. Harry doubted Hermione would be coming to join them any time soon. Nothing had actually been resolved between her and Ron. At least she'd made a choice. 

After a few selections from Malfoy's impressive memory—and sipping heavily from his glass, which he refilled by magic—he turned his blazing silvery eyes on Harry, who had been watching him play from a nearby arm chair.

“Any requests?” he inquired, swirling the wine he had left. Malfoy was a show dog, for sure. He needed to be the center of someone's attention. Hermione's muggle book hadn't been that interesting, anyway. Harry closed it to focus solely on Malfoy.

“What's that one you play sometimes?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Which one?”

“Um, it's kind of quiet, I guess. And sweet.” Sweet wasn't the right word. When Malfoy played the melody was strong, passionate. The tune meant something to him. “You always close your eyes when you play it.”

“Oh. You mean this?” Malfoy started to play without looking at the keys; immediately, Harry knew it was the one. He really, really liked it... but Malfoy didn't play the song very often. Only when he thought no one was listening.

“Yeah, that one.” Harry sat back and listened. The song started out happy. Malfoy always fooled around with the volume of his playing. Harry thought it sounded very artistic, though he admittedly didn't know a thing about music beyond the basics he'd learned in state school as a kid. “It's really pretty. What's it called?”

“I don't think it has a name. At least, Mother never told me if it did,” Malfoy shrugged one shoulder. His fingers were walking down the keys. “I just learned from hearing her play.”

“She played a lot, then?” Harry asked.

Malfoy was in a strong section, so he just nodded. His head continued to bob with a few staccato notes. Harry listened to the rest of the song. It got quiet, pensive at the end. It slowed down, the joy sort of running out very softly, like giving up. Harry didn't like the way it ended—it wasn't enough compared with the strength and exuberance Malfoy put into the song itself.

“Why does the end have to sound so sad?” Harry asked after Malfoy's last note had rung out and he'd removed his hands from the keys to rest them in his lap. “It doesn't really fit the rest.”

“I don't know,” the blonde replied, shrugging. Harry watched him a minute as he massaged one hand and then the other. With his dark, fancy shirt and refined features, he looked like the sort of person who should practice at that beautiful piano and be the master of a house like Grimmauld Place. Not Harry. Harry had owl droppings on the bottoms of his trainers and didn't know how to open and close his own floo for visitors. Then Malfoy caught his gaze—and stuck his long tongue out. The side of Harry's mouth turned up against his will. “I suppose we'll have to track down the composer of this song we don't know the name of, pin him down and ask him, won't we?” 

Malfoy was being facetious. Thank God. Harry needed someone to be in a mood with him.

“Do you know any other songs like that one?” he asked.

Malfoy shook his head.

“Ever try to write one? Maybe you could give that one a better ending.”

Malfoy kept shaking his head but he turned back to the keys. He plunked out a melancholy tune. It matched Harry's mood dead-on.

“I've tried composing—turns out I'm rubbish! I'd rather play someone else's song well than be dreadful playing my own.”

 _That's a loaded statement_ , Harry thought as Malfoy hummed. He probably had a nice singing voice, too. Harry couldn't ever recall hearing Malfoy sing. Sure, he hummed enough if he was playing, but he never sang. Maybe Malfoy preferred to do what people told him to because he was afraid of being on his own, standing out, being different, failing. Maybe he hummed because he was too afraid of singing poorly, never singing at all when—with a little practice and encouragement—he could have been brilliant. Harry spent half his life teased and beaten for being different so fearing it had never occurred to him; eventually, 'different' became good. 'Different' meant being a wizard, the ability to do amazing, previously unimaginable things. You just had to think outside the box.

“I think you'd be brilliant at it,” Harry said slowly. “But don't listen to me. You should only do it if you want to, not because some div like me tells you you aught. Creative stuff... you should always just have that for yourself; do it because you love it and Bob's your Uncle, you know?”

Harry looked up to catch Malfoy playing the instrument with one hand as he tossed off his wine with the other. With both hands free, he struck a dark and menacing chord.

“Forgive me for not taking your advice, Oh Great Chosen One,” he rebuked; strong, frustrated, almost discordant notes sounding lower and lower on the piano's impressive scale, “but you don't seem too happy yourself. I think I'll find my own way.” He played a little faster running back up the scale, a striking riff with something like quarter or eighth steps that seemed to slip and bleed into each other. Harry couldn't remember the term but the sound reminded him of an opera he'd watched in music class as a kid; it was called    
_Porgy and Bess_   
and his nine year old mind had registered it as the wildest, most amazing thing ever imagined into being. Malfoy's playing needed strings, winds and a tympani or two, maybe a jazz trumpet to play riffs off his own. As one hand reached for the melody a half step under where it had been before, his other tapped out a quick rhythm on the closed hood of the piano. Harry suspected Malfoy was on the piss—after all, he'd hardly eaten all day, he was a lean bloke at best and that had been    
_a lot_   
of wine—but the music sounded fucking amazing. Impulsive, rich, full of movement and imagination. It made Harry feel a bit lashed, himself—excited, built up for something—and he hadn't touched the stuff. 

“What on Earth do you call that?” Ginny's voice sounded from the doorway. She held a tea tray with two cups and a pretty arrangement of biscuits. She had some of Harry's favorites there.

“It's    
_The Founder's March_   
, actually. The movement dedicated to Salazar Slytherin,” Malfoy said. His fingers had stilled against the keys. His hand no longer tapped at the polished wood beside his empty glass. Harry felt like his heart, his energy, had given out as the last echoes of Malfoy's exuberant playing died.

“Blagger,” Ginny shot in Malfoy's direction. She settled the tray on an end table at the other side of the room. There were two comfortable chairs in that corner beside the old radio.

“He's not lying,” Harry piped up. “I asked him to play it that way.” Now Harry was lying. To protect Malfoy's feelings. From Ginny. Unbelievable, but there it was. “Like an opera I saw as a kid.” If he was going to embellish, he thought he'd go all the way.

“I've never heard an opera that sounded like that,” Ginny muttered, fussing unnecessarily with the tea tray. 

“It's a jazz opera. It's supposed to sound like the blues.”

“And Malfoy's seen a muggle jazz opera?” she was duly incredulous.

“No,” Harry wracked his brain for the most intelligent-sounding thing he could think of, “but the principles are the same if you know music: syncopation, phrasing, dissonance. Malfoy was just proving a point—that you can make a jazz riff out of anything.” He'd heard that exact phrase from a first form teacher, so it must be true.

Ginny's eyes darted to Malfoy. He gave her an unconcerned shrug, as though to say Harry was right and Malfoy had only been obliging his host.

“Well, you two take your jazz riffs elsewhere,” she said in a commanding tone. “Hermione and I are going to listen to _The Week In Review_.” She gestured toward the radio.

Malfoy let out an indignant snort. Harry could hear the man speak in that noise: _Must you listen to that drivel in here?_ Harry was spurred to action.

“Ginny,” he cautioned. “There are maybe eight radios in the house. This is the only room with a piano as far as I'm aware. Malfoy was playing for me. Do you think you and Hermione could listen to your program in the kitchen, or maybe the parlor?” He gave her an imploring look.

“We like the light in here,” Ginny said stubbornly. “The parlor's too dark—you can hardly see your own hands. Would you really make us sit in there?”

Harry saw this was a battle he wouldn't win; besides, he could feel Malfoy's hackles rising. He cut the blonde off before he said something nasty. Harry didn't feel like breaking up a fight; he didn't have the energy or compassion left.

“Malfoy, come on. I'd like to show you something.” He grabbed Malfoy above the elbow and dragged him to his feet. He didn't want to abandon the piano and tried to put up a fight. One dark look from Harry silenced him. He allowed Harry to steer him from the room without another word; apparently, Malfoy was in a sour mood, too.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“You wanted to show me the parlor, Scar Head?” Draco drawled. “Very impressive. You do know I've been living in this house, don't you?” That bit of wine was getting to him—he was hardly drunk, but things seemed to fly out of his mouth unbidden, flip chief among them. He strode the length of the room, examining the old bookshelves and display cases closely. A lot of things were missing. Important things. Dark things. Draco spun around to stare incredulously at the Chosen One. “How much have you and your mudbloods thrown out?!” He exclaimed, gesturing grandly about the room. Potter rounded on him.

“What are the rules, Malfoy?” Potter ground out through clenched teeth, his patience used up after the encounter with the Weaselby chit. “Use that word again and I'll bring you to Voldemort myself!” Draco recognized an empty threat, even if Potter looked ready to throw his toys out the pram. Potter was a saint; he'd never _actually_ harm anyone or anything, not even a fly. Draco tried to think of himself as a vastly oversized fly.

“Must you be so dreary, Potty?” he responded calmly; pulling out his wand, knowing full well that Potter did not carry his wand with him around the house. Wonder Boy was still technically underage and it wasn't like him to break rules.... Draco gave a mental snort as he casually twirled his wand with slender fingers. He liked the little clicking sound when his wand tapped against the ring on his finger. Their eyes locked for a moment and the spinning stopped. Potter cleared his throat pointedly. Draco turned away, muttering a spell to light the disused room.

“I thought you'd like to have a look at the tapestry, there,” Potter jutted his chin, indicating the moldy, burnt-out tapestry fixed to the wall. “As you can see—you're still there,” he added sarcastically. Draco couldn't help a haughty little laugh as he turned to face St. Potter.

“Tried to blast me off, did you?” he left a note of disdain in his voice that did not go unnoticed. Against his better judgment, his lip was beginning to curl, egging on one of their famous school rows. “Only a true member of the family can do that, _Wonder Boy_.” At this, the color began to rise in Potter's stubbled cheeks. Maybe Draco shouldn't have pushed it.

 

 

Standing across the room from Malfoy, there was very little Harry could do to stop himself from lunging at the man, fists flying until they made contact with pale, haughty, in-bred flesh. Frustration was building in him with no where to go but out his fist and into Malfoy's face. Malfoy could manipulate him like no other—he knew every one of Harry's buttons and precisely how to push them for maximum effect. But Harry was starting to figure Malfoy out as well. These extended vituperations would only book-end violence and bloodshed between them. There was a way to break through the cold, practiced exterior of his old adversary. Instead of lunging forward and beating the crap of him... Harry folded his arms across his chest and managed a self-satisfied smirk.

“Insult me again, Malfoy,” he said plainly, “and I'll cancel your credit card.”

 

 

Draco paled. Like it or not, he could feel the heated blood running from his face to pool somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. He felt light-headed and weak. Potter had found a weakness. Shit. How could he have let this happen?

“You wouldn't....”

Potter smiled broadly. “Try me,” he mocked.

From the distance at which they stood, Potter couldn't actually see him gulp: for this, Draco was thankful. He would have to have a go at civility.

“What did you want to say about the tree, Potter?” Draco buried his hands in his back pockets—something which Potter did when uneasy, he realized. He promptly removed this hands from the offending pockets just as Potter assumed the same pose. Draco commenced rearranging his hair. It had grown longer since his arrival; it was beginning to fall into his eyes, like Potter's. They both needed haircuts.

“I wanted to ask you something, actually.” Potter advanced, hands still firmly in his back pockets.

Draco gulped again at Potter's physical nearness. Like it or not, Wonder Boy was bigger, stronger and quite unfairly fit. He could throttle Draco if he really wanted to. A wand wouldn't save him if Potter hit him hard enough in the face or with the element of surprise. It wasn't that Potter had filled out—he was still a lean bloke. Being at less than his own peak of fitness, Draco was more aware of his disadvantage. His body wasn't what it used to be. The scars were only evidence of more lasting damage meted out with the Dark Arts. Dark injuries didn't always heal, even with magic. That's how people like Alistair Moody ended up with half a nose. Draco took a tiny step away, followed by three more for good measure. He pretended to examine one of the tree's many branches.

“Ask away,” he said cautiously.

Potter pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and pointed to a burnt place on the tapestry.

“Who was this?” he asked quietly, looking at the wall rather than Draco. The anger Draco saw earlier was cooling.

“Alphard Black,” Draco supplied.

“And this one here?”

“Cedrella Weasley.”

“Oh.” Potter was silent, stroking the tapestry's many scorches and burns as though saying goodby to a hundred loved ones all at once. Draco was struck by how very quiet and dark the room was. Perhaps this room was kept darkened for a reason. Draco suddenly felt compelled to speech.

“I could fix them.” The words came tumbling out of his mouth. A shiver took Potter the moment Draco broke their silence. Potter turned bodily to face him.

“You would?”

“It's my family, too,” Draco scoffed. Potter managed a chuckle and the room seemed to brighten a little. “Anyways, I'm in need of a project,” Draco continued. “With Krum gone and the women taking over the front room—how else am I to entertain myself?” Draco realized he was batting his eyes at Potter and could have slapped himself.

“Thanks, Malfoy.”

 _How did we get here, again?_ a voice questioned from the back of Draco's head. And then he remembered: _fucking torture!_ After regaining his nerve—and taking another precautionary step away from Wonder Boy, Chosen One—he managed to speak.

“I doubt you know it,” he began, assuming a lecturing tone to put every sort of distance between himself and Potter. “But this tapestry actually has some incredible properties: namely, a sort of... 'domestic divination,' if you will.” He resisted the urge to chuckle at his turn of phrase and clasped his hands behind his back, wheeling around to face Potter's bemused expression with pride. “What I mean is that the tapestry can sense change within the family before those concerned may even be aware of such events.”

“How do you mean?” Potter still appeared confused.

“For example,” Draco trilled, fully enjoying Potter's lack of intelligence on the subject “How about my parents? Mother did not know she would be marrying my father when she first met him at Hogwarts; however, shortly after they began seeing one another, a thread of marriage extended itself from my mother's name on the tapestry, here,” he indicated with a finger. “At first it was just a line, but very quickly my father's name filled itself in—despite the fact that he had not yet proposed and she had not yet accepted. Now do you see what I mean?” He drawled.

“So this thing knows stuff is going to happen before we do?” Potter questioned, peering tentatively at the wall as thought the tree might jump out and bite him if he wasn't careful.

“In a very basic sense, yes,” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes. “That is precisely how my great Aunt Walburga knew about my existence before my own mother did.” He smiled a little, remembering how mother loved to recite the tale at parties. He then physically shook himself before the happy memories led to less pleasant ones.

“I guess you must miss your family...” Potter said quietly, still looking pointedly away from the only other person in the room. There was still a great awkwardness between them. There were many confrontations that had yet to be resolved... just like his relationship with his family, Draco realized. In both cases, he was probably better off putting the past firmly behind him and living in the here and now.

“Not enough to be tortured in their cellar,” he replied at last.

Potter's head snapped up in Draco's direction. There was a heavy moment of understanding between them... before a horde of Weasley's came crashing into the room with clanging metal buckets and any number of poorly brewed cleaning potions. Draco nodded politely to Potter before scampering to the door in a very undignified fashion. If he managed to get out while he and Potter were on good terms he might not be forced into an afternoon of manual labor.

As he closed his bedroom door, he detected footsteps continuing up the stairs. A minute later, the door to Potter's room shut and locked with a dusty _click_.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Hermione thought she heard something in the parlor. But that was absurd! It was nearly four in the morning. She had woken from a strange dream and couldn't get back to sleep. Thinking a glass of milk might help, she'd gone to the kitchen.

She took another step toward the parlor door. It was agar, the room beyond illuminated by wand light. She peeked in just enough to see Malfoy sitting on the floor before the Black family tree. He had a complex web of magic balanced above his hand. The web appeared linked to the tapestry. He was prodding lines of the web with his wand and cursing softly.

“Oh, _come on_!” he whispered to himself in frustration. “Bollocks for brains, just take it!” He put pressure on a section of the glowing silvery web until it vibrated and hummed. “Almost, almost....” The little web of magic gave a shudder and extinguished. Malfoy threw his wand at the far wall with a muffled yell. He obviously didn't want to wake anyone with his fit. He fell back onto the carpet with a huff, pounding a hand on the floor in frustration. The other hand rubbed at his eyes. It looked as though he'd been up all night.

“Fucking hopeless,” he muttered. “Never going to finish.”

Hermione knew it was none of her business. She wanted to keep right on going to the the kitchen but years of conditioning herself to suspect the worst of Malfoy held her fast, spying on him.

Malfoy was staring at the ceiling, mocking himself in a high falsetto reminiscent of his own mother.

“'Do something nice for Potter! He's been so kind to you: rescuing you from certain death, protecting you from the big, bad, ginger barbarian horde, feeding you, clothing you in a manner befitting a Malfoy. He's your dearest friend in the world!'” Malfoy sat up sharply; apparently, that last bit had been a revelation. “Slytherin's balls, Draco,” he berated himself. “You truly have a single friend the world over. Just the one. And it's Scar Head The Blundering, Prince Potter, Gryffindor the Brave, Wonder Boy Chosen One.” The names rolled from his lips like breathing. “Veela buggering, cock sucking goblin son of a Polyjuiced banshee whore! How can this possibly be my life?!”

Malfoy began crawling across the floor to retrieve his wand. Hermione retreated into the shadows of the hall but stayed close enough to watch what came next. Malfoy picked up his wand and knelt. He let out a long, blustering breath before pointing the wand directly at his head.

“Avada Kedavra,” he said sarcastically. _He must be barking mad, completely off it,_ Hermione decided. “There, 'pride.' That was you.” He lowered the wand to point at his chest, looking as though he were about to do it again. Hermione hoped he'd pretend to off his sparkling personality next. “Avada K—oh, 'dignity,' I almost forgot! You're already dead.” Malfoy laughed darkly to himself. “Mulciber choked the life out of you, didn't he? Then he made me eat you. How could I forget that?” He lowered his wand and got slowly to his feet.

“Just... fix the tapestry for St. Potter Day. He'll be duly overjoyed and keep protecting us from the second cousins not-far-enough removed. We'll beg the Ministry to hide us until the Dark Lord rips Potter into a thousand chosen, gory pieces. Then, suicide.” Malfoy gave a curt nod, rolled up his shirt sleeves and returned to the tapestry with zeal. Magic crackled around him as he worked.

Hermione backed towards the stairs. Malfoy was making a birthday present for Harry. And he'd gone completely round the bend. She had to wake Ron and tell him—he would just howl.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Very early the morning of his birthday, Harry found himself in the linen closet: it was the upstairs linen closet this time and thus a tad roomier, but it was still very much a cupboard. He rubbed his eyes. He'd slept in fits that provided no rest at all. Around six, he'd taken a stroll through the house. Walking past the linen closet, something in his scrambled brain said it was just the place to be. He'd probably been in there for close to an hour but his mind wouldn't stop churning in a rampant, sleep-deprived haze.

Someone opened the closet door. With his back to it, Harry only saw morning light from the hallway and the shadow of a leg. He must have looked like a crazy person, hiding in a cupboard. Maybe he could say he'd been sleepwalking.

“What are you doing, Potter?” Oh. It was Malfoy: Harry could be honest. There probably wasn't a soul on earth who thought less of him.

“Being odd,” Harry replied blandly. No need to dress it up. “Would you shut the door?” He didn't bother to turn around; instead, he imagined the smirk blooming on Malfoy's face.

Malfoy didn't shut the door and bugger off. Harry turned and started. Malfoy crouched in the doorway looking back at him, head cocked to the side and the ghost of that Malfoy smirk graced his features. He looked about to crawl in the cupboard, too.

“What are you doing?” Harry was forced to inquire.

“I thought I was getting a towel,” he said cheerfully, “but I guess I'm being odd with you. Budge up.” Malfoy put a hand to each of Harry's shoulders and squashed him further into the cupboard. “I don't know how you lot get on but in Slytherin we don't let people skulk and brood alone in cupboards on their birthday.” He heard Malfoy flop down and slide into the closet—he guessed Malfoy was doing so with grace and panache, as he did everything. Malfoy closed the door behind him. The cupboard hadn't exactly been spatially forgiving to begin with; now, it was a sardine tin. Malfoy's pajama-clad knees flanked Harry, his thighs brushing Harry's sides. They were so close he could hear the man breathing and smell a trace of what he suspected was yesterday's cologne.

“Oh?” Harry couldn't help being flippant. “You crawl in the closet to pester them?”

“Well, yes. No one really wants to be alone on their birthday. And you looked rather pathetic, sitting here all by yourself.”

“Gee, thanks.” Harry rolled his eyes.

“Bollocks, that's not what I meant,” Malfoy sighed. Harry felt breath on the back of his neck, Malfoy was that close. “You looked like you could use a friend. So here I am, in your cupboard.”

“You're saying you want to be friends?” Harry was stunned.

“Of course not! I'm just being friendly—no law against that.”

“Unbelievable,” Harry muttered.

“You can't have _everything_ for your birthday, Potter. I won't be your friend—that would give you far too much satisfaction. I'm afraid you'll have to satisfy yourself with 'friendly.' Deal?”

“Deal,” Harry agreed. “So... what are you doing in here?”

“I thought we established this, ya cheeky git! I'm being friendly! You go back to brooding if you like. I'll be right here.”

“I don't get it,” Harry said, flustered. It wasn't every day someone joined him in the cupboard for a think; generally, he didn't like people knowing he still sat in cupboards on occasion. “Am I supposed to talk to you?”

“If you like. Or,” Malfoy rummaged about. Something poked Harry's arse. “I could just Legillimens you!”

“That had better be your wand, Malfoy,” Harry said thinly.

“It most certainly is!” Malfoy laughed his squirrel laugh, threading his arm around Harry's waist to show him the wand just for good measure. “Want me to spell you?” he asked, his mouth about two inches from Harry's ear due to the position of his arm.

“Er, I think I'll pass,” Harry managed. “It's a little early for magic if you ask me. And I thought we were done hexing each other.” It was a very mild accusation. He didn't have the energy for much else.

“This would be a mercy hex,” Malfoy pronounced playfully. Harry didn't laugh; instead, he pushed Malfoy's wand away. “That's a joke, Birthday Boy. Don't muggles have mercy fucks?”

“Yeah, they do. I guess I'm not in a joking mood, is all.”

“Right-o, I forgot. You're brooding. Don't let me keep you,” Malfoy set his wand aside and leaned back against the door, his knees bumping against either wall. Malfoy yawned comfortably, his breathing slow and deep.

Harry couldn't settle. He clenched and unclenched his hands, took off his glasses and toyed with them, and drew patterns with his finger on the dusty floor. He pushed hair off his forehead. The disorder of it threatened to cover his eyebrows and stuck out at all the typical odd angles.

“You're worried,” Malfoy said, arms folded peacefully across his chest.

“You think?” Harry quipped. Shortness of temper often accompanied his worried states.

“You're a book, Potter—a remarkably short one with gobs of pictures.”

“Insult me. That's real friendly, my non-friend.”

“If what you wanted was a friend, Potter, you'd be out there talking to Weaselbottom and Team Granger; instead, you're 'meditating' in a disused cupboard so no one will find you for the better part of the day—your own birthday. Sounds like a textbook non-friend scenario.” Malfoy's hands settled on Harry's shoulders and began to rub. His hands were strong for a skinny bloke. “And as your only non-friend, I command you _not_ to tell me about your problems.”

“Okay, two points for being clever,” Harry conceded. “But don't think—oh!”

“Too much?”

“No, just... hurts.” He could sort-of speak. His mouth seemed to want to hang open wordlessly.

“Your back is a monument to tension and poor posture, Scar Head,” Malfoy announced. “Don't your real friends do this for you? I thought Gryffindors were touchy-feely, slumber parties with hair braiding and gossip every night.” Harry laughed. Then Malfoy found an angry nerve and the laugh became a low groan.

“Ginny did a few times,” Harry mumbled.

“And now she hates your guts. I see,” Malfoy said. When Harry thought the twist of pleasure and pain couldn't get any worse, Malfoy flipped his hand over and pushed with his knuckles instead. It was like discovering the wrack. “Breathe, Potter.”

“I think she just did it to be nice,” Harry gasped.

“You mean she did it to get you going?” Malfoy inferred. Damn perceptive bastard.

Embarrassed, Harry just nodded.

“Ah,” Malfoy said, prodding under Harry's shoulder blade. Harry had to breathe through clenched teeth. “You really ought to take better care of yourself, Potter. No one defeats the Dark Lord with a backache.” Malfoy had the most peculiar sense of humor. He wiggled a skinny finger and Harry gasped at the sharp pain it caused. “You have a knot the size of a Snitch. How do you function? I could fix it but... it'll hurt like Cruciatus. Are you game?”

“Why the fuck not?” Harry shrugged. His shoulders felt better already.

“Alright. Just don't scream. It's seven a.m.; your horde of house guests are still sleeping.” Harry snorted, nodded, and let Malfoy twist his arm behind him. The spot Malfoy had been poking knifed in pain. Malfoy braced his own arm across Harry's chest, securing Harry's forearm between them. The tiny closet made it that much easier for Malfoy to pin him down. He nearly screamed when Malfoy's fingers made contact with the angry ball of nerves, it hurt that much. He took to cursing under his breath until the pain eased to a dull throb. Malfoy's scrawny fingers were evil.

“Who does this for you?” Harry asked when he could speak. “Pansy?”

Malfoy actually snorted. “No. Blaise.”

“Zabini?”

“Yes.” The word died in a hiss as Malfoy seemed to remember he'd switched sides and Zabini might not be so keen to help him with his knots come start of term. He got very quiet. Harry wondered if Malfoy and Zabini had been non-friends who talked about nothing whilst sitting in cupboards. The confined space seemed to suit Malfoy just fine. He dug deep into Harry's tendons until the pain began to fade and everything felt great, if a little tingly. Malfoy leaned back, releasing Harry's arm. When Harry moved, it felt as if his range of motion had doubled.

“Thanks. It's loads better now.”

“Don't thank me yet,” Malfoy quipped. “You have another shoulder.”

“I can handle it,” Harry replied and Malfoy's hands set to work. He found a couple bad spots but nothing like the Snitch knot. His knuckles plied the juncture of Harry's neck and shoulder.

“I'm just glad you're not one of those tossers who can't take the pain,” Malfoy said all of a sudden, as though thinking out loud. “Like Vince. He won't let me or Blaise near him. Parkinson—sure—but that's like letting a Puffskein walk on you. It doesn't do any good if it doesn't hurt. Greg prefers Pansy too, come to think of it. Maybe something to do with a woman actually touching them: they're not the buffest pair, those two.” Malfoy was rambling. He clapped Harry on the arm. “You're set—unless you want me to do your neck, too.”

“Please.” It was out of Harry's mouth before he could blink. Sort of a no-brainer, though.

“Alright, since it's your stupid birthday and all,” Malfoy begrudged him. “You'll have to lie back. I can't if you're sitting.”

“Okay.” Malfoy helped Harry lean against him. He slouched down as instructed, the top of his head tucked neatly under Malfoy's chin. The pads of Malfoy's fingers dragged along either side of his spine, starting just under his tshirt and ending at the base of his skull. It was like nothing he'd ever felt.

“You get headaches?” Malfoy asked, pressing a spot under Harry's ear that made him gasp.

“Yeah.”

“It's your posture, ya twit! Even the way you read—crouched over the bloody book. It's murder on your neck. See?” He knuckled the spot, making Harry nauseous.

“So I should sit with my wand up my ass, like you?” Harry joked through the discomfort.

“I very rarely get headaches,” Malfoy replied primly. He moved to an even more painful spot—if that was possible—and pressed. “Then again, you grew up in a cupboard, yes? I suppose proper posture may feel somewhat unnatural after that.” Malfoy tucked two fingers under the base of Harry's skull and lifted. It felt bloody amazing.

“I suppose the Slytherins line up for this. I'll count myself very lucky.”

Malfoy shook his head. “I don't put it out there like Blaise; he's a touchy-feely slag. Should've been in Gryffindor.” Malfoy rotated Harry's head with one hand, prodding sensitive spots with the other. He worked very carefully. Harry got the impression that even if he didn't advertise, Malfoy knew what he was doing. Perhaps more so than Blaise.

“You're very good,” Harry mumbled.

“How would you know?” The words may have been short but Malfoy's tone was agreeable.

“I don't,” Harry admitted. Leave it to Malfoy to negate even the most innocuous compliment. “But I'd be bollocks at it, for sure. How'd you learn?”

“Oh, here and there,” Malfoy shrugged. With his head against the man's chest, Harry felt the motion more than saw it. “It's a good post-coital skill to have up one's sleeve.”

Harry remembered Krum's comment about Malfoy. Had he learned from Blaise after they'd.... Or was it some other bloke? Maybe one of Slytherin's burly Quidditch captains? Harry didn't want to think about it. He was comfortable with Malfoy—as new an idea as that was. Crushed together as they were, he'd have felt if Malfoy had a boner. No wood poking him: maybe Krum had been wrong. Harry let Malfoy's hands relax him. It was his birthday, for fuck's sake. He deserved to relax.

“How are your hands?” It was the first thing that occurred to him that held no hint of sexual connotation.

“I'm not made of glass, Potter,” Malfoy sniffed. “I'm quite capable.”

“Just being friendly, Malfoy. Don't throw a wobbly.” That made him laugh.

“Oh, make me feel like a defensive ponce, why don't you?” Malfoy chortled. He _was_ a defensive ponce. “When I can do _this_.” He pressed Harry's temples, sending a little trickle of magic through his fingertips. The most marvelous sensations swirled through Harry's head; like flying upside down, the wind whipping through his hair—surprising, playful and light. As quickly as the feelings rose up, they faded.

“Cor, I won't tease you,” Harry said quickly. “How'd you do that?”

“You're such a muggle,” Malfoy sighed. He returned Harry's head to the hollow of his pale neck. It was definitely cologne Harry smelled—no one smelled that good naturally. When Malfoy rested his hands on his knees, Harry took one up in both his own and began massaging the palm. For once, Malfoy knew better than to argue. Harry suspected the man fancied this non-friendship business as much as he did.

Malfoy had effectively stopped his thinking about it—the fact that today was his seventeenth birthday, the day everything was going to change. He could join the Order now. No one could stop him doing magic as he pleased. He could do what he liked—he could drink! And he would lose the protection given him by his mother in her dying moments. Shouldn't he feel different? He had certainly thought he would. Now even the anxiety that plagued his sleep was dissipating. He wasn't precisely sure what non-friendship with Malfoy brought to his life but it was obviously something very important if it kept him from worrying so much.

He would have thought more on that but at that moment the closet door was wrenched open. He and Malfoy came tumbling out—Malfoy gripping Harry's hand in shock. Having landed on top, Harry scrambled to scoop Malfoy's wand from the floor and level it at the intruder.

Kreacher anatomized the pair of them with the oddest expression on his wrinkled face. You knew this was _the last_ thing he expected to find in the upstairs linen cupboard. The house elf snatched a few extra towels and tottered off to restock the bathrooms, muttering something about his new master preferring fancy wand polish. Malfoy roared with laughter; apparently, Kreacher thought they were gay along with crazy. There were better places to shag than the second floor linen closet!

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry's seventeenth birthday festivities were well under way by the time Malfoy approached him again.

“So, this is all very nice,” Malfoy said in an undertone, lifting the glass of mead from Harry's hand and polishing it off neatly. “But I was rather hoping to talk to you... privately. Would we be missed if we were to duck out for a moment?”

That was a very nice way of putting... whatever it was Malfoy wanted. Harry looked around—everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. Mrs. Weasley had turned out quite the feast to match her surprise guest list.

“Sure. They won't miss us for a while,” Harry said. “Lead the way.”

They snuck out of the kitchen without anybody's notice.

 

 

Once in the dark hall, Malfoy turned to face Harry with an unreadable expression on his pointed face.

“Do you trust me?” he asked very suddenly.

“What?”

“Do you trust me, even a bit?” Malfoy asked again. He hadn't looked away but his voice was somehow weaker, somehow unsure due to Harry's less than warm response.

“Okay,” Harry said in a friendly-but-carefully-non-committal tone. “Sure. What's going on?”

“Um, close your eyes?” Malfoy's brows actually scrunched together as though he were nervous. Was Malfoy being coy with him? That was too much to think about. Harry just closed his eyes and refused to think about anything for the time being. “Thanks.” Malfoy sounded relieved. “Just follow me, alright?” Malfoy's hand wrapped around his left forearm and he felt a gentle tug. He took a tentative step forward and Malfoy pulled harder, insistent. Harry kept his mind blank. He didn't want to know what Malfoy was up to.

He was startled a few steps later when Malfoy took hold of his shoulders and started spinning him around.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Just keep your eyes shut, okay?” He thought he could hear a smile in Malfoy's voice, as odd as that felt while being spun around with his eyes closed tight. “I don't want you to know which way you're facing.” More spinning.

“I, uh,” Harry reached out to stop himself from falling and his hand connected with Malfoy's chest. “I'm really dizzy. Hold on.”

Harry's head was pounding and he had no idea why. He'd been spun around thousands of times on the Quidditch pitch—maybe he just wasn't used to spinning on the ground. That must have been it. That's why his head was swimming and the solid press of Malfoy's chest was the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground. He could feel the man's heart beating under his fancy shirt.

“Sorry. You alright?” They must have been very close because Harry could feel warm, wine scented breath on his cheek and Malfoy was almost whispering.

Harry whipped his hand away from the other man's heart and rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. He tried to straighten up and be an adult.

“I'm fine,” he said at normal volume. _Better, far less intimate._ Then, _I did not just think the words 'intimate' and 'Malfoy' in the same sentence... did I?_

“Who is there? What are you doing in my house?” a shrill voice called out. Harry couldn't quite place the speaker but she sounded familiar.

“Keep your voice down,” Malfoy hissed, pushing Harry off to the side and letting go of him all together. Harry stumbled a few paces. “It's just Draco, Aunt Walburga. Nothing to worry about,” Malfoy called to the portrait. She tittered a response that Harry couldn't quite make out. He felt as though he were in a soundproof bubble and the only person he could hear was ruddy Malfoy. Whichever direction he was facing, he leaned against the nearest wall in an attempt to regain his balance.

“C'mon,” Malfoy's voice said near his ear, clear as a bell. “Now that you've woken up the house and know exactly where we are...” Malfoy sounded highly annoyed—a more normal tone of voice for a Malfoy. He prodded Harry in the back with strong, bony fingers. Harry winced and walked forward. He felt Malfoy's hand ghost across his shoulders in a way that suggested he'd almost collided with something; either Malfoy had turned him around or he'd used magic to vanish the offending object. Harry couldn't tell with his eyes shut and it bothered him.

“How much longer?” he asked impatiently.

“Fine, just open your eyes. I'm sure you already know, anyways.” Malfoy actually snorted in frustration. It was an undignified sound, even when coming from him. That meant he was angry or frustrated or something. Harry stopped walking and tried something new: patience.

“No,” he said. He held his hands out in front of him. “Show me.”

After a moment's hesitation, Malfoy took his hands to lead him. Almost instantaneously, Harry tripped. Malfoy had to catch him round the waist. Harry was surprised: for a slender bloke, Malfoy was deceptively strong. He held Harry upright with one arm, though his muscles shook. Harry struggled to get his feet under him. Perhaps they would both be a little undignified before the night was out. Harry chuckled. “Not fair! No rough housing.”

“Sorry,” Malfoy's tone was natural but cool. “Didn't know you had such poor balance without your vision. I'll have to keep that in mind.” Malfoy's hand moved from Harry's waist up to his face, removing his glasses and settling them on top of his head. “They'll be safer there.”

Harry felt a sudden wave of awkwardness without his glasses. It was akin to being shirtless in front of Hermione: it wasn't rude or anything but it simply wasn't done. He felt worse than naked; he felt helpless. And his guide was sodding Malfoy with a chip on his shoulder.

Malfoy had gotten him to walk without his realizing it. Now he dug into Harry's shoulders to get him to stop.

“Wonder Boy, you're about to walk into a wall,” he joked. “Step back and put your glasses on.”

Malfoy let go of him as soon as he stepped back. There were little places on Harry's shoulder and side that felt the absence of Malfoy's warm hands. The sensation was maddening. Combined with the fact that he was still dizzy, sleep-deprived and walking around with his eyes closed, he had had quite enough exposure to Malfoy for one day. He opened his eyes.

“I can't see.” It was the first thing that came to mind. It garnered him another little laugh from Malfoy, who was still standing behind him by the sound of it

“Glasses are on your head.”

“Oh, right,” Harry reached for them, feeling like a true plonker now. “Thanks.” As he put them on, he heard Malfoy shift his weight from one foot to the other, back and forth. He was nervous again.

“Happy Birthday, Wonder Boy.”

Malfoy had fixed the family tapestry. Not only had he fixed it—he added to it. The tree was nearly twice as large as before. It stretched over the all the windows on one side of the room. The Weasleys were on it and so were the Longbottoms. Sirius, Tonks' mother and everyone else had been set to rights. Harry slowly traced the line linking Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour, seeing a line growing from Charlie's name as well. It was almost like seeing the past set to rights before your eyes. He now had a family full of people who loved him. It didn't really matter that they weren't family by blood; after all, family was just the people you loved no matter what.

“I tried to tell it you were your godfather's illegitimate son but it wouldn't believe me,” Malfoy said pleasantly, stepping up to stand at Harry's side. “I really tried. The blood magic is too strong to fool with. Just wanted you to know.”

“It's wonderful,” Harry may have mumbled. He wasn't sure whether or not his mouth was working properly at the time. “Thank you.”

“What?” Startled, Malfoy turned to him with an expression that read 'I don't speak blathering wanker. Please translate.'

“How did you...?”

“With magic, Potter.”

“And how long...?”

“Do you not see the bags under my eyes?” he pointed to his face, incredulous. “A long time. Longer than I had thought.”

“But... why?”

“Because it's your birthday, Wonder Boy, and I had to get on your good side somehow. Back rubs are too informal, so they don't count.”

Harry smiled. “Why do you call me 'Wonder Boy,' anyway?”

“Because that's who you are: Wonder Boy The Chosen One. You're supposed to rescue everyone, right? Even me, I suppose.” Harry turned to see something very human: Draco Malfoy staring at the floor and looking angry with himself. “I didn't ask you to save me, you know.” He was being defensive, as always.

“Don't worry about it. You can call me Wonder Boy if you have to,” he added in a last-ditch effort to dissuade Malfoy The Self-Loathing.

“And you would call me _what_? Death Eater? Traitor? Failure?” Malfoy's hands balled into fists as a vein in his pale neck throbbed. Harry hadn't seen Malfoy this upset in a long time.

“How about 'Malfoy?'” Harry offered calmly. “That's what I've always called you. Is that okay? Because I don't think I could get Ron or Ginny to call you by your first name.” Malfoy nodded at that. He raised his head. He did look tired around the eyes and Harry felt guilty for not having noticed before now.

“Even Wonder Boy can't do everything, huh? This is new.” A ghost of a smile passed over his pointed face as he thought out some calculated plot against Harry, knowing now that he is in fact human and imperfect. Harry smiled back.

Over the course of their increasingly easy conversation they managed to come together again. It wasn't like that morning when they were physically touching but it was a similar closeness—as though each was willing to let go of the past and attempt to get along. The Founders forbid they might actually like or even enjoy one another's company by now.

“You alright?” Malfoy asked, inclining his head in a very aristocratic fashion, the way one might behave toward a beloved little niece or nephew. It made Harry feel special in a non-friend way.

“Yeah,” Harry said quickly. “I was just thinking... did I say thank you?”

“No, I don't believe you did.” Malfoy was trying to be sarcastic, snarky, a cheeky little shit. Harry could appreciate that.

“Well, thank you. It means a lot to have the whole family together again.” He reached across the short distance between them and put a hand on Malfoy's shoulder, a sort of half-hug that Malfoy allowed with good grace. His family—like it or not—now included Draco Malfoy.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. The Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy is starting to grow on Harry and their deepening connection is giving Harry even more to worry about. The boys' truce is tested when Harry enlists Fred and George to disguise Malfoy for their Ministry Apparition Test. Malfoy takes his displeasure out on Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** painfully awkward teenaged boys flirting, mild violence, angst, fear, Dark Arts, cross-dressing, mention of a casual all-male threesome, more Wizard Swears, and a truly epic description of female breasts (if you're into that stuff)

 

 

  
“And why the hell not?” Malfoy demanded indignantly, a hand on his hip. “I'm fit. Or is it that you don't trust me?” 

“I just don't think it's a good idea,” Harry whined.

“Scared I might be better than you?” Malfoy sneered. _That_ got Harry riled.

“Oh, I'm better than you, tosser,” he shot back with a lopsided smirk and a tweaking of eyebrows.

“So you don't trust me, then,” Malfoy concluded. “Figures! I fix that tapestry for you, I get Granger and Weaselby the Hunchback of Grimmauld Place together for y—”

“I wouldn't say they're _together_ ,” Harry interrupted.

“Krum's gone and they've been snogging in the pantry; counts as 'together' for me, Wonder Boy. I did my best to get them to shag, but they're bloody Gryffindors,” he sighed, holding up his hands in a “what's a bloke to do?” gesture.

Harry raised his eyebrows again. This was news to him. So his best friends had finally taken that step? He'd seen it coming since fourth year.

“I didn't know you'd taken an interest,” he said mildly, looking at Malfoy in a new light: Malfoy the Matchmaker, possible possessor of a romantic side.

“Boredom,” Malfoy shrugged. “It's not relevant to the argument, Scar Head. Focus. Why won't you do this?” Malfoy's face had gone from flustered and teasing to desperate in a blink. “You're all about interfering—'helping,' I believe you call it. Why this nancy boy all of a sudden?”

“Malfoy... I just don't think you should, that's all.”

“Oh,” understanding spread across his handsome features in a wave. “You—you don't think I can do it. You think _I'm_ the pussy.” Harry opened his mouth to protest but Malfoy cut him off. “Poor little Malfoy. Poor, long-suffering, weakling little Malfoy,” he mocked. His expression turned very dark. “I can take it. And I sure as hell can give it, Wonder Boy. I'll go first,” he tossed his wand onto the piano and spread his arms. “Your best shot. Bet I can shake it in under a minute.” 

“Not here,” Harry hissed, snatching up the crazy blonde's wizard's wand and stuffing it back in his crazy hands. “Anyone could see or hear. My room, ya cunt.”

“Ooh, baby, talk dirty to me,” Malfoy licked his lower lip and gestured suggestively with his wand. Harry could feel his face heat.

“Why are you always like this?” Harry ground out through gritted teeth. “Maybe we should get    
_you_   
a lady-friend. Might get your mind out of the God damned gutter.” 

“No chance of that, Potter,” Malfoy said with a devious smile, making his way to the hall. Harry followed, leading the way up the stairs and down the hall. He unlocked his room and pushed Malfoy inside without ceremony. He magically locked the door behind him and cast    
_Muffliato_   
so that no one might overhear and get the wrong impression—which seemed to happen rather often whenever Malfoy was involved. When Harry turned around, the irksome blonde was splayed across Harry's king sized mattress, fingering the sheets as though testing their quality. 

“You may bring my lady-friend here, please.” He graced Harry with his most dashing smile.

“That's my bed, Malfoy,” Harry said neutrally. “Get off.”

“Fine,” Malfoy pouted, sliding off the side of the bed furthest from Harry and walking to the foot so they might face each other.

“This is ridiculous,” Harry muttered. He unbuttoned his over-shirt and cast it off so he was only wearing a tshirt. This always left him covered in sweat.

“So you'll do it?” Malfoy couldn't keep the excitement out of his voice. He nearly clapped and jumped up and down with glee. As it was, he was rocking energetically on the balls of his feet.

“It's ridiculous, Malfoy, but I'll do it. And I'm going first.” Malfoy didn't object, so Harry set his wand on top of the dresser. He cracked his knuckles before looking up at Malfoy. “No funny stuff.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Malfoy wore an angelic face, eyebrows raised.

“Making me leave the room or strip or do anything silly.”

“Make you strip? Why didn't I think of that?” Malfoy's shadowed eyes went decidedly devious.

“Malfoy,” Harry growled.

“Oh, I'm kidding.” He readied his wand. “The fact that you're unable to break through will be embarrassment enough, I think.” Wand leveled at Harry's chest, his pointed features morphed from smug to serious in a heartbeat. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” Harry still wasn't quite sure    
_why_   
he was doing this, but he thought it had something to do with Malfoy's very damaged pride: Malfoy needed to prove to himself that he had recovered, survived. Harry dug the balls of his trainers into the carpet. 

“   
_Imperio_   
.” 

And all at once, Harry's cares were gone. It was the most delightful feeling in the world. Better than steak. Better than kissing. Better than Quidditch. He floated away on a cloud of bliss.

“Take off your shirt.”

  
_Hmm... no_   
. For some reason, that didn't sound like a good idea. 

“Take. Off. Your. Shirt!”

  
_I. Don't. Think. So._   


Harry floated on, ignoring the voice. It felt like there was something he was supposed to be doing, something he ought to remember, but it escaped him.

“Why don't you have a seat over there?”

That seemed like a reasonable enough request. He went and sat down. Suddenly, there was a great force pressing down on him, painful in its intensity. He knew that whatever the voice told him next, he would bloody well do it.

“Tell me a secret.”

He bit his lip. It was a distraction from the tingling ache taking over his extremities. And then it deepened, down to the bone. The shooting pain spread through him like wildfire. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it. His vision was already a gray haze.

“I—I,” he gasped. “I'm a virgin.”

“That's not much of a secret,” the voice replied. “Tell me a better one.”

The pain knocked him from the chair. It was blinding. It was consuming. He didn't know who he was, where he was. All he knew was that he wanted it to end.

“No,” he whispered. “No.” That word, that defiance, was his link to the world of life. He held on for dear life, whispering it over and over again. “No, no, no, no, no.”

 

 

Harry came to. He was lying on his bedroom floor. Malfoy had him by the shoulders and was shaking him, whispering frantically, “Just fucking breathe, Potter. Come on, breathe.” Harry inhaled and immediately started coughing. He was surprised blood didn't appear as he hacked. He fairly dripped with sweat. Everything hurt.

“Two and a half minutes. Not bad,” Malfoy said as though nothing had happened, getting to his feet and offering Harry a hand. Harry didn't take it. He wasn't sure standing was such a bright idea just yet.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Harry mumbled. “It's never been like that....” He thought that over a moment. “Except, maybe Voldemort.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Malfoy drawled, offering his hand more insistently. Harry took it and the slim blonde dragged him to his feet. Malfoy's appraising glance took in Harry's swimming balance and outstretched arms. “You look like you could use a stiff drink.”

“Please,” Harry muttered, looking for a place to sit. The chair he'd sat in under the Imperius Curse had been broken into several pieces. Malfoy sat him down on the edge of the bed and conjured a snifter of brandy. Harry took it in one gulp. The burn was nothing compared to his blooming headache. “You've had serious practice,” he gasped, attempting conversation.

“Well,” Malfoy gestured offhandedly. “More than you, I'll wager. But I'm sure The Chosen One can throw down with a Death Eater reject like me.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said sternly. “I understand self-deprecation is an integral part of your humor and I respect that, but you can't expect me to build you back up when I'm about to puke my fucking guts out. Be practical.”

“Those are some very big words for you, Wonder Boy,” Malfoy teased.

“Yes,” Harry swallowed back brandy-laced bile. “Thank you. I can string a sentence together on occasion.”

“Just don't do it too often,” Malfoy cautioned. “We might realize you're intelligent.”

Harry was putting together a come-back when Malfoy sat down next to him and pressed a warm hand to his back. All thoughts went out of Harry's head when Malfoy's fingertips traced a slow path up and down his spine. It was amazing—it calmed his stomach, settled his nerves and even banished some of his obnoxious headache. He leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, and let Malfoy stroke his back in silence for a few minutes. He couldn't help but sigh. The soft touch made him want to take a nap.

“Better?” Malfoy asked. His fingers stopped moving but he kept contact with a sensitive spot between Harry's shoulders.

“Much,” Harry said on an exhale. “Never throw an Unforgivable at me again, alright?”

“Deal,” the man replied congenially. “I'm much better at sex magic, anyway.”

“What?!” Harry spluttered, bring on another coughing fit. It took him a moment to figure out how to breathe correctly. “Sex magic?” he managed.

“What on earth was the Weasel chit up to, then?” Malfoy tutted. “Plain muggle snogging?”

“Malfoy, I'm perfectly happy with plain muggle snogging. If there's more out there, I don't wanna know about it. At least not right now,” he added as an afterthought. “Now teach me how to cast Imperius. I've only ever done Cruciatus.”

“Ooh, really?” Malfoy drawled, removing his hand from Harry's back and standing. “Who?”

Once again, there was a chilly place on his back that missed Malfoy's hand the moment their contact ceased. It was a strange feeling that gave Harry the shivers.

“Your aunt,” Harry said quietly.

Malfoy made a non-committal noise and shrugged, as if to say 'she deserves it.' He held out his hand to help Harry to his feet. As it turned out, he needed the help. When he was steady enough, Malfoy went to the wardrobe to fetch Harry's wand.

“Imperius is a bit like Cruciatus—you really have to mean it,” Malfoy began. “You have to want to get into the person's mind, control them. The more you can focus on the person when you're casting it, the better your link will be with their mind. Once you're in there are a lot of different ways you can go. It's pretty intuitive. I could be more specific, of course, but that would ruin the fun,” Malfoy added when he saw Harry's anger at the most vague description in the history of England. “Don't worry, it's not hard. You just use your mind. Even Greg and Vince can do it.” He gave Harry a little smile, tossed his wand on the bed, and walked to the other side of the room.

If Crabbe and Goyle could do it.... Harry spread his stance and leveled his wand at Malfoy. His hand only shook a little. He noticed a damp patch on the arm of Malfoy's crisp, white sleeve. He realized the spot was his own sweat, absorbed when Malfoy had touched his back. He didn't want to do this. He was about to say as much when Malfoy flipped his hair out of his eyes with a twitch of his head. His hair was getting long—the once tidy cut was now disorderly. It fell past his brows, shadowing his already dark eyes. Those eyes were now avoiding his own.

“Come on, Potter,” he drawled in a fair imitation of their old rivalry. “Any time now.”

At last, Harry managed to catch Malfoy's gaze. Somehow, he knew that would make the spell stronger. Everything else faded from his mind as he focused on those silvery eyes.

  
_Imperio_   
, he thought. 

Malfoy's mouth opened a fraction of an inch but that was his only visible reaction. Harry knew the spell had worked. He could feel every nook and cranny of Malfoy's mind. He saw the man's pleasant thoughts as though on a television screen. Malfoy was reading with his mother in a rose garden—presumably at Malfoy Manor, doing his homework beside the lake at Hogwarts, examining the latest fashion for mens robes at Madame Malkin's Diagon Alley shop. These were Malfoy's most blissful, relaxing thoughts? Slowly, Harry influenced Malfoy's mind toward less pleasant things and the images began to shift. A very young Malfoy, perhaps all of four, weeping over a broken toy while an older boy laughed. A few years later, escorted off a country mansion Quidditch pitch with a brilliantly broken nose. A Malfoy of fifteen berated by his father—waiting for Lucius to send him from the room before dissolving into tears. Harry let these thoughts build and swirl, watching the man before him. His breathing became erratic, his eyes unfocused, his hands balled into fists at his sides. A bead of sweat escaped his mop of fair hair to trace a line down his pointed nose. The skin of his cheeks took on uneven red splotches, his eyes unseeing. Harry let the unpleasant memories escalate a moment longer, feeling the frustration and tension in Malfoy's mind. Then he returned him to the calm state: through their mental link, he sent the image of Malfoy's mother embracing him, his father praising him. He wasn't sure if these were actually Malfoy's memories or just thoughts he was placing in the man's head. Malfoy blinked a few times and began to breathe normally, the color slowly receding from his face.

  
_Come here_   
, Harry thought through the link. Why bother to speak? He felt the command register in Malfoy's mind. As the first thought of resistance crossed his mind, Harry dispelled it. There was no way to describe what he did—he simply willed it out of being. He gave Malfoy a mental push and he actually stumbled, tripping over his own feet as he drew forward. He closed half the distance of the room and stopped. 

  
_Closer._   
This time he allowed the thought of resistance to enter Malfoy's mind, just to see what he would do with it; sure enough, he leaped on it like a dying man on a desert mirage. As Malfoy scrambled for a foothold in his own mind Harry clamped down tighter, leaving him no purchase. Harry watched Malfoy's eyes water in panic. Harry pushed it further, allowing him only the shallowest of breaths until he complied. Malfoy was dizzy and light-headed before he took another step forward. Harry did not release the block on his breathing until he was a mere foot away. When he did, Malfoy gasped for air. 

This was a lot easier than he'd thought. He'd planned to boss Malfoy around a bit then let him brush off the spell; but now Harry needed to see what this was all about. He needed to know what the spell could really do.

Harry decided to experiment. He searched Malfoy's mind for the memory of a snake. Thoughts whirled around like a kaleidoscope but Harry would allow Malfoy to think only of snakes. Eventually, he found a suitable memory of an ordinary garden snake Malfoy had been frightened of as a child. In his young, impressionable mind it had been a towering beast with poisonous fangs dripping blood and gore. In the recesses of his mind, it was that snake Malfoy associated with the Dark Mark on his arm. When Malfoy looked at his arm, it was that boyhood fear he saw, that limitless, unknown danger. Harry focused on that image as he spoke through their link.

  
_Tell me what you fear._   


The hiss of Parseltongue was unmistakeable. Malfoy's mind fluttered, held fast to the memory of the snake. Panic overrode him. He couldn't understand the command—he wanted to comply but couldn't. A ball of terror rose up through his chest. He rocked slowly, forward and back, his eyes sliding closed. Harry commanded again,    
_Tell me what you fear._   
Malfoy understood.

Images rolled in. Blood on dark stone. The mutilated body of a woman. A curl of smoke. An empty room. His broken hands. The livid, frightening mark upon his arm.

“Pain,” Malfoy whispered. “Death. Being alone.”

Harry eased back his presence in Malfoy's mind, sending him the image of Hogwarts castle to see how he would react. Malfoy let out a stunted, guttural yip; a sound made in his chest and choked off at the throat. Malfoy remembered sneering across the Potions classroom at a tiny, meek-looking Harry with round spectacles too large for his face. He thought of chasing down a blur in Gryffindor robes on the Quidditch pitch—the blur always out of reach and speeding away. The sharp, burning presence of the Dark Mark. Very strong emotions pushed at the link to make themselves known: anger, hopelessness, jealousy. Malfoy railed against him to think of something, anything else. Harry held him fast. He threw one last image at him—the expression on Malfoy's pale, frightened face as he spoke with Dumbledore for the last time, as Harry had seen through his own eyes.

The Malfoy before him shook from head to toe, teeth clenched and face screwed up not against pain but against memories. Harry burrowed just a little bit deeper into Malfoy's splintered mind. There he found something truly unusual.

  
_Tell me what you want._   


The images were gone and it was only a warm little flicker of distant, remembered feeling. It was the press of lips against full lips, a hot rush of lust, and the brain-shattering apex of orgasm.

A dark shadow emerged to douse that warmth as quickly as it had been discovered. Suddenly Malfoy's mind was a cold and dark misery with no respite. Stunned, Harry struggled to back out. He found he was running blind.

He opened his own eyes when Malfoy gave a terrible scream and dropped to the floor. Harry realized he had no idea how to break the curse. Clueless and scared, he dropped to his knees beside Malfoy.

“Finite Incantatum,” he waved his wand but nothing happened. He still felt the link to that endlessly dark place. Fat tears coursed down Malfoy's face, his gray eyes screwed shut. Someone must have heard him scream. Harry was sure someone would be on their way upstairs even now. They were going to be in so much trouble—if he ever got Malfoy back to normal. If he hadn't destroyed the poor bloke's mind.

Grasping at straws, he went back to their mental link. He tried dragging Malfoy out by it. He could feel Malfoy in the swirling darkness but couldn't get him to listen. That stubborn, prideful son of a bitch!

“Fuck!” Harry said aloud. His own voice came as a rasp. His gaze snapped about the room but found nothing that would help him. He leaned close to Malfoy, reassuring himself of the man's most basic functions. His breathing was shallow but his heart still beat against his ribs. His teeth chattered as he sobbed and shook. Harry felt his face; he swung between fever and chills as regular as a pendulum. When Harry touched his skin, he let out a guttural moan and clamped a hand over the Dark Mark on his arm. Harry didn't need to tap into his mind to know that it was burning. The skin beneath the mark was puffy, angry and red. Malfoy wailed in pain.

No one had come bursting into the room yet. That certainly didn't mean they weren't on their way. Harry had to shut Malfoy up for his own sanity. He wedged his arm under Malfoy's shoulders and hauled him to a sitting position. Harry misjudged Malfoy's weight as well as his own strength in his weakened state—his muscles screamed with the exertion. Malfoy fell against him and they both toppled backwards, Harry's back slamming painfully against his school trunk. Rather than try to move Malfoy again, he repositioned his legs so that Malfoy sat between them, the man's head tucked beneath Harry's jaw. He quieted down but tears continued to roll down his cheeks as he shook, teeth chattering.

“I'll never listen to another of your stupid ideas as long as I live. You know that, right?” Harry muttered, adjusting his grip on Malfoy's torso. He wrapped his other arm around Malfoy before his strength gave out. If he thought it would be weird hugging Malfoy, it certainly wasn't. He felt like every other sobbing, suffering, cursed person Harry had ever held. He rubbed a hand on Malfoy's back but he only seemed to get worse, to hurt more. He whimpered.

“Shit,” Harry whispered, thoughts racing desperately. He might cast a spell—but what spell? He knew next to nothing about healing. And maybe more magic would make Malfoy worse. Harry did the only thing he could think of: he went back into Malfoy's fucked up head.

Malfoy's defenses were up now—for a person who was afraid of being alone, he sure didn't let people in easily. It was like walking through the labyrinth the last leg of the Triwizard Tournament; except, instead of chimeras and blast-ended skrewts, he was battling the vices and defense mechanisms of Malfoy's personality. Harry was forced to fight each one, using the strength of the curse to push them aside or run them down. Malfoy's mind was a mine field filled with malice, violence and burning anger. Little pieces of his consciousness rose up to snarl and bare fangs as Harry worked his way toward the dark center. It felt as though he had been working at it for hours when he reached the core.

As he'd suspected, Malfoy was trapped in the memories of being tortured.

Harry saw it all through Malfoy's eyes. It was a dog that had been set on him. And the dog didn't just bite once—it took that chunk out of Malfoy's side over and over again, the ghastly sight looped courtesy of Malfoy's disturbed mind. Bits of muscle and rib bone poked out from the ghastly wound. Smoke curled past his nose as Mulciber burned him with a cigarette. Blood trickled from his mouth as Mulciber punctuated the Cruciatus Curse with his boot to Malfoy's groin. His broken, useless fingers scrambled for an escape as Mulciber leisurely unbuttoned his trousers. The distant echo of music—Malfoy's mother playing the piano to drown out her son's screams.

Malfoy could act like a ponce. He could drink himself under the table, call everyone mudbloods and generally be as nasty as he liked. He could slap Harry over breakfast every morning until one of them died. Whatever kept him from killing himself. Malfoy was holding onto the curse because it was his only connection to another human being in that dark, horrible place. He didn't want to be alone.

“I'm right here,” Harry whispered. He held Malfoy tight against him, thinking the man might hear his voice or even his heartbeat. Anything to help him understand he wasn't alone. “I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here.”

“Here,” Malfoy whispered, his sobs coming under control. He gripped Harry's shirt with his free hand, the other still clamped over the Mark. He appeared to be recovering from what Harry could only describe as a magical panic attack; apparently, the simple act of wanting was a complex and intense thing for Malfoy. Then again, he'd probably thought he was going to die. He probably still felt that way, surrounded by people who had been his enemies the better part of his life. He probably thought wanting anything was futile. And yet there had been that intense spark when Harry had really pushed him—that overpowering lust, that desire for sex that was intrinsically linked to life.

Harry had never really connected sex with existence before. Sex was something he'd seen in a few of Dudley's dirty magazines and spent the last couple years casually tossing off to, thinking nothing much of it. Sex wasn't part of his life. It was just something he thought about in the shower. But to Malfoy, sex played a major role in his life: something he yearned for and felt strongly about, something that made him feel good about himself, made him feel real and alive. Perhaps being brilliant in the sack was the source of the man's seemingly endless confidence. That zeal between the sheets seemed to be the only intact portion of Malfoy's shattered consciousness.

The more Harry tried to end the Imperius Curse, the more Malfoy clung to it... and the more he was tortured. Harry was going to have to help Malfoy break out on his own; hopefully, this would piece the man's sanity back together in the process. Harry threw Malfoy the only bone—ironically—he could think of: sex.

“Tell me,” Harry said calmly, speaking to the top of Malfoy's head. The soft blonde tresses smelled familiar, like his own shampoo. Apparently Malfoy hadn't cared to purchase his own. “Best snog of your life.”

“Margaux Vigier,” Malfoy mumbled.

“Where? When?” Harry demanded.

“Paris, 1996.”

“Month,” Harry pressed, thinking details might spark a memory in Malfoy.

“July.”

That triggered a quick flash—the summer heat, soft linen robes and the tang of tonic with lemon; a beautiful brunette witch with ice blue eyes, rosy cheeks and an enchanting figure. Malfoy's mind relived her soft lips and nibbling white teeth, his hands lingering on her immaculate breasts restrained in lace. She'd worn a dress of green silk, a bra and knickers to match. The color, as well as the swell of her form from lips to hips, had stayed with him long after their summer fling faded.

 _Hmm,_ Harry thought. _That wasn't nearly enough._ Malfoy was still almost comatose, his breathing shallow and labored. The pain of the curse was closing in on him as it had done to Harry. He needed something scandalous, and quick!

“Tell me,” Harry demanded. “Your wildest fuck.”

Malfoy's brain lit up, then. The memories of torture were banished completely, replaced by hot sweaty bodies coupling in rapid succession. There were apparently several instances, and partners, to choose from! Harry could feel a little of Malfoy's consciousness perk up as his mind worked to find a suitable answer.

“Ionescu,” he said slowly, focusing. “And Toleanu. Romanians. Bloody Durmstrangers. Perverts, too.” Malfoy actually smiled through the curse.

“Stop smiling,” Harry barked half-heartedly. But Malfoy didn't stop.

Ionescu and Toleanu were two very pervy blokes: one had been tied, naked, to the mast of the Durmstrang ship while the second bent at the waist to perform oral sex on his very vocal and willing captive. Malfoy stuffed the second man from behind, ordering him to balance a half-empty bottle of vodka on his back while being claimed rather forcefully from both ends. They were all naked despite or perhaps in light of the fact that it was the dead of winter. In his memory, Malfoy toasted one of the giant squid's tentacles as it groped along the ship's deck, searching out the source of the commotion. Malfoy gave a gasp as he recalled losing himself with those two gorgeous, muscled Romanians. The boys had tried to shush his screaming as he came, hard. He just screamed anyway, long and loud, digging his nails into the squirming boy beneath him. He hadn't cared much who heard—he was _alive_!

The link to Malfoy's mind began to crackle and burn like a twig in the hearth. It was only a few seconds before its substance would burn up. The link of the curse gave with an almost audible _snap_. And then Malfoy was panting in Harry's arms, both hands clawing up Harry's tshirt as he gasped for breath. His gray eyes were glazed, wild and unseeing. He took Harry by the neck of his shirt and dragged him closer, their faces hovering scant inches apart. The edges of Harry's glasses began to fog. It was a moment before Malfoy's crazed eyes focused enough to recognize his very concerned non-friend.

“P—Potter,” he stammered. “How long?”

“Malfoy, are you alright?” Harry gripped the blonde by the shoulders, keeping his rear end firmly on the floor. He didn't want Malfoy crawling into his lap, for fuck's sake!

“How long?” Malfoy repeated in earnest, shaking Harry by his hopelessly stretched shirt collar. “How long was I under?”

“Er,” Harry checked the digital clock at his bedside. “A little over an hour.”

Malfoy released him with a disappointed sigh, sagging dejectedly into Harry's arms.

“Pathetic,” he grumbled.

“Malfoy, I think you had some kind of anxiety attack—” Harry began.

“Rubbish. I don't suffer from nerves,” Malfoy sniffed, his breath still coming in ragged pulls.

“Really? I seem to recall a certain episode in the Forbidden Forest, first year.”

“Sod off,” Malfoy snapped wearily. Harry didn't need to glance down to know that Malfoy was smiling. Even if he couldn't hear it in the Slytherin's voice, he could feel facial muscles move against his chest.

“I would but, you see... you're sort of on top of me,” Harry replied in a cheeky tone.

“Oh, I give up! For now,” Malfoy added. “You win, Chosen One. I suck. Now lie here with me. I'm knackered.” Malfoy closed his eyes and wrapped a casual arm around Harry's waist, as though they sat like this all the time. Harry was still so confused by all those images of Malfoy's very active sex life. Men, women, more than one person at a time—what was Malfoy thinking?! He must have been acting out to get someone's attention. Deep down inside, Harry wondered if this was the sort of trouble everyone else his age was getting into while he'd been dealing with dark factions and splinter-souled mass murderers. Either Malfoy was an extreme pervert or Harry was drastically behind the learning curve.

“Saint Potter?” Malfoy asked, breaking Harry from his musings. “What did you ask me about last, when I was under? I was remembering the silliest things.”

“Durmstrang,” Harry lied easily. He was glad Malfoy couldn't see him blushing. “I asked if you knew anyone from other magic schools. You mentioned a witch in Paris and a few blokes from Durmstrang.”

“Was that all?” Malfoy's tone was light; unbeknownst to him, the question was loaded.

“You, er, started talking about your sex life,” Harry conceded. It wasn't exactly a lie. “I think the embarrassment helped you kick the spell.”

“Embarrassment?” Malfoy wasn't blushing at all! Harry felt himself break into an uncomfortable sweat. Thank fucking God for deodorant.

“Your mind is rather... rich in detail,” Harry said lamely. “You and those guys from Durmstrang really hit it off fourth year, then?”

“Which guys?”

“Ionsque and Tollentu... Romanian blokes. Remember?” Harry asked very meekly, thinking that Malfoy would realize any second the intimate details his dirty mind had revealed. He fully expected a surge of pure rage to flow through Malfoy's veins. He expected to feel thin fingers curl around his throat.

“Oh, those guys. Well, what can I say?” Malfoy's torso shook in a nearly silent chuckle. “I like to get drunk.”

“Apparently so.”

Apparently, they weren't going to mention that Harry was now privy to some of Malfoy's darker sexual preferences. Maybe Malfoy wasn't comfortable talking about it. Harry certainly didn't want to make the man uncomfortable after all the progress they'd made toward an actual understanding vaguely resembling friendship. He was content to let Malfoy lay against him and drift into sleep. Malfoy could use a nap—their Apparition tests were scheduled for tomorrow afternoon and Malfoy didn't look as though he'd been getting his proper rest. Exerting himself in this unnecessary contest might have aggravated his admittedly fragile system. Harry couldn't help but think of the man as a teensy bit feminine. He'd never say it to Malfoy's face, but he was skinny like a girl, he obsessed over his hair and clothes like a girl, he had springy, supple skin like a girl, and he was deceptively, girlishly sweet beneath that practiced exterior. His sappy center that worshiped music and debauchery needed protection from people who might misunderstand or want to hurt him. Harry felt like he was the only one in the house—maybe in the magical world—who really understood a thing about Malfoy. And there was still so much to discover! The man kept everything so close to the chest. He adjusted the blonde now snoring quietly in his arms, tracing a hand up his knobbly spine. Eventually, he settled on stroking the white, baby-soft hairs at the back of his neck, little patches of sweat slowly drying along his scalp. Harry was content to rest his head against his trunk and support Malfoy any way he could.

Harry missed this type of closeness to another person, not needing to say or be anything. Maybe Malfoy missed it, needed it too. Things had been like this with Ginny at first and he'd felt so at peace. After a while she started pestering him, interrupting his contentment with questions about how he felt or what he was thinking and the moment would be ruined—but he'd always reveled in those first few minutes of unabashed cuddling, wishing they might stretch on forever. Maybe this meant Malfoy trusted him—hell, the blonde slept like a baby in his arms. Harry decided to take it as a compliment. Whatever Malfoy's orientation, all of his partners had been very, very attractive near as Harry could tell. If Malfoy cuddled him it meant he was at least somewhat desirable, at least on par with the others. Because Malfoy wouldn't snuggle up to him for being The Chosen One, Boy Who Lived and Savior of The Universe. Malfoy wouldn't snuggle up to someone because they were polite or kind or even a half-way decent individual. Harry gave himself a mental pat on the back—someone with taste and experience found him attractive. Or at least found him to be an acceptable pillow. This was a good sign. There was hope.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The door to Hermione's room was open, so Harry stuck his head in. She was sitting on the bed with a thick Ancient Runes textbook, her wand directing a note-taking quill set to parchment on the bedside table. She was engrossed and Harry hated to bother her, but it was too important to wait.

“Hermione?” Harry had to clear his throat twice before he could speak past the lump of guilt and fear in his throat.

“Oh, Harry! You startled me,” she pushed the book away and stilled the scribbling quill. “Are you alright? You look... worried. And sweaty,” she wrinkled her nose. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. No,” Harry replied, closing the door and moving to sit at the edge of the bed. “I, er, want to tell you something but... I can't give all the details. It has to do with Malfoy. And it's really important.”

“Is it something bad?” Concern etched her features.

“Well, it could be. Can you promise me it won't leave this room? At least for now.”

“Alright, Harry,” she shrugged. “You know I hate secrets... whatever you feel is necessary to keep Malfoy's confidence, now you seem to have it. I trust your judgment.”

“Thanks, 'Mione,” Harry gave her a tight-lipped, anxious smile before he began. “Um... I think there's something wrong with me. Malfoy asked me to cast a spell on him. I can't tell you what it was,” he said quickly, spotting the question take form behind her eyes. “It's only a little dangerous but it was a matter of pride for him. Malfoy put himself out there just asking me to do it so I couldn't turn him down. He cast it at me, too, if that makes you feel any better. That was part of the deal.” Harry took a few deep breaths to calm his jumbled nerves. “When he was under the spell, he had an anxiety attack. I was able to calm him down and all, but when I touched him.... Hermione, it set off the Dark Mark. I set it off: his skin turned all red and I could tell it was hurting him, burning like it does when Voldemort summons. Only Lord Voldemort should be able to... so how was I able to...?”

Hermione looked away, tucking her bushy hair behind her ear.

“Hermione, I think Voldemort fucked up or something. I think he meant to make a Horcrux when he killed my mum and dad and for some reason that piece of his soul went into me.”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, “do you really think that?”

“It's possible, right? Or maybe it wasn't an accident. Maybe he _meant_ to make me a Horcrux. I dunno! What else would explain the way the Mark responded? It kinda fits, when you think about it. The whole Parselmouth thing, and—” Harry stopped himself. He'd almost mentioned the Sorting Hat trying to place him in Slytherin. He never liked thinking about that, what it meant. Maybe the hat had seen that bit of Voldemort in his eleven year old self. It was a frightening thought.

“Well, when did this happen with Malfoy? Recently?”

“Half hour ago,” Harry guessed.

“Did he say anything about the Mark?”

“It's Malfoy,” Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione made an annoyed noise in her throat. “I tried to ask if he was okay but he just blew me off. At least I convinced him to have a lie-down.”

“Harry,” Hermione chastised in a familiar tone. “You are a terrible liar. You did not 'convince him to have a lie-down.' But do you know what? I'm not going to pester you. No,” she held up a hand to prevent him speaking. “Ron says I pester. I'm going to let it slide.” Determined, she paused a good five seconds before pestering about something else instead. “You're quite sure you can't tell me what the spell was?”

Harry groaned her name. Did she ever give up? He carded a hand through his already crazy hair. Then he thought something that made his blood run cold.

“Hermione,” he said slowly. “If there's really a Horcrux,” he gulped, “ _in me_... how do we get it out without killing me?”

“I'm sure....” Hermione started with her usual confidence; yet she was unable to finish the sentence. That wasn't good.

“You agree that it's possible to put a Horcrux in something or someone living?”

“I couldn't see a reason why not,” Hermione said slowly. “Though I know so little about the creation of Horcruxes, it's not even funny. I'd have to do some research.”

“Would you?”

“Of course, Harry,” she favored him with a warm, motherly smile before bringing a hand to her cheek in thought. “Malfoy... is he alright? How's he managing? I'm sure it scared the piss out of him, having the Dark Mark set off like that.”

“Yeah. I bet he never thought he'd feel that again,” Harry shifted on the bed. His neck and back were sore from sitting on the floor for so long. He'd waited until Malfoy was soundly asleep before lifting the blonde over his shoulder and depositing him on the bed. With any luck, he would sleep for a few hours. “I think he'll be alright. He really is asleep, too. Kipping in my bed, of all places,” Harry rolled his eyes and got a sympathetic look from Hermione. “I sat with him until he fell asleep. Did you know Malfoy talks in his sleep? Mutters, more like.”

“What did he say?”

“No idea. He was speaking French, I think.”

Hermione snorted. “He would, too.”

There was a knock at the door that made them both start. A second later, Ron's ginger head poked in. He was breathing hard from sprinting up the stairs.

“I thought I heard you, Harry,” he beamed. “McGonagall's in the fireplace. She asked for you or Malfoy. Boy am I glad I found you first!”

“Yeah, Malfoy's asleep. Best to let him get a few hours.” Harry met Ron at the door, noticing the pleasant, shifty smile he gave Hermione. “McGonagall, huh?”

“Yup,” Ron broke his eye contact with his girlfriend to lead Harry down the hall. “She said it was important. Wha' do yeh think it's about?”

“Probably Malfoy,” Harry said, holding the carved railing as he followed Ron down the stairs. His back was bloody sore. “It's been ages since he sent that Ministry paperwork. Maybe we've got an answer.”

Harry was precisely right. Professor McGonagall's disjointed head bobbing in the fireplace confirmed it nearly the minute he entered the small library room. There were two other fireplaces in the expansive house but this one was connected exclusively to Hogwarts—and connected to the fireplace in the Headmistress' office to be precise. Harry knelt on the hearth rug and listened as she explained in clipped tones.

“It's really quite pathetic, given the risks Mr. Malfoy undertook,” she sighed. “The stipend will be of some assistance, to be sure. Enough to live modestly but I thought the Ministry would take into account the boy's situation.”

“What do you mean, Professor?”

“Just that Lucius is a very shrewd and successful businessman. I'm in no doubt that he will have rewritten his will to exclude his son. Young Draco will be kept from the fortune he was raised from infancy to inherit. He'll have to make his own way.” McGonagall's mouth twisted into a wistful smile. “I daresay it might do him some good.”

“I see your point, Professor,” Harry readily confessed. “He's resourceful, though. I'm sure he'll get by. And he's welcome to stay here as long as he likes.”

“That's very generous of you, Mr. Potter.”

“He's not so bad, now he's opened up a bit.” McGonagall fixed him with a disbelieving look as he'd ever seen on her—and she'd seen quite a few royally botched transfigurations in her time at Hogwarts. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy getting along was not something she was prepared to accept unquestioningly. “He's still a nasty Slytherin git and self-centered to a fault and he curses too much for Hermione. But Mrs. Weasley cares for him like she does me. He needs a stable home. And I think we're the only ones barmy enough to take him.”

Professor McGonagall roared with laughter. “You've got the situation to a T!”

“Well,” Harry made a humble, dismissive gesture. “What about Malfoy's protection? You said the Ministry could provide an Auror or two if given proper notice. What else are they offering?”

“The legal side of it, Potter,” McGonagall offered quickly, a little sharp. “It will be much easier to move Mr. Malfoy in disguise without arousing suspicion if we have the proper paperwork.”

“You mean, they'll make up a name for him if he needs to travel? And what about Hogwarts—can he still attend in disguise?”

“His schooling has yet to be determined, Potter, and it is a topic to be discussed with Mr. Malfoy and not with you.”

“True,” Harry hung his head. “I'm trying not to meddle but it's bloody difficult. I feel responsible for him. He's living here and sometimes it's like I'm the only person he trusts. It's becoming second nature to stick up for the blighter, weird as that is.”

“I don't see any 'weirdness' in it at all, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall challenged. “When was the last time you hexed one another?”

Harry gulped before answering, shame faced. “Er, maybe an hour ago?” His voice didn't sound like his own. He sounded like a second year berated for pulling pranks in the hall. He went on to defend himself before McGonagall could really lay into him. “He asked me for a practice duel and I couldn't in good conscience tell him no. It was a matter of pride for him. You know, Malfoys and their damn pride.”

“And so you obliged him?” Harry could only nod in response. Her face stayed neutral. “Dare I ask who won?”

“Oh, I trounced him.” The words were out of Harry's mouth before he could help himself. “It was mostly luck, though. Malfoy's not... not entirely right in the head. 'Cause of what happened to him. When he was tortured, I mean. Er, he told me about it. Really awful stuff.”

“Did he?” McGonagall said slowly, more to herself. “I wouldn't have thought.”

“Like I said, Professor, he trusts me. A little. Maybe this sounds off, but... I think we might, you know, not hate each other any more.”

Professor McGonagall slowly shook her bowed head before speaking.

“Potter, I think your capacity for boundless affection has simply matured to include acceptance. And perhaps forgiveness as well. Professor Dumbledore often spoke of his amazement with your ability to adapt and expand. Now I see what he meant and find myself equally perplexed and amused.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Harry said softly, looking firmly away. He'd ducked his head at the first sign of a compliment. Old habits die hard. A moment passed in silence, during which Professor McGonagall seemed to gather herself together.

“Is there no chance of speaking to Mr. Malfoy?” she asked.

“I doubt it. After our duel, well, he was buggered. I made him kip in my bed, actually—had to carry the poor sod. He really overdid it.”

“Mr. Malfoy is very lucky to have you seeing to his rehabilitation,” McGonagall said evenly. She suppressed all but the smallest hint of a sardonically raised eyebrow.

“Not really,” Harry mumbled. “Professor, isn't there anything else the Ministry can do for Malfoy? I mean—he has nothing. He's lost his family and all his friends. They could offer him a medal for bravery or something! Don't people who get tortured in war get special recognition? The muggles do it,” Harry realized he was whining and snapped his mouth shut. _Why, why had he just stuck up for Malfoy? Again?!_

“The Ministry has certainly done what it must by law,” McGonagall said, keeping her voice neutral despite her feelings on the matter. “I do agree with you that Mr. Malfoy is an extraordinary case and should be handled as such. I also believe there is still a great deal of prejudice and mistrust harbored against the Malfoy name. The Ministry is an organization made up of people; people, as you know, Mr. Potter, tend to make misjudgments from time to time. I'm doing all I can to assert the sincerity of Mr. Malfoy's actions. His testimony was instrumental but I cannot lie to you. His case is being trivialized.”

“We can't let them do that, Professor!” Harry rose up on his knees, leaning closer to the flames as though it would help the woman hear him. His eyes were probably a little wild but he was beyond caring. If Malfoy wasn't treated fairly, it might prevent others from turning themselves in. He wouldn't allow himself to admit he actually wanted sodding Draco Malfoy to be recognized as a war hero; rather, he wouldn't allow himself to admit it out loud. But inside, he knew it. Malfoy had been tortured, abused, within an inch of his life and sanity. He was owed for that.

“I understand your...” McGonagall faltered. “No, I don't understand your zeal, Potter. He's a spoiled brat stupid enough not to question what he was told until it was too late. He's lucky to be alive. Since you feel so passionately, perhaps you would like to take over as his liaison now you're of age. Merlin knows I'm not getting anywhere with the business.”

“Brill!” Harry chirped, sitting back on his heels. “Send me the paperwork.”

“Just like that, Potter?”

“Just like that, Professor,” Harry beamed. His eyes caught the green of the floo, intensifying the already eerily saturated color there. “Minister Scrimgeour always wanted a poster boy. Now I'm handing him one. I'll endorse Malfoy publicly if I have to. I won't let the Ministry shuck him off like this. He's a war hero. He deserves to be treated like one.”

“Sounds like you've made up your mind on the subject. Is there something you're not telling me, Mr. Potter?” McGonagall stared him down from the flames—well, stared him up.

 _Yes, Professor,_ Harry's brain replied. _Malfoy was sexually abused and he needs help. He's been acting out for ages. There might be something quite wrong with him, mentally. We need to get him some help._

Harry didn't actually say any of this. He didn't say a word except, “No, Professor.”

“You're a terrible liar,” McGonagall said clearly. “You got that from your mother. I'm going to let it slide this time and _trust_ that you know what you're doing. Understood, Potter?” She glared at him. He thought he might melt from the heat of it. “I can't treat you like a child much longer, much as I'm loathe to admit it. We've all got to start trusting you, taking you on your word. Please don't let us down.”

Professor McGonagall's tight-lipped face was about to disappear when Harry reached out to stop her. He almost stuck his hand in the flames—they wouldn't have burned, but it was an idiotic gesture none the less.

“Professor?” he called. “I dunno if Dumbledore ever told you, but... well, there's a prophecy about me and him.”

“A prophecy about you and Malfoy?” she asked, incredulous, as though any prophesy about Draco Malfoy must be a dodgy one, indeed.

“No. Me and Voldemort.”

“Really.”

  
Harry could have kissed her for keeping her face impassive. Somehow, he restrained himself. “It says that he would choose me and mark me as his enemy. It says I have to be the one to kill him. I'm the only one who can.    
  
_  
E   
_   
_ither must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_   
,” he quoted. “It also says that I would have a power Voldemort wouldn't know about. Professor Dumbledore... he said that power was my ability to love, because Voldemort, he's forgotten that emotion, hasn't he? I don't really understand that, though. You can't love somebody to death.” 

“No, Potter,” she laughed to keep from shivering at the disturbing things the boy had just confirmed. “Perhaps he meant the strength one finds in loving another. You've heard that people sometimes do crazy things when they're in love?” she joked.

“But, Professor!” Ever the whining, petulant teenager. “I'm not in love with anyone! I don't even have a girlfriend anymore!”

“I don't think that's the type of love implied,” she said delicately, hoping Potter would take the hint. A deep flush crept up the boy's cheeks.

“No, I guess not,” he shrugged. “I'll figure it out, Professor. I've got Hermione and Ron here to help me. And Malfoy, I guess.”

“Yes. Do pass on the news regarding the Ministry,” she said quickly. She debated voicing her concern but decided to air on the side of openness. “Potter, don't expect Malfoy to be thrilled at the idea of you representing him. But if he agrees, I'll send the necessary parchments. Now off with you. I'm sure you have much better ways to fill your time.” The Professor's head winked out, leaving only a swirl of green flames.

Harry wasn't sure what she'd meant by that last statement. Did she have an idea about the Horcruxes, or had she just assumed he'd be plotting a way to get to Voldemort? It didn't matter. He'd been bound to this path since the day Voldemort killed his parents and left that ugly, twingy scar on his forehead. He'd be damned if he didn't see this thing through.

Just then his stomach gave an almighty rumble. He remembered something Malfoy had said the morning of his birthday:    
_No one defeats the Dark Lord with a backache_   
. The same likely applied to empty stomachs. He decided to go to the kitchen and bang up some nosh.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry detected the unique sound of Malfoy as he washed and dried his lunch dishes. Malfoy was doing “Can't Help Falling In Love With You” again, Krum style—strong and loud left hand chords, heavy on the pedals. Kreacher could probably hear in the attic. Crookshanks and the mice could probably hear in the basement. It had been well over an hour since Harry's awkward conversation with Professor McGonagall; now that the blonde was finally awake, Harry could give him the news about his pathetic Ministry protection. He left the kitchen and meandered the carpeted hallways, watching his feet and thinking it wouldn't kill him to buy new rugs for the place. Ones that weren't so old and dingy. Ones that weren't so ugly. Ones he actually liked, now it was his house to do with as he liked.

Ginny burst from the front room, a hand over her eyes; blind, she walked right into Harry. They ricocheted off one another, Harry rebounding against the wall and reaching both hands to Ginny before she fell down the half-flight of stairs behind her.

“Oh, sorry,” she mumbled. Harry hastily helped her get her balance and then withdrew his hands. “I didn't see you there.”

“Eager to get away from Malfoy?” Harry inquired, quirking an eyebrow.

“Not at all,” she lied easily. “I'm just... not a music person. You know that,” she ended warmly. She reached out to touch his arm but Harry shied away. He wouldn't meet her eyes.

“Sure,” he muttered. “I'll just be....” Harry gestured toward the door to the front room where Malfoy was at the piano. Harry was glad he was playing—he loved to listen, but something was up. Now Malfoy was playing the song without a name. The sad one. Something had to be bothering him and Harry was determined to figure out what if he had to beat the answer out of him. Maybe he could figure out that charm Malfoy used to conjure wine; that method might take longer, but it would be cleaner. And possibly pleasant, getting tanked with Malfoy before supper. Malfoy had been pretty conversational the last time he'd been close to lashed. Perhaps a repeat was in order.

“... Harry?” Ginny's voice cut through his thoughts. She'd been speaking to him the entire time; realizing he'd ignored her, a full blush heated his face.

“I'm sorry, Gin. I'm really preoccupied,” he offered. “What was it you....?”

“A—about us,” again, she reached for him. Small, pale hands took roost upon his shoulders. “I was never really satisfied with what you said at Hogwarts. I can't help but think you need....” Harry stopped listening. Malfoy played a beautiful downward spiral of notes. Harry could picture his narrow fingers tripping along the black and white keys. The song was supposed to start dying here but Malfoy was reviving it, putting in his last little fluttering whim of notes. It was achingly beautiful the way he played it, like he couldn't bear the last swell of hope having to die. “... you're determined to go through with this, I can't stand idly by and let you go at it alone. Do you understand, Harry? I need to be with you.”

Ginny shook him by the shoulders. Malfoy let go, sounding the first of three dying trills upon the soprano keys. It sounded as though the man's heart was breaking along with the melody.

“Ginny, I can't.” He pried loose her grip on his shoulders, settling her hands at her side. “Your safety, Voldemort, your education, and my own feelings,” he listed. He noted the lack of fervor in his own voice. If she wasn't convinced the first dozen times he'd argued it with her, then she'd never understand. “Look, I have to go talk to Malfoy before he kills himself.” He reached past Ginny to grip the door handle, his hands remarkably steady.

“What?” Ginny gasped.

 _Malfoy's slightly unhinged_ , Harry said in his mind as he brushed past Ginny and entered the sitting room.  _Playing this song is like holding a gun to his head. Russian Roulette. I need to get in there before he finds the chamber with the bullet_ . 

“Golden Boy,” Malfoy greeted him from the piano's seat with another hearty glass of red wine. It had just a bit of foam at the top, as though it were carbonated. Harry thought he could smell cherries or some other dark-skinned fruit, sweet and sharp. Malfoy had been drinking for a while—he and his generous glass bore all the signs of refilling. He returned his attention to the keys, playing a few pleasant chords. “Any requests?”

“Anything Ginny hates,” Harry said, melancholy. He dropped onto the sofa with a mulish sigh. “Just... keep her out of here for a while?”

“Blues. Jazz?” Malfoy mused. His notes went decidedly, delightfully dark. “Got it.”

Malfoy abused the ears of his fellow house guests for the better part of an hour, the wine disappearing and a self-satisfied grin wrinkling his long nose. Harry loved every minute of it. Malfoy was going to be fine. Harry laid out on the sofa and let the discord wash over him. It so matched his life.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry had enlisted the help of Fred and George. He thought it would be nice having them around. He also knew they would be well suited to this sort of thing. What he hadn't counted on was them being Fred and George.

“Why?” Harry growled. It was a plea. It was a threat. It was a decision to talk instead of punching something or someone. Or two someones, specifically.

“Your letter,” Fred said, astonished. “You said 'Petra.'”

“I said no such thing!” Harry stammered. “I said the Ministry sent fake identity papers and his name was going to be Peter. Where the fuck did you get off?”

“Peter, Petra,” George weighed the names in his hands, working hard to keep the sodding grin off his face. “Never could read your writing, Harry.”

“Bloody awful penmanship,” Fred agreed. “But we love you anyway.”

“Hence all the favors,” George supplied.

“Oh, 'hence,' yet?” Harry blustered. He could feel himself going red in the face and he didn't care. They'd done    
_that_   
to Malfoy. He could kill them. He    
_wanted_   
to kill them. Malfoy would never speak to him again. 

“My hair,” Malfoy's voice echoed for perhaps the tenth time, forlorn, bouncing around the tiled bathroom outside of which Harry, Fred and George fought. “Hufflepuff's cob-webbed taint.” A part of Harry was laughing at Malfoy's typically “colorful” language. The rest of him was still seething in a pit of rage. Rage won.

“Reverse it,” Harry snarled. Fred and George actually took a step back as one.

“Sorry, mate,” George said, putting his hands up as though he were fucking innocent.

“Timed spell,” Fred supplied. “Can't reverse it for at least an hour. Maybe two. It's still in the developmental stages, ya see.”

“I can't fucking go like this!” Malfoy screamed from the bathroom.

“Developmental stage?” Harry hissed. “Are you sure it's... safe?”

“Sure!” Fred piped up. George still had his hands up like a spacking idiot. “Tried it on ourselves loads of times. Wears off on its own after, say, eight hours. Or you can spell it off after an hour or two if you're real careful.”

“Real. Careful,” Harry repeated in a tone that made his displeasure absolutely clear. “Malfoy? I'm coming in there.”

“Bloody hell, Potter! I'm—” Harry spelled the bathroom door open and strode inside. “Gryffindors. Insufferable, I tell you.”

It was obviously Malfoy—at least to Harry. The eyes were Malfoy's. And the voice. But the rest looked an awful lot like... Margaux Vigier, that french bint in the green dress Malfoy had been tonguing all summer before third year. Complete with soft brown hair and a very ample bosom that didn't care much for the strain they put on Malfoy's button down shirt. The rest was very much a girl, too. Malfoy had removed his trousers and pants; they sat neatly folded on the counter. He'd wrapped a towel about his now teeny waist but it did little to disguise a pair of swaying hips, lean legs, and dainty little feet. Why,    
_why_   
was Harry looking at the feet when there were those    
_nipples_   
poking through Malfoy's shirt and—

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. Cor blimey, it was really Malfoy in there. For some reason, that helped Harry calm down immeasurably.

“I'm sorry,” Harry said, not knowing how else to begin. “I honestly thought they would be helpful. I forgot they're Fred and George.”

“Door is open, mate,” Fred cackled. “We can hear you.”

“Piss off,” Harry said, slamming the door with his foot. He kicked a little too hard and the thing cracked. His foot left a splintering dent. Malfoy bit his fat pink lip.

“I'll manage,” he said offhanded, shrugging one shoulder. He used his other hand to keep the towel secure. Harry couldn't help but let his gaze wander south. He didn't have the guts to indicate... his stare must have said it all, though. Malfoy caught his gaze and simply nodded. Oh, God. His bits were gone.

“I'm    
_so_   
sorry, mate.” He'd never called Malfoy that before. It felt pretty honest, despite being... he didn't know what. “This is my fault.” 

“No,” Malfoy sighed. “I'm the bell-end who drank their filthy potion, no questions asked. I'll go like this—not much choice,” he laughed. It was so strange to hear Malfoy, know it was Malfoy, look into his eyes, and yet have everything else be that french girl's. “Think you can manage charming the parchments?”

“Sure,” Harry gave a curt nod. He was about to turn toward the door when he saw Malfoy open his mouth, shut it, and open it again. “What, Malfoy? Do you need something?”

“Erm,” he squirmed. Malfoy actually squirmed and looked bloody nervous. This day just wouldn't stop kicking him in the balls, would it? “An opinion?”

“'Course,” Harry shrugged, working a hand into his pocket while leaning against the counter. Nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

“Tell me,” Malfoy said, his silvery eyes picking up the bright light above the bathroom mirror. “Tell me these things aren't fucking fantastic!” And, looking down at himself—herself—what exactly did he—never mind! One of Malfoy's hands closed on a breast and squeezed. Pleased with this, he gave it a good jiggle, fingers digging in and really shaking the thing about. It bounced. It wiggled. It smacked into the other one and set it to wriggling, too.

“Brill, Malfoy,” Harry intoned, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking away quickly. “Epic. Really. I'm going to go now. I'll get you some girls clothes and fix the identity papers.”

“Sure,” Malfoy said distractedly, now using both hands. He didn't seem to notice that all the upstairs attention was causing his towel to slip. Harry realized he was sneering Snape-style and his back was rigid. He needed out. His hand found the door knob and he was instantly on the other side. It was like he'd Apparated.

“Fred, George, fix his voice,” Harry said thinly.

“Make him sound like a girl?” George asked.

“You sure?” Fred put in.

“Yes. It's too freaky hearing Malfoy's voice with those knockers attached.”

“What about Malfoy and knockers?” Ron asked, earning himself a smack to the shoulder as he and Hermione came up the stair case.

“Ron, I need you to go downstairs and tell Tonks we'll need another ten or fifteen minutes. And apologize for me, would you?”

“Sure, mate,” Ron smiled agreeably and thundered back down the steps.

“Hermione, I need to ask a huge favor.”

“Sure, Harry,” she said, peering questioningly at Fred and George as they silently entered the bathroom and closed the door, wands drawn. Harry worried that any second they'd see sparks shoot out form under the door, but seconds passed and everything remained peaceful.

“I need you to knick some of Ginny's clothes. Shirt, trousers, underthings. Things she won't miss right away,” Harry added, his face bright red and his pulse drumming out a jig in his ears. “And a pair of shoes.”

“Harry,” she said very bracingly. “You're rather trim, I'll admit, but... I don't think they'll fit you.”

His mouth hung open for a moment before he could respond.

“Er, they're not for me. They're for... for Malfoy,” he managed. “There was a bit of a mis-communication with Fred and George. I wrote them the Ministry sent papers and Malfoy would be assuming the name Peter Holfstraße. Due to my abominable penmanship, the twins read 'Peter' as 'Petra' and packed accordingly.”

“You mean....” And she gasped. Full on, hand over her mouth, brown eyes gone wide as dinner plates, bad horror movie gasp.

“Experimental potion for the shop,” Harry said, not able to actually speak the truth of it aloud. “They've self-tested and they claim it's safe. It lasts up to eight hours and can't be magic-ed off for the first two, so we're in a bit of a bind. Malfoy's in a towel. We need to get him some clothes.”

“Alright,” Hermione nodded. Comprehension brought her a sense of calm and she began to plan. “Ginny's still at the Burrow but she left some things in the dresser—things she never wears, you know....” She trailed off here, much to Harry's chagrin.

“Just bring what you can, okay?” Harry fidgeted. “Malfoy's kinda shrunk down, so he's smaller than Ginny. Except—Except.” Oh, fuck, he couldn't say it. He let his gaze slip from Hermione's face down to her chest. He'd never taken any notice before. As it turned out, Malfoy's were bigger.

“What, Harry?” Hermione tried to catch his gaze which only made him blush harder for having looked at her chest. She was his best mate's girl. Harry felt like scum, comparing people's breasts. He'd never been more disgusted with himself.

Harry heard scuffling from the bathroom. It sounded like the three bodies were shifting about in close quarters. Someone stepped up to the door because Harry saw the shadow of legs and feet.

“Granger,” Malfoy said with remarkable poise. “I'll be needing a bra.”

“I'd assumed,” she trilled, as though this sort of thing happened all the time. Harry's vision swam with confusion, his brain screeched for breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“A rather large one,” Malfoy added, a hint of madness lacing his voice. “Your friends here became rather overzealous with my memory of a certain ex-girlfriend and I now find myself in possession of a pair of stonking great titties.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Hermione handled everything brilliantly, as always. Harry was really glad she'd taken over, bringing a little arm full of clothes, a pair of heeled shoes and a make up bag. The twins admitted her to the bathroom and Harry was left in the hall, staring at the door and trying his best not to fetch a pair of Extendable Ears and listen in. Instead, he went to the little sitting room, sat at the utilitarian desk, and researched the charm for erasing official Ministry ink until he was blue in the face. Tonks came to his rescue and the identification papers were corrected at last.

“Malfoy—excuse me,    
_Petra_   
is ready now,” she chuckled. “Was this the twins' idea? Because no one will recognize him now. They'll be too busy staring at his legs.” 

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered in fair imitation of Ron, rolling up the parchment and securing it with a bit of leather before going to the hallway.

Harry understood what Hermione had meant by “clothing Ginny never wears.” These had obviously been articles she'd assumed necessary once she'd reestablished her relationship with The Boy Who Lived. A silk camisole Hermione had tempered with one of her own mousy white sweaters. The sleeves were three quarter and—much to Harry's relief—they'd been able to cover Malfoy's Mark with make up or magic. Harry didn't care witch... which. The rest was another story. It must have been Hermione who'd put blush on him; mascara, too, and cloying, sticky gloss on his lips. His lips,    
_her_   
lips. If Harry ignored the eyes, it was like that french girl Margaux was standing in his hallway wearing a pale pink, pleated mini skirt and pump shoes. Surely those weren't the same shoes he'd seen Hermione carrying. They'd looked innocuous. Now they were... sexual. Harry did not like this at all. Fred and George were looking at Malfoy's rounded butt. Ron was sneaking glances at Malfoy's bristols popping out of what was once a matronly sweater. With breasts straining at the buttons, it was upsettingly erotic. Harry could feel in his bones that the entire thing was going to be a disaster. Trying to distract the eye from the essence of Malfoy only highlighted his weaknesses: his intense sexuality, his delicate frailness, his decidedly wild and rebellious nature. Malfoy may act like a nancy sometimes but deep down he was a man and dressing him up like something he wasn't was not okay. 

Harry had no choice but to go with it. He refused to meet Malfoy's gaze as he handed over the paperwork. Try as he might, he couldn't think of the person in front of him as “Petra.” They'd left his eyes exactly the same. Malfoy's stupid sodding eyes. Hermione had rimmed them with something purplish brown, making the silver stand out that much more, picking up flecks of the lining, the white sweater, the pink skirt, and the apprehension in Harry's own eyes.

“Ladies first,” Tonks pronounced in a sing-song voice as she flung open the front door. Harry may have audibly growled.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

"Oh, I love taking the piss out of cocky boys like you," Malfoy simpered, roughly dragging a fingernail down Harry's shirt. The striking brunette turned and started walking to the exam area.

The voice Fred, George and Hermione had engineered was the oddest thing of all—a mixture of Ginny's soft, comforting tones and the commanding authority of none other than Professor Severus Snape, as if snatched right out of his memory and played back in his ears. The effect was sultry and utterly disturbing. It was only fitting they'd begun lobbing insults at each other the second they'd stepped foot out of number twelve Grimmauld Place.

"Yeah? Just don't forget tha' scrap of fabric you call a skirt when you Apparate," he called to the ample, swaying backside in said skirt. He had no idea why those words had come out of his mouth. Malfoy-in-magical-drag seemed to bring out the very worst in him.

"I'll be careful, love," Malfoy said warmly, smoothing a dainty, feminine hand over the front of that damn pink skirt—right where his todger should have been. "I borrowed it off your girlfriend. You be careful not to splinch that ass of yours. The talent's rather lacking so I may need something to look at."

Malfoy's unfamiliar face sneered while his eyes simpered. Harry could hone in on that gaze from miles away. They stood perhaps three yards apart, speaking loud enough that every official nearby could probably hear quite clearly. This would be the talk of the Ministry for weeks, months maybe: Harry Potter's hot new fling. His hot new fling with the long legs and narrow waist, flaring hips and pouty lips and....

Harry was beyond caring. He thought he could feel the steam coming out his ears as he advanced on Malfoy-in-a-skirt. He wasn't even aware of the wand in his hand.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Hermione had met Ginny in the hall following her return from the Burrow with her mother. Hermione had wasted no time taking the red headed girl by the arm, seating her on the nearest bit of furniture, and explaining in the most calm and civilized of terms what had transpired earlier that afternoon, predominantly in the second floor loo.

“So, Malfoy's at his Apparition exam in my lacy knickers?” Ginny was always one to cut to the chase.

“And my bra. Yes,” Hermione sighed. This was a right mess.

“This is epic. We'll need pictures when they get back.”

“Ginny, I don't think you understand,” Hermione pulled her uncooperative hair over one shoulder. “I think Harry is extremely upset.”

“Sure,” Ginny nodded her agreement. “You said he reamed Fred and George, right?”

“Well, yes. But I think there's more to it. You know he's oddly protective of Malfoy.”

“It's sick but yes, I've noticed. He acts like Malfoy's suicidal,” Ginny rolled her eyes. “It sets off his white knight complex like you wouldn't believe. 'No time for snogging, Gin! Have to save the weakling ferret traitor!' Really, it makes me want to hurl.”

“Ginny, do you think Harry could be right?” Hermione adjusted her hair again. “That Malfoy might be suicidal. Do you think Harry knows something we don't?”

“Of course,” Ginny scoffed. “Malfoy probably told him some tear soaked fabrication of how he was flogged within an inch of his life and Harry bought it because he's soft at heart. Malfoy would take advantage like that and you know it,” Ginny fixed Hermione with a look that made her want to believe the fiery red head over her best friend of six years. “Harry tends him like a wounded puppy and Malfoy needs the attention because he's a self-centered git. I just hope Harry snaps out of it soon. If I didn't know better,” and she winked deviously, “I'd say he was having a sexual identity crisis. As it is, he'll remember he's straight, start ignoring Malfoy and get back to his plans about You-Know-Who.”

“Oh, I wish that were true,” Hermione closed her eyes, remembering the strange look on Harry's face when he'd seen Malfoy all tarted up. She'd had to admit Malfoy made a very pretty girl. He was much softer as a brunette. He'd laughed and batted at her hands as she begged him to allow just a little more make up. As it went, she'd only gotten a bit on before Malfoy hid behind the shower curtain to change clothes. Primping before the mirror, he'd seemed unsure. And then that terrifying look in Harry's eyes. It was the way he'd looked the summer after fifth year, after the Triwizard Tournament in which Cedric Diggory died. Harry looked as though someone had gone and died in front of him again. He'd looked so angry.

Maybe it was the clothes. Maybe he didn't like that Ginny had clothes like that. Maybe he didn't like seeing Malfoy parade around in something Ginny had obviously meant for him to enjoy under different circumstances. Things must be very hard for Harry, being electively single. His ex-girlfriend popping in and out of his house surely didn't help things.

Hermione was just about to say something when she heard the front door bang open. There were a few more bangs and slams, along with two separate pairs of feet stomping up the rickety stair. The wall of the sitting room actually shook a bit, being one of the stair's main supports. Clouds of dust picked up and swirled as the commotion died down. When she and Ginny heard another much more civil arrival, they left their nook in the tiny room and made instinctively for the kitchen.

Their instincts had been spot on, because Tonks and Hestia Jones were making themselves comfortable at the kitchen table while Mrs. Weasley put the kettle on.

“So, they both failed,” Hestia came right out with it after removing the disguising spell on her face.

“Brilliantly,” Tonks added. She'd corrected all of her face except her nose, which she kept shifting into a myriad of shapes, sizes and colors for her own amusement, presumably. “Started hexing each other before the examiner even arrived.”

Ginny snorted in laughter. Mrs. Weasley shot her a look from the stove.

“I never knew those kinds of spells existed when I was their age,” Hestia put in, stowing her wand in her robes.

“We live in interesting times,” Hermione said. It was all that need be said in Harry's defense. She wouldn't defend Malfoy. She couldn't and besides, she had no reason to.

“It was awful, just the same,” Hestia sighed. Mrs. Weasley held up a finger, signaling just a minute before tea would be ready.

“It's a shame you weren't there to see it,” Tonks said to Hermione and Ginny, especially.

“I can only imagine,” Ginny giggled, inevitably imagining Malfoy trying to hex Harry while wearing her pink mini and pumps. Malfoy the Brunette had been such a great mental picture to begin with. This might be too much, even if all she got to see was the aftermath.

“Poor Harry,” Mrs. Weasley tutted. “I suppose he'll have to schedule another exam?” She consulted a clock on the wall. “Perhaps an early supper, then, assuming they won't be joining us?”

“Sounds wonderful,” Hestia smiled. “Thank you, Molly. It was quite an adventure, guarding those two.”

“Did you make the soup with the lentils, mum?” Ginny asked, getting up and walking over to the stove to help with the tea tray.

“Did somebody say lentil soup?” Ron entered the kitchen and all hope of a decent intellectual conversation was lost. Hermione smiled anyway.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

"Sure, it was fun in the shower but the novelty's quite worn off," Malfoy spat. "I understand this is raucously funny for the both of you, but can we lose the tits, please?

Fred and George continued to cackle.

Harry spied on this scene in the hall bathroom, peeking in to catch Malfoy looking... oddly adorable in his tight, low-slung denims, one of Harry's old white tshirts, and a Dark Mark-ed arm slung protectively around those substantial knockers. He'd managed to set the rest of himself up—short, white blonde hair, lean body, aristocratic features. Maybe it was the angularity of his frame that made those magical mammaries appear fuller by contrast. Perhaps it was the way he clutched at them, or the thinness of the shirt. Maybe it was because Malfoy was a bloke again. Well, mostly. Whatever it was, it made Malfoy look helpless. And cute. Harry couldn't help the grin crossing his face as Malfoy's temper flared higher. The blonde struggled not to lash out at the twins.

"Really," Malfoy sniffed. "We're all adults here. You really can't expect me to walk around like this—not when you've put the rest to rights."

"I'm sure Hermione would loan you another bra," Fred chirped. He and George dissolved into another fit of man-giggles. Malfoy was quickly going puce.

"Fred, George," Harry said as evenly as he could, popping his head past the door frame. "That's quite enough. Take the tits off—before your mum sees 'em."

The thought made Fred and George pale instantly. They turned to Malfoy, who lowered his arm so they could work at reducing his body back to its proper proportions. Those breasts were truly something: they looked so convincingly real! Harry was forced to admit the twins had really outdone themselves this time.

Harry was too preoccupied to notice the hurried footsteps which followed him down the stairs a moment later. He was in the front room by the time Malfoy caught up with him. Malfoy swung him around by the shoulder and planted him a solid facer. Harry's neck whipped with the force of it. He stumbled back, falling hard against the legs of the grand piano.

"What the fuck?" he screamed, comforting the side of his face with a hand, his mouth stuck open in pain and shock. He tasted blood. He was focused wholly and solely on Malfoy. He didn't notice Ron and Hermione intertwined on the sofa and he didn't notice them spring apart at the interruption.

"Piss off!" Malfoy yelled back, articulating each syllable with barely contained rage. His chest had been set to rights but he remained barefoot, pale hair still tousled and still damp from the shower. "I can solve my own problems, you spacky mixed-blood! I don't need your help!"

"Well it certainly looked like you did," Harry shot back. It was probably not the smartest idea to bait Malfoy like this, but he hadn't a shred of patience left.

“Potter, I'm sure there's a perfectly good set of bristols out there, chomping at the bit for a rescue. _These_ ,” he gripped his crotch and shook, “are taken.” 

This caused Hermione to emit a high-pitched squeak from her place on the sofa. Ron had his wand drawn, thinking Harry and Malfoy were starting a punch-up after tea. Harry realized he had his own wand to hand; h   
  
e tightened his grip, palms sweating. Things had gone awfully pear-shaped awful quick.    


“Get your rocks off rescuing people, don't you, Scar Head?” Malfoy seethed. He drew his wand gracefully and pointed it at Harry; silvery eyes glaring down the length of his long, scarred arm at The Boy Who Lived. “Why is that? Because your precious parents saved you? Or maybe nobody loved you when you were young and now you need the hero-worship to validate your pathetic existence.”

Red, snarly feelings coursed through him in waves. He could hardly think straight.

“Alright, Malfoy,” Harry growled, swiping at the blood dripping from his chin with the back of his hand . “Duel. Right now. No seconds. Let's settle this once and for all.” 

“I thought you'd never ask,” Malfoy sneered, enunciating with a slow, thick pleasure. His hooded eyes were utterly unreadable but his voice held bottled fury, like Harry's own.

“Absolutely not!” Hermione cried, making a bee-line for Harry. Ron drew her back before she could reach either angry wizard; a good thing, too—Harry would have blown her back had she come any closer.

Harry glowered at Malfoy. In an instant, they were toe to toe, wands at one another's throats, noses separated by an inch.

“Go ahead,” Malfoy whispered so only Harry could hear. “I know you can cast it non-verbally. Do it in front of your little friends. Show then what a—”

 _Imperio._

Harry watched the malice drain from Malfoy's eyes. His face was perfectly immobile but his eyes said it all. Harry made no effort to exert control. He let Malfoy stew in the fact that Harry had beaten him to it, that Harry had the man under his thumb. Harry could feel the familiar buzz of Malfoy's mind. Harry closed his eyes and focused: the surface was pleasant enough—chocolate cake, rich coffee and Wiltshire in the spring—but Harry could feel the shock, outrage and shame at a slow boil beneath.

Instead of issuing an order, Harry offered Malfoy the thought of escape. Malfoy handled it with uncertainty, kicking the idea around before casting it off. So Harry offered another idea, one that was sure to whet Malfoy's appetite: sex. Not anything specific or with anyone particular—just the intense feelings and nature of being which Malfoy himself had broadcast before in his lucid state. Harry watched the man's mind swirl with it, tasting it, focusing it to sharpness and clarity. Harry could feel Malfoy about to break free from the curse. He exerted just enough pressure to make Malfoy work for it, enough to make him think he'd truly fought and won. Harry felt the magic of their link begin to buckle, its weak point exposed. It crackled and hissed as Malfoy beat against it. Through the last splintering bits, he felt Malfoy's eyes close.

And then Malfoy's lips met his in a rush. It felt like... sex magic. It had that heady, tripping, thought-searing lust that always accompanied Malfoy's thoughts about sex, but there was somehow much more to it. The clean, intoxicating taste of Malfoy. The heavy press of his swollen, parted lips. The cloying desire for more.

 

Malfoy broke the kiss before Harry could react. The way their lips clung together for an instant after was positively maddening; bewildering, rage-smothering, lust-inducing and decidedly sweet all at once. His warm breath seemed to linger against Harry's flushed skin. Malfoy turned on his heel and swept from the room, leaving Harry blinking and entirely stunned.

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I'm taking an artistic liberty with the timing of the novels, pushing everything forward by three years; meaning that Harry was born in 1983 (instead of 1980), started Hogwarts in 1994, the Triwizard Tournament took place in 1997, and it is now the year 2000 (vs. 1997). I'm doing this mainly for later continuity. For now, don't worry about it. A full explanation lies in chapter 23. Just go there with me: good old fashioned suspension of belief is all I ask. (Brownie points to classicists and budding English Majors who understand the spectator's suspension of belief typically associated with early English literature. I am Faucer and these are my Rear-Entry Tales.)  
>  Maybe, just maybe, this thing is MA ONLY because of me.


	10. The Fall-Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco kissed Harry. This is the fall-out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** muggle baiting, homophobia, smoking, under-age drinking, sexual content (m/f, implied m/m), blowjob, implied rough sex

 

 

He hadn't imagined it; this time, he'd seen it from an inch away. There was no denying it. Harry Potter, Golden Boy Chosen One, could actually cast an Unforgivable non-verbally. The only other person capable of such a thing was the Dark Lord himself. Draco was taken by a shudder so forceful he had to sit down in the nearest chair. Potter was a very powerful wizard—and especially gifted in the Dark Arts. He did not want to think about the implications.

There was a knock at the door to break him from his thoughts. He had to clear his throat twice before his voice would come to him.

“Who is it?” He leveled his wand at the door for good measure.

“It's Hermione. I'd like to speak with you.” Draco rolled his eyes before giving a flick of his wand, opening the door to admit her. She stood with her hands on her hips, her bushy hair awry. It didn't look as though Weaselby had been pawing at her again because her clothing sat correctly on her frame.

“Won't you come in, Granger?” He asked calmly. She stepped across the threshold but kept her distance. Draco summoned another armchair and motioned her towards it. “Would you care for a brandy? Or sherry, perhaps?” She shook her head as she sat tentatively. Just as well. Draco could summon a weak sherry, at best. And at present he was very much distracted... by Potter. The warm, pleasant, deceptively spicy scent of him was in fact the perfect appetizer to his thick, kissable lips. And the metallic tang of blood had added something exotic and slightly forbidden. Potter tasted of debauchery and something that could only be called honeyed sin. Draco's mouth began to water involuntarily and he banished the thought. He summoned a bit of brandy instead and sipped at it, savoring the sweet little burn it left in its wake.

“Draco, what spell did Harry cast on you in that duel?”

The brandy attempted an exodus up and out Draco's nasal cavities. He coughed. “I beg your pardon, Granger?”

“You really won't call me 'Hermione?'”

“Of course not!” Draco scoffed, swirling his brandy while collecting his composure. “What is it with you people and Christian names? It's completely unnecessary.” 

Granger sighed and fixed him with a long, forbearing look. “We use them because they happen to be our given names, the names we go by.”

“You do it out of affection,” Draco corrected. 

“To a certain extent, yes,” Granger agreed begrudgingly. “You couldn't rightly call Pansy 'Parkinson' while snogging her, could you?” 

“Rest assured, Granger, I did.” 

“Are you saying you don't care enough to call her by her first name?” 

“Well... yes. I suppose that's what it boils down to.” Draco could not believe the sudden turn their conversation had taken, but it was better than having to admit Potter had gotten the upper hand on him in a duel. Granger raised a dubious eyebrow, so he continued. “Sure, we had our fun in the broom shed third year but she knows I don't give two drops of garden gnome blood about her. I've shagged a lot of people—doesn't mean anything.” 

“Well!” Granger pinkened considerably. She sat stiffly in her chair. “We view kissing—and the use of given names—a little differently.” 

“Would that 'we' be muggles, Gryffindors, or just you lot?” Draco cut in. “Because Potter's practically a muggle, near as I can tell. Probably hasn't used _Amortius Intentia_ his entire life.” 

“What?” Granger's attention was almost diverted. It would be a dreadful amount of fun to inform her that was the spell used to prevent a woman getting pregnant from casual sex. “Never mind Harry growing up with a non-magical family. That has nothing to do with it. You _kissed_ him, Draco.” She used his Christian name again. He rolled his eyes helplessly over the snifter's rim. “What was the spell he cast?” 

“Suffice it to say a very nasty one, Granger. I don't think I'm at liberty to say. You'd best apply to Potter for that bit of information.” That really pissed her off. She gripped the arms of the conjured chair and leaned forward aggressively. 

“Then why did you kiss him?” 

“Shock,” Draco said simply. He sipped his brandy.

“You expect me to believe you did that just to ruffle me and Ron?” she scoffed. “I may not know you very well, Draco, but I know when you have something up your sleeve!” 

“Really, Granger. I did it to shock The Chosen One,” Draco replied evenly before she could urge her high horse to a canter. “He _was_ very angry, as you saw. One perfectly innocent little kiss—no tongue—was enough to snap him out of it before he did anything he might regret. The curse he threw was a naughty one—but it was the only one, you see?” Draco smiled to himself as he went along. “It could have been much worse. You should be thanking me. The Chosen One needs to get his broom waxed like you wouldn't believe. He's wound tighter than a Gringott's vault.” 

“He....” It took a moment for the witch in her to connect the dots of magical sexual reference. She'd never heard witches and wizards talk like that before. “Why would you say something like that?” she snapped. “Harry's a good person; he doesn't think that way.” 

“You're saying... what, exactly?” Draco laughed softly. “That he's a romantic? He's a man with working parts, Granger. I'm sure he thinks that way. Rather often, recently single and all,” he mused. 

“This is all very inappropriate,” Granger tittered, looking away.

“I can't manage to make polite conversation with you people to save my life,” Draco muttered. Granger's bushy head snapped up to stare him down, incredulous. “Potter's counting on me to make an effort but it's all bollocks. Can't talk about Quidditch, can't talk about sex. Politics is right out, so what's there to talk about? Seems a hopeless case.” He shrugged. Granger appeared stunned into silence, so Draco continued. “I don't exactly see you lot making an effort. Weaselby won't play chess anymore, his sister leaves the room automatically, and you— _you_ are determined to teach me proper muggle manners. I'm not a muggle. Sorry Granger—won't happen. Not for a barrel of _Compenti Omgressus_.” 

Draco watched curiosity slowly overwhelm Granger's features.

“Do I want to know what that is?” she asked. 

“You'd say it's highly inappropriate,” Draco warned. 

“Oh, tell me anyway,” she sighed, collapsing against the back of the chair, giving into the Slytherin's charms.

“Potion for a man to have multiple orgasms. You only need a couple drops to last the night.” Granger took it well. Her eyes only bugged out of her head a little. “You won't find it in _Advanced Potion Making_ but I assure you it's perfectly legal. And delightful.” 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry finished washing the blood off his chin; his scrubbed, dripping face stared back at him from the medicine cabinet above the sink. Malfoy had split his lip. Harry had split their fragile friendship and that was so much worse. Harry's head still rang, partly from the punch—Malfoy had a strong right arm—but mostly from the heated words they'd exchanged. Malfoy thought he had a complex about saving people? It was called being a good person and wanting to help others in need! And maybe he hadn't had the best time of it as a kid, but he didn't need attention or approval to validate his existence.

Malfoy thought he was scum. He _was_ scum. He'd used an Unforgivable on Malfoy in the living room. The blonde made him crazy, made him see red, but that was no excuse to go hexing the git. Harry felt like shite. He was no better than Voldemort. 

Ginny found him digging through the medicine cabinet seeking a salve for his busted lip. It bled profusely and he'd held a bit of toilet tissue to it as he rummaged around. She cleared her throat in the doorway to be sure he was aware of her presence.

“Harry?” she said quietly, arms folded across her stomach. “Would you like me to fix that for you?” 

“Er, I, um,” he mumbled incoherently, still pushing things around the cabinet as an excuse not to look at her. 

“Don't tell me you're gonna leave it?” Gin spluttered. Harry shrugged. Her tone became quite bracing. “Harry, it's Malfoy. He's not gonna see the damage to your face, feel bad and apologize, is he? He's gonna gloat. Not to mention that mum will flip if she sees you like this. Please, let me fix you up.” 

Head down, Harry nodded glumly. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. Why would anyone electively run about with a split lip?  _ To elicit sympathy, ya twat _ , a voice in his head mocked. A voice sounding suspiciously like Draco sodding Malfoy.  _ Poor, precious baby Potter needs to be the center of attention _ . Fucking Christ, no wonder Malfoy had put Harry firmly in his place! 

“ _Episkey_.” 

“Thanks, Gin,” Harry managed. 

“What's bothering you, Harry?” she asked, stowing her wand. “I mean, is it what happened with Malfoy? Because Hermione told me.” 

“Yeah,” he admitted. He jumped up on the counter and sat, folding his hands in his lap, focusing his gaze on the wall in front of him to avoid looking at his ex. 

“What was the hex you used?” She'd obviously asked the question without considering the implications—a hex that made a person kiss you? Harry snapped.

“Why? Wanna use it to get back with Dean? I hear Seamus is single, he might be more your type: follows orders, can't think for himself.” 

“Whoa, Harry!” Ginny held her hands defensively before her and took a step back for good measure. “I was just being nosy. Merlin's beard! You're as narkie as Malfoy.”

Harry shot her a dirty look and she scuttled off. Harry was left with his twisty thoughts.

Okay, Malfoy had kissed him on the mouth and it had been entirely Harry's fault. He'd cast the Imperius Curse, knowing the only way Malfoy could break it was to concentrate on sex. Hell, he'd practically invited it! And in front of Ron and Hermione, too. What was his fucking problem?

Harry wasn't sure what to make of that kiss, having next to nothing to compare it to. He and Ginny had snogged enough at Hogwarts and there had been that one awful instance with Cho Chang back in fourth year, but he'd never kissed a bloke. Surely they were apples and oranges. Harry liked kissing Ginny well enough. He liked women—always had—therefore; being kissed by Malfoy should have made him want to vomit. The problem with that bit of logic stared at him from his denims. It had been at least ten minutes since Malfoy had... done that, and Harry was still aroused. Surely, that wasn't normal.

The kiss itself had been normal, he supposed. Malfoy's lips felt like a girl's lips. Lips were lips, right? They were unisex. Malfoy didn't keep a beard, so naturally his kiss would resemble a girl's. And they'd only kissed for a few seconds. It wasn't like Malfoy had tongued him or anything; _that_ would be unforgivable! Usually, it took quite a bit of tonguing, heavy petting and general romping to rouse Harry's interest, as it were. Getting hard from one chaste little kiss was insane, unless... unless Malfoy used sex magic on him. That was the only plausible explanation. Because Malfoy's little “gift” wasn't going away. 

Harry closed and locked the door, thinking he'd take care of himself quickly and then see what was on for dinner. He pulled off his shirt, loosened his belt and licked his freshly healed lips. Then he stopped dead. Sex magic, indeed; he could still taste Malfoy on his lips.

Right, then! Shower! Tension release as well as washing the Malfoy off him. Talk about killing two birds with one stone.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry tossed and turned in his bed. It was a hot night—even with the windows thrown wide open and a strong Cooling Charm circling the room, it was stifling. Glasses off, he squinted at the digital clock on his bedside table. Half ten? That charming little Italian cafe by the underground would still be open. Maybe he could get a gelato or something. The idea of getting out of Grimmauld Place, even for ten minutes, was enough to have him scrambling for a shirt and trainers. He wormed into an old pair of cotton khakis; they were tight in the bum but the thought of jeans against his sweaty skin was beyond bearable. He tucked his wallet in his back pocket and secured his wand in the waistband of his pants so his tshirt would cover it well enough. Once wrapped in his Invisibility Cloak, he made for the front door. Technically, he wasn't supposed to leave the house. Harry crept down the stairs as silent as a mouse, praying Alastair Moody wasn't guarding the house tonight.

Harry wasn't the only one hell-bent on escape that night.

“Malfoy?” Harry whispered in shock. 

Frozen in a half crouch at the sound of his name, Malfoy inched away from the front door like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Harry muttered once he reached the entry.

“Oh, Potter,” Malfoy managed to sneer so softly he was barely audible. Harry found himself reading the man's lips in the darkness. “It's _you_.” 

“What the fuck, Malfoy?” he repeated while disentangling himself from his cloak. Malfoy's eyes snapped to him when the falling cloak revealed his location. “I'm sneaking out for gelato. Just where are you headed?” 

“Ice cream?” Malfoy mouthed. The laughter was written on his face; clearly, he thought Harry was all of five years old. He faced the door again and made to open it. 

“You can't just walk out there!” Harry hissed, reaching out to stop the crazy blonde. “They almost always post a guard.” 

“Potter, you live in Azkaban,” Malfoy gestured to the door, something decidedly unhinged lurking in his eyes. “Call me Sirius Black—I need out. Can you get me out?” 

In response, Harry held up the cloak and waggled his eyebrows; silent, Malfoy nodded his agreement. Harry threw the cloak over them before they shuffled out the door.

It was slow going at first; Malfoy had never experienced the joys of cramming multiple people under the blasted cloak. They had to stay close together to prevent exposure and walking as such, Harry kept stepping on Malfoy's heels. Muffled “ooch”es, “ow”s and “sorry”s blended with the outdoor sounds as they emerged onto the stoop.

“Fuck,” Malfoy whispered, leaning back against his rescuer. Harry viewed the problem over Malfoy's shoulder. The stairs leading to the street were steep and narrow. Someone—undoubtedly Mrs. Weasley—had placed a few flower planters along one side of the step so there wasn't room for two to walk abreast. “What do we do?” 

“I could piggy-back you,” Harry offered. 

“No way,” Malfoy huffed. “I will not be carried like a girl.” 

“Fine,” Harry retorted quickly, a brilliant scheme taking shape in his mind. “You can carry me.” 

Malfoy grumbled something under his breath before hunching over to allow the dark haired boy to jump on his back. Harry locked his legs around Malfoy's waist and leaned down, making sure the Invisibility Cloak still touched the ground all the way around.

“Hey! Us being short is finally good for something!” Harry cackled as Malfoy picked a careful path down the stairs. Malfoy gripped the iron railing for balance but was vigilant to keep them both secure under the cloak. Combined with the muggy air and lack of breeze, it was positively stifling under the cloak. The things one did for gelato: the things one did for escape! Malfoy carried him, setting out for the cafe. 

“I am not short, I'll have you know,” Malfoy sniffed. “I—and you by extension—am of typical English stature. It's those bloody yanks who make us look short!” 

Conversation passed amiably for several blocks. Malfoy huffed, puffed and blustered while Harry chuckled along. Eventually Harry directed him toward an alley where they could remove the cloak and cast a few spells to determine if they were being followed. Malfoy leaned against a dumpster and braced his thighs, fanning himself while Harry cast the necessary magic. Attempting to hide himself in the alley, Malfoy's white blonde head only acted as a beacon against the dirty brick background. Harry shrunk the invisibility cloak enough to be folded and crammed into a pocket. Once assured that the coast was clear, they set off round the corner.

“Malfoy,” Harry said slowly. “I'm sure you weren't sluffing because you fancy gelati. What—” Harry stopped himself. He'd almost asked Malfoy what he wanted. Harry understood Malfoy's very intense problems with wanting. He had to think of another way to phrase the question before Malfoy thought he was barking. “What was the plan? Did you have an idea or... did you need something?” 

As they passed under a streetlamp, Harry detected a blush creeping across Malfoy's cheeks. He _had_ wanted something, wanted it enough to risk his safety. 

“It's nothing,” the blonde muttered, kicking an empty cigarette pack down the pavement. He wouldn't meet Harry's gaze. 

“Don't bullshit me, ya cunt,” Harry replied firmly. “It's bloody important if you'd let me aid in your escape.” That earned him a little smile. “So out with it. Maybe I can help.” 

“Really, Potter. Gelato is fine. I don't care.” 

“I don't believe you.” They'd reached the cafe. There were a few people inside despite the late hour. Harry had always wanted to stop here but never had the chance before now. He was getting his adventure, getting what he wanted. There was no reason not to placate Malfoy as well. Harry would do just about anything to keep the man happy, now they were past punch ups. When Malfoy reached for the shop door, Harry placed a hand on the glass to bar his entrance. “Just tell me what you want.” 

Those words hung between them like a killer bee: Harry wasn't sure who would get the sting. After several agonizing heartbeats, Malfoy heaved a sigh that deflated his chest but not his regal bearing.

“I need to get drunk, Potter. And I need to get laid. There, are you happy now?” He gave a little snort and looked away, dejected. “I have needs.” 

“Wanting or needing something doesn't make you weak,” Harry comforted, trying unsuccessfully to catch Malfoy's darting, uneasy gaze. 

“Tell that to my father,” the blonde snapped without thinking. 

Harry watched Malfoy pale; he, too, suffered from uncomfortable truths flying unbidden from the mouth. Harry sometimes felt like a fount of those.

“Malfoy... I'd like to buy you an ice cream, if that's alright.” Harry nearly groaned; it was possibly the dumbest thing he'd said in weeks. Anything to fill the post-revelation awkward silence. 

“Thank you,” Malfoy managed with dignity intact. “I'd like that.” He allowed Harry to get the door for him. 

Harry wasn't aware at first but as he and Malfoy approached the refrigerated ice cream counter, several faces followed them. Curious faces, disapproving faces. Harry was used to people looking at him all sorts of ways. Witches and wizards mooned over him for being The Boy Who Lived, The Chosen One. When he was younger, muggle women often gazed at him with pity in their eyes—the underfed child in hand-me-down rags, purpling bruises marching up and down his arms. The muggles on Magnolia Crescent believed the Dursley's rubbish about St. Brutis' Academy and always skirted him like some kind of hardened criminal. That's what these looks were, now; fear, distaste, even loathing, rolled into a tightly coiled ball and lobbed mostly at Malfoy.

Harry observed the blonde leaning close to the case, intent upon picking a desert. He looked like your typical posh, handsome, upper-crust boarding school boy. His hair and face were clean, trousers pressed, linen shirtsleeves rolled up over his elbows. Sure he was just a bit sweaty—but it had been over 40 C all day, so everyone was dripping! If anything, Malfoy looked smart, pensive, pressing two thin fingers over his pink lips as he looked over the flavors.

Oh God. He was so used to Malfoy he hadn't noticed! The giant, Gothic-style tattoo on his pale forearm. The intricate pattern of white scars—mostly long cuts, the few scattered burn marks, and a puncture wound that had probably been a stab; self-inflicted, Harry knew, while under the Imperius Curse.

An man sitting in the corner and talking on his mobile shot Malfoy a very dirty look. An eight year old boy pointed, about to say something when his mother pushed at his arm and offered biscuits and treats if he would “ignore the bad men.” They thought Malfoy was a criminal. Malfoy in a gang? Laughable. Did they not see how scrawny he was?

“Go ahead and get two if you like,” Harry offered Malfoy, instinctively stepping closer. 

“Sure, thanks,” Malfoy replied. His eyes didn't leave the display case as he continued in a voice so low only Harry could hear. “I don't know about these muggles, Scar Head. Have they gone round the bend? Why are they all staring?” 

“My trousers are too tight.” Harry threw it out there, casual-like. “Look, Malfoy, how about we get these and run? I'll find you a seedy pub or something.” 

“Really?” Malfoy looked over at him then, surprise plain in his eyes. They reflected the reddish brown walls with hints of gold. Harry smiled back, thinking it was too bad those eyes reflected what was outside instead of what was within. 

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugged. They both returned their attention to the gelato selection. Harry immediately picked out his two flavors: a classic limone and a white chocolate with raspberry swirls. Malfoy couldn't make up his mind and wound up asking the woman behind the counter for a sample of the exotic-sounding _cioccolato all’arancia_ _._ Malfoy's French-speaking tongue pronounced it perfectly.

 _“_ _Grazie mille_ _,”_ he thanked her before taking the sample. He took the most miniscule of bites—still not trusting muggle grub, apparently. A moment later his eyes fluttered closed in delight _. _ He promptly ordered two scoops of it. 

“You sure?” Harry joked. 

“Quite,” he gave a quick nod. “Dark chocolate, candied oranges and rum. You really can't go wrong. Here!” The plastic spoon was shoved into Harry's mouth before he could protest. It really was quite good. When Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, Harry flushed. The blonde dragged the spoon from Harry's mouth and, without thinking, popped it back in his own and sucked as he waited. 

The man with the cell phone was gaping at them now. His face had gone from mild distaste to utter disgust, his conversation forgotten as he glared at the boys. Harry vowed never to wear the tight khakis in public again. That man thought Harry was... thought Malfoy was his.... This made Harry think of something. He leaned close to Malfoy, forced to press bodily against the blonde's arm in order to speak quietly into his ear.

“Listen, Malfoy, er... about the pub later,” he spoke, doing his very best to remain casual. “Blokes or bints?” There was a solid, awkward pause where Malfoy should have responded. The seconds ticked by. “It's just—” 

“Why?” Malfoy drawled, moving his hand to rest at Harry's hip. Their torsos came together in a casual half-hug. It was comfortable and really, really weird. Harry got the idea Malfoy was milking the moment. “You interested?” 

Harry knew his face was going bright red and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Standing as they were, he probably looked like a love-sick puppy. Snuggling up to ruddy Malfoy. In a romantic little cafe. On a hot summer night. This was eighteen different shades of upsetting and wrong, wrong, wrong. If there weren't an itty bitty perverse corner of himself that took pleasure in causing innocent people discomfort in public places, he would have put a stop to Malfoy's ridiculousness. But as it was....

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, closing his eyes in an effort to keep his voice from cracking. It would take him a while to learn how to upset frumpy old codgers without breaking a sweat. “But you're really not my type. Now, if you put the tits back... then we'll talk.” That got him a lip-biting, sparkly-eyed chuckle. “Seriously, though. I don't care. Just... which do you want for tonight?” 

“Why should it matter?” Malfoy sighed, pale fingers fussing with the rear belt loop of Harry's trousers.

“I told you, it doesn't matter. It's only that... well, blokes are a different sort of pub now, aren't they?” 

“If you say so,” Malfoy trailed off. 

The lady at the counter asked Harry what he'd like. Her dark eyes flickered between them, noting their posture, they way they leaned against each other, Malfoy's arm around him, Harry's blush. She favored him with an encouraging smile. When Harry turned back, Malfoy was looking decidedly away.

“Well?” Harry let the question hang between them. Judging by Malfoy's behavior, he was pretty sure what the answer would be. Randy straight boys probably didn't stand this way with their straight mates. Randy bisexual boys might. 

“Would it be a bother?” Malfoy asked slowly, watching the woman scoop Harry's fruity gelato. The situation had slipped so drastically out of hand. Malfoy really needed to get laid so he could go back to being Malfoy. A less cuddly Malfoy. “No offense, but your ex-bint, Granger and this afternoon, I'm rather put off women for now.” 

“Oh, I get that,” Harry replied with honest understanding, which seemed to calm Malfoy a bit; besides; their gelati were about ready. And they looked delicious. “Look, why don't you grab this and I'll pay. I need to grab a newspaper before we go.” 

He wormed out of Malfoy's arms and went back to the front door where the owners kept newspaper displays. After so many years of the Daily Prophet, it was nice to see a paper with no mention of himself or The Dark Lord, though he did miss the moving pictures. He quickly found what he was looking for—an ignored-looking stack emblazoned with a big purple triangle. This would have listings of gay bars in London. He picked one up and unfurled it as he walked back to the register. Hell, everyone in the cafe already thought he was gay. Let 'em stare if they wanted! It really made no difference to him.

When he met Malfoy at the register—the man already attacking his gelato with a fervor—an old bitty caught Harry's gaze with an angry one of her own. Harry maintained the impassioned contact as he pulled out his wallet and paid for their treats. He was about to usher Malfoy out of the shop when insanity struck him; brazen, he stuck his tongue out at the bigoted old bird. The woman tittered as Malfoy dragged him out.

“Saint Potter engages in muggle baiting?” Malfoy mock-gasped as soon as they were out of ear shot. 

“Stuff it,” Harry laughed. He quickly scanned the paper: articles about new sex shops and an upcoming film festival, cryptic adverts that didn't appear to be written in any English he could decipher and, at the back, reviews of a few clubs and pubs. He skimmed over everything with “dance floor,” “disco lights” and the like. Towards the bottom there was a listing for a pleasant pub, not screamingly gay, with Cornish ale on tap. The fact it was practically on top of the Borough tube stop boded well for dragging Malfoy's sloshed arse home. 

“Okay, I've got us a pub,” Harry announced, checking the location one last time before rolling up the paper and wedging it under his arm. He took his already melting gelato and they strolled to the underground. 

 

 

\- - -

 

The Gladstone Arms was a pleasant-looking little pub on Lant, just off Borough High Street. The dark wood edifice sat between industrial brick buildings with a car park and nondescript flats across the street. There was a small crowd inside the pub and the sound of live music—a guitar, bass, piano and singer—drifted out to the street whenever some loud young person stepped out for a cigarette. Harry was about to cross the street when Malfoy detained him by the elbow, his pointed face a blank, unreadable mask.

“You still have that cloak in your pocket, Potter?” he asked under his breath.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Give it here,” Malfoy held out a hand imperiously, starring directly ahead at the little crowd of smokers congregating outside the bar.

“No,” Harry said flatly.

“I want to borrow it.”

“No, Malfoy. Not with muggles around. It's too risky.”

“Oh, fuck, Potter,” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I only want to borrow it. I'm not dumb enough to put it on!”

“Alright, fine.” Harry had no idea why he'd just agreed to give Malfoy the cloak. It was a night of placating, he told himself; anything to get the git back to normal. Even if that involved getting him someone to hump. He eased the bundle out of his pocket and dropped it in Malfoy's hand. The blonde held the cloak under the light of a nearby streetlamp and examined it.

“What color would you say this is?” he asked suddenly, holding the cloth out for inspection.

“Silver, maybe gray?”

Malfoy spread the fabric out—it wasn't much larger than a diner napkin—and waved a hand over it, muttering an incantation. The cloak darkened a bit. He held it out for Harry's renewed inspection.

“Navy,” Harry observed.

“Good enough,” Malfoy sighed, carefully folding the cloak into a smaller square. He hesitated, thinking hard for a moment before tucking the cloak in his back left trouser pocket. He craned his neck, checking that the fabric poked visibly from the pocket.

Malfoy took off, sauntering right up to the door and waltzing in. He drew more than a few appreciative stares from the smoking loiterers. Harry had no choice but to follow nervously in the man's wake.

Inside the pub was crowded and noisy; the band had just finished a song and everyone hooted and clapped. Couples occupied most of the small tables, pints and plates of food spread before them. A sizable group of men close to his age occupied a set of squashy leather sofas set in a corner furthest from the bare area serving as a stage. The rich wood panels and red painted walls made the room cozy and intimate. The few fans scattered about did little to dispel the heat of so many bodies congregated together. Harry ruffled his hair with a sweaty palm as he followed Malfoy to the bar. They happened to find two empty stools at near the end of the bar, furthest from the stage.

Harry attempted to grab the overworked bartender's attention while Malfoy leaned against the bar, head resting in one slender hand, and pouted. Giving up on getting the barback's attention, he leaned close to the blonde.

“What's yer problem?” he slurred.

“Hmm?” Distracted, Malfoy turned to face him, a little grin lighting his eyes. Damn, they really reflected the red paint, making him look like a pompous Slytherin devil. He leaned in for Harry's ear and whispered conspiratorially. “What I wouldn't give for a cooling charm!”

“Right-o,” Harry smiled back, pulling away. “Drink?”

“Please,” the man sighed, his head returning to his hand. His other hand slowly caressed the wood of the bar, using a nearby napkin to wipe away a bit of spilled ale. Malfoy's eyes flicked up, lighting on the barkeep. As if pulled by a string, the man came running over. Fucking Malfoy. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd say Malfoy had just used magic. The Slytherin's obsession with power and manipulation wasn't limited to his family's wealth and fame; instantly, he had the muggle man eating out of his hand.

“What can I get you gentlemen?” the muggle asked, placing two fresh napkins before them. He gave Harry a quick up-and-down once over before returning his glowing attention to Malfoy.

“Double bourbon, rocks,” Malfoy said, not giving the man the satisfaction of eye contact. He busied himself with re-rolling his shirtsleeve. Harry watched the muggle's eyes roam appreciatively over Malfoy's forearms, noting the tattoo. It was kind of unavoidable, Harry thought. The Dark Mark had become a defining part of Malfoy, like his platinum hair and patented sneer. “Potter?”

“Er,” Harry scanned the list of ales on tap and had to smile. “Pint of Black Sheep, please.”

“Lightweight,” Malfoy scoffed, giving Harry a faux cold shoulder. Harry pushed him.

“Someone's gotta carry your arse home, Malfoy,” he shot back. The bartender gave Harry an approving little nod.

“That'll be six pounds fifty. Did you wanna start a tab?”

“Yes,” Malfoy answered dramatically. “I'm getting pissed tonight.” He shared a mischievous smirk with the handsome muggle.

It was going to be a long night. Harry slid a ten pound note across the bar.

“That'll get us started,” he muttered. The muggle accepted the money and started pulling Harry's ale. He placed it carefully before Harry, near to brimming.

“I'll be right back with that whiskey...” he raised an eyebrow at Malfoy, angling for his name.

“Draco,” the blonde supplied with a cool half-nod, his lashes fluttering closed for just a moment.

Oh God. Harry started drinking.

Almost immediately, a young man approached Malfoy from the nearest corner of the bar. No more than a day over twenty, the man was lanky with ginger hair and freckles; immediately, Harry knew this would not go well. He tried to shoo the man without Malfoy noticing; dopey grin and pint in hand, the ginger bloke only had eyes for Malfoy.

“Hey, there,” he said in a deep, Welsh-accented voice. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Malfoy's lips pressed together and for a split second he closed his eyes. The expression reminded Harry of Professor Snape every time Hermione raised her hand in Potions class, a sort of “Founding Fathers, why must you test my patience so?” grimace. Harry wouldn't have been surprised had Malfoy pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a mighty sigh. As it was, he fixed the ginger with a patented Malfoy death glare.

“No,” he said shortly, gray eyes blazing.

“Wha', just like that?” the ginger bloke pressed. “Just 'piss off?'”

“Mm-hmm,” Malfoy confirmed as his bourbon arrived. The bartender set it before the Slytherin with a flourish. Harry kept his face stoically in his pint. Malfoy sipped his own drink.

“Well, fuck you!” the Welsh ginger exclaimed, stepping back and giving Malfoy a distasteful once-over.

“You wish,” Malfoy replied primly over the rim of his drink. “Now run along.”

The ginger didn't know when to quit. He turned to Harry, noticing him for the first time and realizing the two boys had come into the pub together.

“Is he always such a right pisser?” the man asked, jerking a thumb at Malfoy.

“Worse, actually,” Harry smiled. “I think he was being nice to you. I've seen him hand out facers for less.” The expression on the stranger's face melted to grim acceptance that he would not be getting into Malfoy's designer trousers now or ever. He slumped back to his friends who promptly and loudly took the mickey out of him.

Harry was about to say something when another man approached. This one was very confident, very handsome, and quite physically fit if his muscled arms and bull neck were anything to go by. He wore a white sleeveless shirt emblazoned with the orange crest of Blackpool Football Club. He was also graying at the temples, so probably in his mid to late thirties. Malfoy took a fortifying mouthful of bourbon as the older man sidled up beside him.

“I'd offer to buy you a drink,” he began, “but I see your mate here has already beaten me to it. I'm Markus,” he smiled, extending his hand. Malfoy took the hand but didn't return the smile. Malfoy's body remained angled toward the bar; it was the most obvious cut direct Harry had ever seen, but the man in the football shirt didn't give up. His eyes roved Malfoy's backside appreciatively, lingering on the bit of fabric in his back pocket. Malfoy snapped his fingers to get the man's attention.

“Oi,” he said sharply, pointing a finger at his own pale face. The older man simpered.

“I like a bit of a live wire,” he winked and leaned closer. Harry felt Malfoy tense, angry waves rolling off him. Harry downed another third of his pint and tried signaling for the next round.

“Really,” Malfoy said, his voice cold and skeptical. He met the burly man's gaze with a challenge.

“Yeah,” the man eyed Malfoy's arse again. His expression turned lewd. “Maybe we could see about moving that to the other side.”

Malfoy's jaw dropped as he fixed the man with an affronted, incredulous stare. Harry had no idea what was going on but he got the impression the man had either insulted Malfoy or implied something highly improper.

“Not gonna happen,” Malfoy said, quick and strong. “Sorry,” the corner of his mouth quirked for just a moment before he took another sip of his bourbon, the ice already beginning to melt.

“Oh, come off it,” the man pressed. He gave Malfoy a very pointed look. “Don't you know who I am, kid?”

“Don't know, don't care,” Malfoy drawled, all confidence.

“Listen here, you little punk—”

“The guy said no, Trewaller,” said a woman's voice. Harry jumped. She was short and, standing behind the wall of muscle that was Markus Trewaller, striker for Blackpool, Harry hadn't seen her. He decided she looked like Nymphadora Tonks; heart shaped face, button nose, and a shock of platinum blonde hair that went dark brown at the roots. Her hair was long and she wore it down with blunt bangs that nearly covered her eyes. Despite being short—shorter than Harry, even—she had piercings up and down her ears and looked tough as nails. Even the floral mini dress she wore didn't take away from her strength and confidence. “Now piss off or I'll tell Nate.”

Markus Trewaller looked positively sheepish. He cursed under his breath and scuttled outside for a smoke.

“Sorry 'bout him,” the blonde woman said to Malfoy. She included Harry with a little smile. “I wouldn't have interfered but he bugs the crap outta me.”

“Not a problem,” Malfoy replied. The woman collected two gin and tonics and a pint from the bartender and made her way back into the crowd. Curiosity overcame Harry and, draining his ale, he turned on his stool to face Malfoy.

“Did that guy... what he said, that was really inappropriate, right?”

Malfoy heaved a sigh and emptied his glass. Crunching on a piece of ice, he simply nodded.

The bar came down to a hush, people hurrying to take their seats. The room was arranged with the stage at the far end of the bar. Harry and Malfoy turned ninety degrees in their stools in order to watch the next set.

The singer was a tall bloke with shoulder-length brown hair that he wore pulled back in a pony tail like Bill Weasley. Unlike Bill, he had an oval face, small nose and really big, eerie green eyes. If he weren't so bloody tall Harry might say they were long-lost cousins or something. They probably weren't related, though, because this guy reeked of a kind of kinetic sexual energy. All the women in the pub—and many of the men—watched him droolingly. He strummed a few notes on his guitar, overlarge eyes scanning the room. He leaned to the side, whispering something to the pretty blond woman who had rescued Malfoy. She adjusted the strap of a big bass guitar slung over her shoulder. The strap was as pink as her instrument. She nodded, positioning one hand at the instrument's neck.

Harry didn't recognize the soft, pretty love song they started to play but the rest of the pub did because a cheer went up, drowning out part of the melody. Malfoy's bourbon was refilled and Harry felt the blonde turn and practically attack the liquor; he wasn't having the best of nights. When his glass was half drained, he returned his attention to the band. Harry's pint was refilled a moment later and put before him with a fresh napkin. He took a long draw before turning to watch the show.

The man with the long brown hair was a fair singer. His song had so many lilting high notes—Harry hadn't sung that high since he was eight, and he'd never sung that well! The man put so much emotion into the lyrics, things about “promises;” “I know I was wrong,” “my heart is yours” and “I won't let you down.” He closed his eyes, drawing out a series of delicate high notes and the pub whooped and clapped in admiration. When his green eyes opened, he was looking right down the bar at Malfoy.

“Yeah, I saw sparks,” he sang. “I saw sparks. And I saw sparks. Baby, I saw sparks.”

Several people turned in their seats, straining to see who the singer was crooning to. Malfoy snorted into his drink. Harry watched a deep flush wend its way up the blonde's cheeks. Harry drank heavily, trying to ignore the singer's “la la la”s. Mercifully, the song ended and the applause was tremendous. The singer wouldn't stop looking at Malfoy across the bar even as his band mates struck up the next tune. Finally, Malfoy held up his bourbon in a little toast of acknowledgment which made the brunette break out in an ear-to-ear grin.

This back and forth, the singer's frank stares and Malfoy's prim and distant acceptance, went on for the entirety of the set. Harry got himself another pint and nursed it over the next half hour. The last thing he needed was Malfoy having to carry _him_ back to Grimmauld Place. Harry was glad when the band finished because it meant people would stop staring and Malfoy might quit shifting in his seat. Harry was wise enough to keep his mouth shut as the singer strode across the room, cutting a direct path to their end of the bar. The man stood there for a long moment, just looking at Malfoy and holding his amused, silvery-red gaze. Harry thought the singer's smile would break his face if it got any bigger.

“Hi,” he said at last, hands clasped nervously behind his back. “I'm Jack.”

“Draco.”

“Nice to meet you, Draco,” Jack blushed. “That's an unusual name you have. Is this seat taken?” he gestured to the stool beside Malfoy. The blonde just shook his head minutely, his eyes going back to his drink. He wrapped his long fingers around the glass, refusing to look at the handsome bloke now sitting beside him.

Why was Malfoy playing so fucking coy? How utterly un-Malfoy! Just two hours ago he'd practically been groping Harry and now, drop of a hat, he was shy? Rather than try to wrap his head around the situation, Harry took another gulp of ale. It really was excellent. And cheap. And excellent. Jack was looking at him, about to say something to him. Harry pulled his nose out of his pint. Jack looked at Harry but spoke to Malfoy.

“Draco, have I put you in a bad spot? Is this your boyfriend?”

“What?!” Harry squeaked. “No! No, no. Malfoy? No,” he shook his head vehemently.

“Forgive me,” Malfoy said smoothly. “This is Harry Potter, an old schoolmate of mine. He's been kind enough to put me up while I'm in town.” Jack's happy grin seemed cemented as he reached behind Malfoy to enthusiastically shake Harry's hand.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Potter.”

“Please, Harry,” he mumbled. “And likewise.”

“Harry, this is Heather Lightley,” Jack gestured and Harry spun around on his stool; the pretty blonde bass player stood beside him. “Heather, this is Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.”

“Pleasure,” she smiled. Harry thought he spotted the glint of a silver piercing in her tongue. “May I?” she indicated the vacant seat beside Harry.

“Sure,” he replied awkwardly. As she sat, Malfoy and Jack fell into easy conversation about where Malfoy was from, how long he was visiting and what parts of London he'd already seen—the shopping parts.

“I haven't seen you here before,” Heather said pleasantly.

“Yeah,” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I don't really get out much.”

“Oh, why's that?” Heather gave him a sympathetic look. “Cute guy like you should be out all the time.”

Harry nearly choked on his pint. He coughed.

“Sorry,” Heather said. “I'm told I can be rather blunt.”

“Oh, that's okay,” Harry smiled. “I like blunt. It's a really good thing, if you ask me. All the best people in my life have been the straight forward kind.” Sirius and Dumbledore. Harry lapsed into silence. He was startled when Heather put a hand on his shoulder.

“You alright?” she asked. “You look miserable.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry shrugged, picking up his ale. “My life's shite right now. And I'm really awkward, socially. I'm sorry.” He had no idea why he was apologizing but it felt like the right thing to say. Heather rolled her eyes.

“Well, chatting up women. That's unfamiliar territory, right?” She raised an eyebrow the same dark color as the roots of her hair. The contrast was really striking. Harry decided he liked it.

“How'd you know?” he stuttered, biting his lip.

“Well,” she said grandly, gesturing between him and Malfoy with her eyes. Her hazel eyes darted quickly to Harry's bum in his tight trousers and she suppressed a giggle.

“Oh my God,” Harry gasped, realization hitting him like a Bludger. “I'm never wearing these trousers in public again! Everything else was in the wash and I—I'm straight.” The more awkward and pained his voice became, the more Heather laughed. She reminded him of Luna Lovegood; her laugh was just musical, light and playful and utterly relaxed, like a little girl. “I swear it, really. Heather, you have to believe me!” She shook her head just to be conciliatory, still giggling away.

Harry turned to Malfoy to enlist his help.

“Malfoy, please,” he gasped awkwardly, pulling on the man's elbow, “tell Heather about Ginny.”

“How much I annoy her or how much she hates me?” Malfoy said evenly, one eyebrow arched over his cool eyes.

“No, that we just broke up,” Harry pleaded playfully.

“And about time, Wonder Boy,” Malfoy sniffed. He went back to his own conversation with a dignified air.

“So you see, I do like women,” Harry smiled ruefully. “I'm just bollocks at talking to them.”

“In that case, I think I need to buy you another ale,” Heather said, boldly meeting his eyes. The room seemed to spin.

“Blimey,” Harry muttered. “I hope Malfoy remembers the way home.” Heather laughed at that, signaling the bartender for a round on her.

“You two are roommates, then?” she asked, mirroring his position of both elbows on the bar and head resting in his palms. She quirked her head at him.

“Nah, Malfoy's just kipping at my place for a while,” Harry sighed, searching for the best way to explain their situation while giving as few details as possible—especially details about Malfoy. He caught snippets of Malfoy's polite conversation with Jack and borrowed what he needed to keep their stories straight. “His parents are crazy; really nutters, completely off the deep end. He put out an S.O.S. and I was the first responder. I have a house and people stay with me all the time, so it's really nothing.”

“Wow, you have a house? You can't be more than twenty,” Heather mused.

“Eighteen,” Harry lied. It was the drinking age for muggles.

“Shit!” she said appreciatively. “How do you have a house already?”

“My godfather died two years ago. He left it to me.”

“I'm so sorry,” Heather offered, her face gone soft and gentle with sympathy. “Were you really close?”

“He was like a father to me,” Harry said in a somber tone, leaning over his pint. “My parents died when I was a year old. So when...” Harry stopped himself. “Jesus, this is terrible stuff for a first conversation! How many pints have I had, three?” That stopped the beautiful girl from feeling sorry for him. It even got her laughing again. “So, Heather the lovely bass playing gal, where are you from?”

“Southampton,” she said between fits of laughter. Their conversation flowed quite smoothly after that: Westlife's popularity was serious pants and Noel Gallagher was a genius even if he was high most of the time. Heather seemed to find his awkwardness endearing if not maybe a little attractive and she kept offering to get him something stronger from the bar. It turned out the band drank for free. She claimed she was just trying to save him a few pounds on his quest to piss-all. He told her that was Malfoy's quest and he was just along for the ride. That cracked them both up. Harry looked around and realized Malfoy had left his stool. Harry spotted a tousled white blonde head making for the men's loo. Jack paused at Heather's side to give her a kiss on the cheek. She snorted and pushed him away, shouting to communicate over the song blaring from the nearby jukebox.

“Go, go!” she yelled, flinging her hands helplessly in the air. “I'll stall for you—ten minutes, okay?”

“Fifteen?” Jack begged, his eyes big and hands pressed together in supplication. “Twenty? Come on, you saw him! Pleeeeease?” he whined loudly.

“Fifteen,” Heather agreed. Jack kissed both her cheeks before racing after Malfoy.

“Um, where are they going?” Harry couldn't help but ask. That third pint had really loosened his brain. This fourth one waiting before him wasn't about to do him any good. He shrugged and went for it anyway.

“Poor thing, you really don't get out much, do you?” Heather chortled. Harry flushed in embarrassment. “If your friend's a romantic like Jack, they'll be necking in the alley by now.”

Much as Harry didn't want to think about Malfoy snogging Jack... Malfoy just didn't strike Harry as the romantic type and he said as much.

“Then they're probably fucking in the loo,” Heather shrugged. Harry shivered when his inebriated mind processed that one. “There I go, again—being too forward. I'm sure you didn't wanna know that about your mate.”

“No, I appreciate your being honest with me, I really do,” Harry found himself talking with his hands, leaning forward and taking one of Heather's cool hands in both his own, toying with the tips of her fingers. “It's just that, for years and years, Malfoy and I were enemies. We were rivals at school. We _hated_ each other. Really, Heather,” he felt like saying her name emphasized his seriousness. “Sixth... sixth form, I nearly killed him in a fight. He was in hospital for days. And now we're having a go at the whole mates thing, he's quickly becoming very human to me, you know? He has all these worries and fears and needs—being sexual is just one of them. And him living with me, well, I'm responsible for him. It's just... it's a lot. I'm whinging. Am I making sense?”

“You're making perfect sense, Harry,” Heather comforted him, squeezing his hand and patting his forearm. “I think you care about others more than you care for yourself. Am I right?”

“Maybe a little,” Harry conceded. It felt good to have someone to talk to, someone wanting to hold his hand because he was Harry, not because he was Harry Potter, Wonder Boy. And someone who thought he was cute and kept buying him ales? Clearly The Gladstone Arms was a portal to heaven. Harry was happy to sit there and have Heather stroke his hands.

“Well, how many people are staying in your house?” she mused.

“Hermione, my best mate,” Harry listed, “and Ron, my other best mate. Ron's mum and sister, and sometimes his dad, too. They had a house fire a few months back and there are still repairs, you know how that is. Then Malfoy, of course. And my friend Viktor came from Bulgaria a few weeks ago.”

“Fuck, how big is your house?” Heather's eyes were wide.

“Um, it's big,” Harry shrugged.

“Potter, that's disgusting,” said a familiar, pompous drawl. “You know better than to speak that way to a lady; honestly, Granger would be ashamed.” Harry spun around to find Draco Malfoy looking no worse for having possibly shagged in a muggle bathroom. He looked exactly as he had when he'd left; except, perhaps his shirt was unbuttoned more than before. A burn mark on his chest was barely visible. And there was a fair bit more perspiration clinging to his face and throat. Malfoy resumed his seat and picked up what was now his bourbon and water. Harry spotted Jack picking up his electric guitar, hair loose and mussed. His lips looked bruised but his clothes weren't askew or any other tell-tales.

Harry leaned over into Malfoy's personal space. He smelled like sweat and outside.

“Well?” he said awkwardly. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Malfoy snapped. He took a deep breath and started again. “I'm fine, Wonder Boy. Jack's invited us back to his hotel for drinks after the show, if you're game.”

“Sure,” Harry nodded. Did that mean Jack and Malfoy hadn't done the deed yet? Were they going to? Wasn't that usually what a hotel invite implied? Harry's head swam. He looked at his fourth pint like it had sprouted horns.

“I'd better get my ass up there,” Heather said, slipping off her stool and smoothing her short dress over her backside. She placed a hand on Harry's knee and examined him closely. “You'll come to the hotel after?”

He nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Good,” she said. She leaned forward. Then they were kissing. It was really nice. She tasted like the gin and tonic she'd been drinking and her lips moved slowly, cool against his own. He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close, deepening the kiss. God damn it, this place was heaven.

The sound of a few experimental guitar chords finally separated them. Heather put a hand to the side of his face, swiping gently at his bottom lip made thick from snogging. He blinked very slowly, his gaze fixed on her wonderful pink lips.

“I'll catch you later, yeah?” she asked, tilting his face to meet her eyes.

“Yes,” Harry said, trying hard not to slur the simple word. Between the ale and the unexpected kiss, his brain was one hundred percent checked out. Heather swooped in for one last peck before fake-slapping his face. She was such a goof. He laughed silently and shook his head as she sauntered away, hips swaying to the little tune Jake strummed.

Harry faced Malfoy, unable to wipe the dopey grin from his face. He tried to bit his bottom lip but there was no sensation left; instead, he braced a hand on Malfoy's shoulder.

“Malfoy, I think you need to drink this,” he mumbled over the music, pointing to his half-drunk fourth ale.

“Saint Potter, did you let the tart get you shit-faced?” Malfoy asked incredulously.

Harry nodded, smiling. Then his face fell. “Heather's not a tart! She's a lovely woman,” he corrected.

“Excuse me,” Malfoy sneered in his best haughty voice. Harry just snorted at him. That seemed to take him down a peg or three. “Look, Wonder Boy, I'll cut you off. You've clearly had too much. But I need to explain something to you first.”

“No need to esplain anee-thing,” Harry mumbled, accepting a glass of water the bartender kindly delivered. “I know you and Jack... whatever. You don't owe me an esplination. Tha's your business.”

“That's not what I meant,” Malfoy cut him off. “This 'Lovely Heather' of yours. You need to understand that she will expect you to put out. You need to inform her that you are inexperienced,” Malfoy said all of this in a slow, matter of fact voice that made Harry very comfortable. He couldn't process a lecture.

“No esperience what-so-ever,” Harry muttered darkly. He almost went for the pint instead of the water, but better judgment won out.

“Yes, Wonder Boy. Boy!” He yelled over the music and Harry jerked to attention. “You must tell her, understand?” Malfoy tilted his head and focused on Harry with a frank, concerned stare. For a moment, Harry saw two Malfoys. He looked away, blinking. “She may not want to fuck you. She doesn't strike me as the type to endure a late-night bout of V.A.S.”

Harry's head snapped to stare at Malfoy: his eyeballs followed a second later. What a funny word, eyeballs. Like testicles you can see with.

“What's V.A.S.?”

Malfoy laughed, picking up Harry's pint and drinking deeply before answering. “Virgin Attachment Syndrome. Usually it's just girls, but you'd be the mopey, clingy sort, Gryffindor.”

“You're a bitch, Slytherin,” Harry fired back.

“No, sweetie,” Malfoy said in a sickeningly patient voice. “That's the right pocket. And I'm a left pocket boy, through and through. You'd do well to remember that.” And he drained the pint in a show of machismo. And Harry was impressed.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry managed to catch Jack outside having a cigarette after the last set. His voice had had a considerably more gravely edge after his rendezvous with Draco. Now Jack was smoking and having a chat with Eric, the band's keyboardist. Harry had settled his and Malfoy's substantial tab and wanted to catch the long-haired musician while Malfoy was in the loo.

“Jack, can I have a word?”

“Of course, man.” Jack turned to make his apologies to Eric. The man shrugged and said he should probably go and help Heather pack up, anyway. In short order, Harry was left in a pool of streetlamp light with Jack, the object of Malfoy's right-now affection. Or lust. Harry wasn't sure. But he knew what he needed to say to the man and he steeled his nerves.

“Look, Jack,” he began, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Malfoy's had a hard time of it. I dunno what he told you and it's not my place to go spilling his secrets, but you need to know. Those scars of his? They're real recent. And there are worse ones than what you see on his arms and stuff. That's the least of it,” Jack opened his mouth to speak but Harry held up a hand, begging his silence. “Malfoy got really fucked up, physically and mentally. He's always been a self-centered ponce and under any other circumstance I wouldn't encourage this, but... right now we all have to smile and nod and do whatever we can to make his life easier.”

“I understand,” Jack said quietly, dragging on his cigarette and not meeting Harry's eyes. “I saw the scars. They're mad.” Harry nodded. “The people who did that to him—they're rotting in jail, right?”

When Harry shook his head, Jack gasped. Anger filled his eerie green eyes. _Good_ , Harry thought. _He's a good man. He actually understands._

“That's why Malfoy's with me,” Harry explained, giving as few details as possible. “I'm part of an underground. We're able to protect him.”

“No offense, but you don't seem like much of a bodyguard,” Jack pointed out. “I mean, are you armed?” He flinched.

“Yes,” Harry replied. His wand was just as deadly as a gun. At least he hoped it was, otherwise what chance did he stand against Voldemort? “But I'm not drawing a weapon when I'm this ploughed. I have to stick close. Malfoy's no china doll—he can cover his arse just fine; but all the same, I gave him my word I would keep him safe. I don't give my word lightly”

“I respect that. And my room's next door to Heather's,” Jack said, giving Harry a wink. “I saw you two.”

“Yeah,” Harry blushed before redirecting. “Um, we're talking about Malfoy, though. If you can, don't mention his tattoo. That'll upset him a lot.”

“Okay,” Jack nodded, breathing the last of his cigarette before stubbing it out with the heel of his classy trainer.

“And don't mention that I told you any of this,” Harry rolled his eyes. “Malfoy's a testy little fucker. He's stubborn as hell. He needs his independence like you wouldn't believe.”

“I kinda figured that out already,” Jack said, pushing the butt around with his foot. “Don't worry, I'll make sure he has a good time. I—” Jack cast around and blushed a deep red from his neck to his ears. “I really like him. He's great.”

“Good,” Harry said, nodding curtly. The night air was really helping settle his head. He didn't feel quite as tossed now. “I'm glad he's decided to open up to someone. I know he's lonely.”

 

  
\- - -

 

 

Harry learned quite a few things while walking to the hotel with Jack, Heather, Eric and Malfoy; for starters, they weren't the usual house band for The Gladstone Arms. They came into London three or four times a month when the regular band had scheduling conflicts. This was their last evening booked and tomorrow they headed back to Southampton. Eric worked for a mobile phone company, Jack managed a record store and Heather attended Uni studying psychology. Harry watched Malfoy walk along and nod, contemplating their muggle lives which must seem so foreign to him.

Harry wasn't sure how it happened but one moment he was standing on the deserted curb as Jack, Eric and Malfoy finished their cigarettes and the next he was alone in Heather's room while she occupied herself with female mysteries in the bathroom. Their hotel was really more of a guest house than anything else but they had splurged for private rooms with private baths. Everything seemed clean if a little under decorated. Harry could do without all the posh polishings so the simple surroundings were fine by him. A small portable radio played quietly from the bedside table. He sat on Heather's bed, which was comfortable. He just remembered to pull his wand from his pants and hide it under one of the pillows before she emerged from the bathroom.

She'd brushed her hair and washed the make up from her face. Without the dark stuff and sparkles lining her eyes, she looked younger. She'd also removed her jewelry, the chunky silver earrings and pearl necklace glittered back at him from the bathroom counter. She looked very beautiful as she walked up to him. With one hand, she swept her hair over to one shoulder and turned, showing him her back.

“Would you mind getting the zipper for me?” 

Her flowery dress fell to the floor. The sight of her was just fantastic; silky black bra and red underthings that didn't cover much at all. And skin. Milky white, feather soft skin. Harry felt his palms sweat as she pressed closer, taking the hem of his tshirt in one hand and tugging it up to reveal his stomach, a few shades darker than her own.

“I want to see you,” she whispered. A second later Harry's shirt was off. He wasn't sure if he'd taken it off or if Heather simply did it for him and he didn't rightly care because she was kissing him, caressing his teeth with her slick little tongue, pressing him back against the bed. Harry managed to kick his trainers and toe off his dingy old socks. His underthings were so mundane compared with hers; hers, he could touch and look at all day long. 

He was still drunk enough not to be self-conscious when she removed his glasses, when she wound her fingers through the coarse hair trailing down his stomach, when she licked a hot path up his neck that sent shivers down his spine.

“You've got a great body,” she simpered, grinding her hips teasingly, tauntingly against his. “You must work out.” 

“Oh. Not really.” His brain was having difficulty forming coherent sentences when his body hissed and jerked the way it did. 

“Play football, then?” she asked, gripping his biceps and planting his arms above his head. Her strong, nimble hands played his muscles like Harry Potter strings; like her bass guitar, he sang at every touch. 

“Football? Yeah,” he mumbled. 

“What position?” One of her hands traveled down his side, mapping every last sensitive place. His entire body was on fire as he found himself panting, out of breath. 

“Second Striker,” he offered a position he'd always enjoyed back at muggle school. It was so hard to think with her hands on him, her lips hovering centimeters from his hot, clammy skin. 

“You play at school?” 

“Yeah,” he moaned against soft blonde hair. Heather's hand wrapped his hip and squeezed gently. The pressure it sent to his groin was mind-blowing. 

“Bet you were a captain,” she smiled against his neck, expertly flicked his earlobe with her tongue. It set his hips to writhing something awful. He was clearly out of his league.

“House captain,” he gasped, “my last two years. Oh God, it's so hard to talk when you're doing that.” Her laughing breath danced down his neck. He never knew there was a path leading from his neck directly to his balls, but he damn well knew it now. He could feel every vein in his nether-regions as though his blood had been replaced with acid— _Merlin_ , if that slow burn didn't feel fucking phenomenal!

“We don't have to talk,” she whispered, lowering herself completely onto his chest and wrapping arms and legs around him in a heady pile. She rolled so that they lay entangled on their sides, staring into one another's eyes. Gods, she was so beautiful. 

“I, um, have to tell you something you might not like,” Harry managed to get out after several steadying breaths. 

“Okay,” Heather pulled back in his arms. He thought that might help him focus until he saw the way gravity effected her breasts. They wanted to pop right out of her bra. He could see the faintest trace of darker skin, suggesting her nipple was just one deep breath away from his sight. The better half of his mind waged a lengthy battle with his frenzied hormones; eventually, his better side emerged the victor. 

“I haven't done this before,” he admitted, eyes falling closed in shame. 

“Hmm?” she hummed softly. “Had a fling? It's perfectly okay. I don't expect anything if that's what you're worried about. I'm a big girl, Harry. I can handle it.” 

“I know that,” Harry replied, now even more embarrassed. “I'm not... I haven't done anything before. I'm a virgin.” 

“Oh.” 

The pressing silence was deadly. Harry didn't dare open his eyes and Heather didn't move in his arms, though he could feel her jaw working soundlessly against his arm.

“I'm sorry,” Harry whinged, distraught. “I know I should've said something earlier, I know that, I was just... really enjoying everything. I understand if you can't be bothered with a guy who hasn't the foggiest what he's doing.” 

She shushed him with a gentle sound. It went right to his chest, hitching his breath in an almost sob and doubling the pace of his heart. She seemed to know exactly what was going on. Her cool hand found its way to his chest, settling in to stroke up and down his sternum at a slow, steady pace that eased his tension.

“Shh,” she repeated. “It's okay. It's okay, Harry.” Her hand was just as soothing as her words. “That must've felt pretty fast then, huh?” He nodded dumbly, biting his lip. A good part of the sensation was back in his limbs and he was thankful. He very much wanted to feel what was coming; that was, if Heather's previous illusions were still on the table. Or the bed, rather. “Why don't we just take it slow and you let me know if you're getting close, okay?” 

“Sure,” he was able to open his eyes to meet her gaze. Thank God she was smiling happily at him. 

“How far have you gotten?” 

Oh, damn it all to hell! Harry flushed again.

“This far,” he sighed. 

“Oh, dear,” was her reply. 

“I've really bollocksed it up, haven't I?”

“No, no!” she laughed that very reassuring, happy laugh. It was softer because she was so close, and her breasts brushed against his chest. “I was just thinking. My first time, I didn't tell the person I was with and it's something I've always regretted. The experience could have been really different. I was thinking what I would have liked that person to say, what would have made me feel better back then.” 

“That person?” Harry asked quietly. 

“Well,” and Heather actually blushed. “My first time was with a girl. I'm bisexual.” 

“Do you know what you might've liked her to say?” Harry prodded gingerly. 

“Yeah, I think so,” she smiled then, brushing her fingertips over his forehead, his scar, and pushing his sweaty hair off his face. “The first thing is how far you feel comfortable going.” 

“Er, all the way, I think.” 

“Typical guy,” Heather rolled her eyes playfully. “And how much do you want to know about my body, how things work? Because it's very different for men and women.” 

“I know,” Harry smiled weakly. “I'd like to know as much as possible if you'll show me.” 

 

 

 

Heather was such a good teacher. She would say a few words and then let him explore and figure things out on his own. Preferably with his tongue. Before too long he had her naked and gasping, writhing and moaning happily under the power of his own two hands.

“Enough foreplay,” she insisted, her lips and breasts rubbed red from kissing and strong, insistent hands. Once he'd figured out what he was doing, Harry had not been shy about it; he'd been direct and firm, often inquiring how something felt or what would make it even better for her. Eventually he learned to go on the sounds she made, the little gasps, shivers and shrieks he elicited when tongue and teeth became involved. “ _Please_ let me show you my clit! You're a fast learner.”

“Come here, then,” Harry smiled, sitting up and pulling her into his lap. He'd gone down to his boxers but wasn't quite ready to fully join the action; for now, it was just about her. 

“By the way,” she cooed, head tilted back at a crazy angle to nip at an exposed tendon in his neck. “No woman will require that much foreplay. Ever. I just wanted you to get the idea.” 

“Sure,” he muttered, focused on scraping his teeth along her delicate collar bone and reveling in the heart-pounding moan it produced. For a woman who harped on about soft and gentle, soft and gentle, she'd responded awfully well to his forward advances. Her round backside pressed against his growing hardness. 

“Okay, watch first,” she said, earning his full attention. God, he loved watching. “I'm going to show you what I like, then you join in, okay?” He nodded against her neck, wrapping both arms around her middle and squashing down her breasts with his forearms to afford himself a better view. He'd already been treated to a few damp slides across his thigh. He was prepared to have his eyes opened.

Her hand slid down, past the well-manicured thatch of hair— _compared to my untamed Forbidden Forest_ , he thought with an apprehensive shudder—and she began to squirm, her body tensing and unfurling in a regular rhythm. The feel of her writhing against him was really something. He watched her fingers probe and roll like she was plucking at the strings of her bass. He could watch her all fucking day. He sat there, transfixed, drooling as she got closer and closer.

“Come on, then,” she simpered. She unwrapped his right hand from her torso, bringing his hand down to join her own. “I'm so close.” 

“But I don't....” 

“Shh,” she cooed, guiding his thick fingers over her, damp and smooth. She slid the tip of his finger inside her. Wow, wow, wow. He couldn't help the satisfied rumble shaking his chest. “Yeah, that's where you're gonna go. But not yet,” she said with a throaty laugh, drawing his fingers higher. “Here's what makes it fun for me.” She guided his forefinger in a tight, grinding circle over a tight little bump there. She shivered when he pressed harder, pinching and rolling it between his fingers. 

“Oh!” she gasped, pressing her shoulders against his chest and digging her heels into the mattress. “That's almost too much!” 

He backed off just a bit, returning to the lighter pressure she had shown him. She moaned and relaxed in his arms. It really wasn't very interesting though. He liked it when she tensed, when she hovered on the precipice between mind-blowing and sharp, stinging over-stimulation. What was wrong with too much, anyway?

He held her against him and pressed the way he really wanted to. Her whole body stiffened, hands gathering white sheets in two tight fists. She bit her lip and moaned, her head tossing from side to side.

“Still too much?” he teased. 

“Yes, but...” she mumbled, semi-coherent. “Oh God! Oh God!” She shook, legs snapping together to trap his hand in the hot wetness of her. He continued to work his hand as she squirmed, squeaked, whined. He pressed his thighs against hers, holding her legs together as her body began to unfurl in release. 

To her apparent shock, he kept right on going. He pressed harder, driving a finger into her and then two. Her hips bucked against his hand in a spasm. He had only the vaguest idea of what he was doing but it felt oh-so-right.

“Oh, Harry,” she moaned. “Too... too....” There she was, trying to tell him “too much” again. He wasn't hurting her, so he didn't back off. She sounded delirious, anyway. Flicking hard with his thumb got her shaking. Swirling the fingers inside got her moaning wildly, eyes closed and head thrown back against him. “Oh, Jesus fucking—oh God, Christ!” 

Harry bit down on her shoulder, fighting the sudden urge to actually slap her down there. Some part of his reptilian brain told him it would make her feel good. He told that part it was mental and resisted with everything he was worth. Heather made a startled noise as his teeth raked against her flesh. She attempted to ride his hand with unbridled fury. He clamped his legs around hers to keep her from moving, to prevent her from squirming and ruining his plan. She screeched from behind clenched teeth and more wetness shot out, spraying his palm.

He fell sideways with her, cushioning her fall onto the mattress.

“Phew!” she managed between gasps. 

“Wha'?” Harry mumbled, face buried in her sweet, sweat-tinged hair. 

“I've only ever read about those!” 

“Those? What'd I do?” Harry asked, apprehensive.

Heather craned her neck to look at him sideways. “Forced orgasm,” she explained, still short of breath. “Some people who are really experienced can make their partner come when the person is actively trying not to, usually by overstimulating them when they've just come to force a second involuntary orgasm—that's what you did. It's usually associated with sadomasochism.”

“Huh?” he squeaked.

“You, my dear Harry,” she smiled, “probably have a dominance fetish.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry spluttered, not knowing what else to say. “Is that bad?” 

“Goodness, no!” she reassured him, pulling his arm tighter around her. She cuddled closer, her backside nestled tightly against his groin. “And don't let anyone tell you different! Fetishes are really healthy and normal. Everybody has them whether they admit it or not. But you should tell your partner about it, so they know.” 

“Sorry,” Harry whispered, trying to hide in her long hair splayed out over the sheets. 

“Oh, you didn't know!” she laughed softly, slapping his hip. “But now that we do.... I think it's time you got your cock in me.”

Harry froze, her soft hair clinging to his lips as he breathed.

“Yeah?” he managed. His voice was so deep it didn't even sound like himself. She nodded excitedly. 

“Ready? You want to?”

“If you're ready...” Harry shrugged, loosening his hold so she could sit up.

“You really are a sweetheart, you know that?” she said lightly, trailing a warm hand down his chest before crawling away to get off the bed. “I just wanna put you in my case and bring you home.” 

That made Harry chuckle. She retrieved a hair band from her purse, securing her hair in a loose knot at the back of her head. It drew his attention to her long, beautiful neck and the red marks his mouth had already left there. Hopefully he was about to make a few more.

“Lie on your back, Harry,” she said, putting a knee to the bed. “You've been so good. I want you to relax and enjoy it.” 

At those words, his cock got so hard he thought he would explode right then and there. He needed to get the last of his clothes off. He needed release. It was like needing oxygen—there was absolutely no doubt in his mind what he needed to survive. Heather crouched over him on the bed and he watched her, petal-soft skin and silver piercings, pulling his boxers down. She tossed them aside with a feral grin before focusing on his throbbing anatomy.

“God fucking damn it,” she breathed. 

“Wha'? Wha's wrong?” Harry panted, eyes flying to the ceiling. 

“You're... really thick,” she let out the happiest laugh he'd heard all night. “Aren't I a lucky girl? The first to ride this.” She wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and he almost came right then.

“Gah!” he spluttered. “Gonna come!” 

“Okay,” she said, pulling her hand away but resting her fingers on his upper thigh. “Let me grab the... hmm.” She froze on her knees between his legs, a little cellophane package in her hand. Harry realized it was a condom and his heart almost stopped. Heather gave him a rather bracing look. She looked worried, her teeth showing through an anxious smile that didn't reach her eyes this time. “Sweetie, I don't think this is gonna fit you.” 

“Well, I mean, don't they stretch?” Harry pleaded. 

Heather gave him a very well-meaning look. “Not that much.”

Harry never hated having magic. But right then the knowledge that his wand was a few feet away burned at him. He could just grab his wand, cast a quick _Engorgio_ and proceed to lose his virginity to this absolutely beautiful and enchanting woman. Maybe he could do the charm non-verbally? That way she wouldn't know. He was already reaching under the pillow when his conscience stopped him.

 _Don't do magic in front of muggles_ , said the little voice in his head. _It's against the law, for starts. And it would be wrong to use magic for your own gain. You're just going to have to bite the bullet this time._

“I could run to the chemist,” Harry offered. He'd willingly suffer the embarrassment of buying condoms. He'd suffered worse. And the reward would be well worth it. 

“It's almost three in the morning, love,” she said with a frustrated sigh, tossing the little condom package aside. “Boots is closed.” 

Harry gave her a really weird look. It took a minute for his brain to figure out she meant Boots Pharmacy, a chain of muggle stores. When he heard “Boots,” he'd thought of his Hogwarts schoolmate, Terry Boot, and that did some harm to his erection. Not like he'd need it anymore.

“I'm sorry, hun,” Heather said, misinterpreting the look he'd shot her. “I don't have sex without a condom.” 

“I understand,” he said. It wasn't like he had any diseases to give her. She'd been the first person to touch him, for fuck's sake! But he didn't want to be a father yet, so a condom was absolutely necessary. He wondered what wizards used. 

“Don't look so down,” Heather said softly, running a hand down his cheek. “I have another idea. Ever had a blow job?”

 

 

 

Blow jobs were bloody fantastic. Heather warned him not to buck his hips or she would choke, but compliance was difficult once she got going. His dick wanted to fuck. And her mouth was wet and warm, sucking at him while her hands fondled him everywhere at once. It was good and he was almost there.

He sort of... hung in the middle, hard but not feeling the tenseness in his gut which signaled the inevitable. It was like there was something missing and he couldn't remember what it was, like he'd been Obliviated and the memory of how to orgasm had been wiped from his brain. He was hard as a rock and Heather looked so good, bobbing up and down while making those humming noises of encouragement that wound his bollocks tighter every time. He wanted to come but his equipment just... wasn't. It had been at least fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Was that normal?

Heather pulled back, stroking his length with her hand and looking up from between his legs. From this angle, her breasts framed his cock and it was yet another hot sight to catalog.

“You getting close?” she asked. 

“Yeah,” he said with a wince. 

“Don't force it,” she smiled and reached for his right hand fisted in the sheets. “Here. Why don't you show me what you usually do? I can get a better idea of what you like.” 

Harry didn't trust his voice so he nodded dumbly, watching her bring his hand to his own shaft. He closed his eyes, wrapped his hand and gave a few experimental pumps. It was almost like he was back in bed at Grimmauld Place, wanking to stupid fantasies he'd invented from Dudley's dirty magazines he'd found hidden in the linen closet when he was fourteen. Summers hadn't been quite as bad after that. He worked himself, rocking into it until he was panting slightly. Then Heather joined him, her tongue plying the skin just below his balls. In another minute, she removed his hand to replace it with her own, picking up his rhythm and pressure. That was better but he didn't feel any closer to the edge.

He was getting frustrated. Heather was probably annoyed but—angel that she was—didn't show it. He watched her work his length, her mouth closing over the head and sucking powerfully. Gods, he needed to come and it just wasn't, wasn't....

A loud _crack_ echoed through the small room. It took a second to place—not Apparition, not a house elf, but definitely magical. A Privacy Ward breaking down! Suddenly, he could hear noises; the steady _thump, thump_ of a bed bouncing against a shared wall, an actual squeak of bed springs, and quiet moans of “ah” and “oh” every other second, seemingly in time with the bed's movement. Every other syllable was unintelligible due to the banging. Heather rolled her eyes but kept working Harry and he was thankful.

Then it happened. He heard Malfoy. He just... knew it was Malfoy. He knew how the man spoke, how he yelled when he was angry, how he howled when injured or cursed. He'd never heard Malfoy sound like this before: he was growling, the other voice whimpering. Malfoy sounded powerful, his voice crackling with rage and magic.

“ _E_ _nculé_ _! Tais toi et tu prenez, salop! Ferme ta Gueule!_ _”_ Malfoy screamed the last bit, followed by the unmistakable sound of a slap.

Without warning, Harry shot his load. He'd never come so fast or so hard in his entire life. He moaned as his orgasm ripped through him, stomach tense and teeth gritted. He let the heat wash over him, knowing it would be over in a matter of seconds. Heather's wet mouthed coaxed more from him, pulled and prolonged until he was writhing and screaming. On the other side of the wall, Malfoy screamed too.

Everything went quiet after that. The bed stopped slamming against the wall and Heather sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Yup,” she sighed, flopping down next to him. “You definitely have a fetish or two.”

Harry was speechless. She turned out the light.

 

 

 **\- - -**

 

 

Harry woke with a start, cold fear pumping through his veins. He'd dreamed of the Hall of Prophecy, the ghost-like wisps of Seers reaching out to him, whispering in tongues he couldn't understand no matter how hard he tried. His mother screamed from the next room but there were no doors in or out of the Hall. Shards from broken prophecies cut his hands and face as he ran. He woke in a cold sweat, unsure where he was. A warm hand pushed sweat-soaked hair off his forehead.

“You okay?” came a woman's sleepy voice from beside him.

The evening rushed back to him: Heather—he was in a hotel bed with Heather Lightly, bass player and Uni student from Southampton. His wand was hidden under the pillow and his clothes presumably strewn across the floor. Malfoy would be asleep in the next room. The little radio on the nightstand played “Behind Blue Eyes” by The Who. Harry wiped cold sweat from his face before rubbing at his eyes. His dreams were never a good omen. Sure, the mental link between himself and Voldemort had been cut off but the things his own mind conjured in the dark of night frightened him almost as much as any image sent from Tom Riddle to haunt or taunt him into submission. He gritted his teeth, hands clenching into fists. “Harry?” Heather sounded worried.

“I'm fine,” he managed from behind his teeth. “Nightmare.”

“You sure you're alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry sat fully upright and shrugged. He didn't know where his glasses were and had to resist the temptation to _Accio_ them. “What's the time?” 

“Half six,” Heather yawned, touching the smalls of Harry's back before she rolled away onto her side. “You should get some sleep. You look shattered.” 

Harry felt shattered. Curling back up in the warm bed and ignoring his problems sounded damn nice... but he couldn't forget Malfoy in the next room over. He had to sneak Malfoy and himself back into Grimmauld Place within the next two hours or they'd be busted. He had to wake Malfoy and brave the journey home—the Slytherin was going to be cranky beyond words. Harry groaned at the thought, dragging himself out of bed to look for his pants.

“Are you leaving?” Heather asked, sheet held over her front as she gazed at him across the bed. 

“I'm sorry. I have to go,” Harry tugged on his underwear and began searching for his trousers. “Malfoy's not supposed to leave the house, even. He sort of snuck out and I followed him. I have to get him back before anyone notices he's gone or they might... take him away from me.” Harry froze with one leg in his khakis, knowing he'd said too much.

“What do you mean 'take him away?' I thought you two were mates.” 

“We are; now, anyway,” Harry got both legs into the tight trousers and pulled, jumping once to get them over his derriere and then securing the zipper and catches before they could go anywhere. “Malfoy didn't exactly run away for the summer. He... has to stay with me for his own protection. He's not a danger,” Harry clarified quickly, hunting down his socks and trainers. “Malfoy's harmless, if a bit of a prat. But I'm responsible for him. And I can't have my superiors knowing I let him loose in London even for a night. I'd lose my job.” It was sort-of true; he'd lose his good standing with the Order, which if everything went according to plan _would be_ his job for the next year—or however long it took to find the Horcruxes and destroy them all, including Voldemort himself. 

Heather must have noticed the serious look on his face. She pursed her lips in a thin line and nodded. “I understand. I don't want you to risk your job, Harry. If you need to go....” Her gaze drifted to the door and then back to Harry on the edge of the bed, tying up his trainers in a hurry. “Can I at least give you my number? We could have a drink or something next time I'm in town,” she smiled conspiratorially. “And you could bring your little friend for Jack. I think they hit it off.”

Harry tried mightily not to flush at the word “hit.” The two had indeed hit something.

“I'd like that,” Harry smiled tightly. It probably looked a little fake but he didn't have much else to give. He was focused on getting Malfoy back home and covering their asses. “I can't make promises for Malfoy, though—he's stubborn as shit and a real wild-card.” 

When Heather reached across the nightstand to retrieve her purse and write her telephone number, Harry slid his hand under the spare pillow, feeling about for his wand. He found it a split second before Heather turned to him with the slip of paper. With seeker reflexes, he hid his wand behind his back, tucking it into the waistband of his boxers like a gun.

“Do I want to know what was under the pillow?” she asked, quiet and serious. With pale skin and platinum hair, her glare was Malfoy-esque. Harry secured his wand before slipping his glasses from the nightstand onto his face. 

“No.” 

“Would you tell me if I asked?”

Harry couldn't bear to tell her no again, so he shook his head. It was still no, but a sad no. He retrieved his shirt from nearly under the bed, having to bend carefully so the curious blonde couldn't sneak a peak at his wand. He tugged the garment on and adjusted his glasses, ruffling his hair. It probably looked like he'd slept in a pig sty but he couldn't care less.

Heather waggled her slip of paper at him. He knelt on the bed and leaned forward to take it, giving her a little kiss on the cheek as their fingers met. He pulled the paper from her hand and put it in his pocket.

She smiled at that. “Goodbye, Harry.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry knocked.

Nothing.

He knocked again, slightly louder.

Still nothing.

If it were just Malfoy, he'd bang on the bloody door. As it was quarter of seven and he stood in a cramped guesthouse hallway, he settled for quiet knocking. He whispered the wizard's name twice, followed by the muggle's name, and still not a peep. They needed to get back. He hunched over the door handle to block himself from imaginary eyes. “ _Alohomora._ ”

The door knob turned in his palm and he crept into the dark room, closing the door with a soft _click_ behind him. He breathed a little sigh of relief upon spotting Malfoy alone in the bed. Harry wasn't sure where the muggle Jack was and he didn't care. He needed to get Malfoy out. 

The room's set-up was identical to Heather's with the exception of the little radio on the nightstand—that must have been Heather's. Malfoy lay sprawled on his back, the sheet mercifully draped to cover his lower half. As Harry inched closer, he noted a few mostly empty water bottles and a towel on the side table. The towel bore dark, streaked splotches; after closer inspection, Harry decided it was blood. What the hell had gone on, here? He examined Malfoy. The blonde looked fine. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked drawn and paler than usual, but Harry couldn't detect any injuries. He threw a locking spell at the door before sitting on the very edge of the bed. Malfoy hogged most of it. Jack had either gone out for a cigarette or gave up on sharing his bed with the blonde and opted for the quiet keyboardist, Eric, instead.

 _Get Malfoy out_ , he reminded himself.  _Now_ . 

Enervating Malfoy would be quickest but might very well scare the living piss out of the twitchy ferret. So Harry woke him the old fashioned way with a hand to his shoulder and a good shake.

Malfoy groaned and tried to swat his hand away.

“Wake up,” Harry insisted. “Come on.”

Malfoy groaned again but turned his tousled platinum head in the direction of Harry's voice. That was a start.

“Time to wake up,” Harry pressed. 

Malfoy's hand slithered up his arm, seeking out the front of his shirt and gathering it in his strong fist. Harry rolled his eyes. Malfoy was certainly a fighter when it came to his beauty sleep.

Instead of a battle, Harry found himself yanked forward to a set of parted, waiting lips.

Malfoy kissed him feverishly and with unrestrained passion. You'd think the blonde was still fucking, the way his lips opened hotly to grind, suck and lick, setting off sparks like Weasley's Wizard Wheezes fireworks. Harry had his astonished mouth probed by a thick, wonton tongue sliding across the roof of his mouth before vaulting off his front teeth, swiping messily at Harry's bottom lip before biting down fiercely. It all happened so fast! Malfoy was poised for another tongue thrust when he noticed his kissing partner's uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. Or any response at all, for that matter. Harry hadn't made so much as a squeak or a squawk, glued in place by surprise. Malfoy froze, slippery wet lips still pressed to Harry's. Malfoy inhaled deeply and then held that breath for a good twenty seconds before forcing it out his nose in a huff that held many emotions, pleasure no longer being one of them. He may have pulled his lips back with a damp little _pop_ but he didn't release what was fast becoming a death grip on Harry's shirt.

“Potter,” he breathed. What, did Malfoy know him by smell, now?

“Correct.” 

“I thought you were Jack.” 

“Clearly.” Harry's lips still tingled and not necessarily in a good way. It felt like... magic. He glared at the blonde so fiercely that the other man released his shirt and scooted until his back hit the headboard. The blonde wore his practiced mask. 

Malfoy had kissed him, thinking he was Jack. Malfoy had intended that kiss for Jack. Malfoy had been using magic on his muggle sex partner. Harry was so angry his vision began to waver.

“Where's your wand?” he growled, not sounding remotely like himself. 

Malfoy drew his wand from a hiding spot between the mattress and box spring. A small portion of Harry's brain admitted it was better than under the pillow. The rest of his brain was fuming that Malfoy had performed wandless sex magic on an unsuspecting muggle, breaking about six different wizarding laws. He let his rage boil over into his eyes. Malfoy pressed himself flush with the headboard.

“Get dressed, Malfoy. We're leaving.” Harry got up and turned his back on the bed. Unfortunately there was a long mirror on the opposite wall in which he could still observe the Slytherin.

“How long until we're missed?” the blonde asked petulantly, going to wrap the sheet around his waist so he could stand. “I need a shower.” He ran a long, slender hand down his chest, testing his skin to prove his point. His expression might've made you think he was covered in dragon dung instead of... whatever he was actually covered in. Harry had no desire to look.

“Make due with a Cleaning Charm,” Harry snapped. “I'm leaving in two minutes. _Accio Invisibility Cloak_.”

That got Malfoy moving. He tented the sheet over his body and began pulling on clothes at random. He discovered a pair of socks weren't his and tossed them at Harry. In less than a minute Malfoy emerged, tucking his shirt tails into his trousers before doing up the fly with a flourish. Harry watched him sidestep to the nightstand, leaning over it pensively. First he took a half-full water bottle. Then a half-sheet of black laminated paper. He put the paper back. Then he lifted up a chain of neon blue cellophane wrappers, ripping it in half, folding both halves neatly and shoving one pile in his pocket. Harry knew exactly what those were, now. Malfoy didn't even blush. He collected these things mechanically as Harry watched his reflection in the mirror.

Before Harry could stop him, Malfoy had pulled his wand. He had an impossibly fast and yet liquid draw. He'd already swished and flicked a silent incantation by the time Harry spun about to protest. Like he'd seen Dumbledore and Slughorn do almost a year ago, the room began to tidy itself. Towels flew back to the bathroom, clothes folded and flew into a waiting suitcase, and the bed made itself—dark flecks scrubbing themselves out of the sheets. In seconds, the room was immaculate.

“Isn't that a tad suspicious?” Harry asked coldly, raising his eyebrows. 

“ _Casse-toi, Mouffi_ ,” Malfoy muttered darkly.

Harry focused his attention on Malfoy's Dark Mark before hissing, “ _Same to you, I'd imagine._ ”

Malfoy twitched. “ _Merde_ , don't just... do that. It's disturbing, Scar Head.” 

“Why should it bother you?” Harry pressed. Perhaps Malfoy thought Prince Potter shouldn't have a dark side. How little he knew. “Jealous, _salop_?” Harry repeated a word he'd heard from the other side of the wall. It certainly had the desired result. Malfoy's face paled and his mouth opened twice before he could splutter. 

“How did y—” comprehension dawned on his pale, exhausted face. “You heard.” 

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed sourly. “Nice Privacy Ward. Too bad it broke. Magic in front of muggles: good thinking.” He was sleep-deprived and testy while Malfoy didn't have the energy to stand and fight back simultaneously. “Malfoy, I'm dropping it. Put your wand away and let's head back. We've got less than an hour before our bacon is fried.” 

“ _D'accord_ ,” Malfoy said without thinking, stowing his wand. 

“Suppose that means you agree, yeah?” 

“Suppose right, Potter,” Malfoy sighed, ruffling his very messy hair. “Let's head back. Must I crouch under that infernal cloak of yours?” 

“I guess we can wait until we're off the underground,” Harry conceded. He unlocked the door magically and held out his hand for Malfoy to precede him. 

They decided to lock the door because Jack's things were inside. The muggle would probably wonder how his fuckmate had escaped a locked room but then again, Malfoy was a weird enough bloke Harry suspected Jack would believe just about anything by now. They left the guesthouse with no sight of the man. There were plenty of cigarette butts in the urn outside, though. Harry shot Malfoy a sideways look but the blonde remained impassive, wearing his Malfoy mask even with bed hair and wrinkled clothes.

The tube station was pretty crowded with early-morning commuters. He and Malfoy were the recipients of many knowing stares. They were doing the walk of shame. Harry, at least, felt nothing to be ashamed of—except deceiving the Order, Ron and Hermione. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely noticed Malfoy's head droop onto his shoulder around Moorgate. He let the blonde slump against him for a few stops. He'd planned to get off at King's Cross and walk the twenty minutes home, but Malfoy truly wasn't having it. In the end, he piggy-backed the cranky Slytherin through King's Cross, transferring to the line that would drop them near St. James Gardens. He carried a sleeping Malfoy on his back from Euston. It was barely a five minute walk and Malfoy really wasn't that heavy.

Concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak, he crept back into Grimmauld Place—narrowly avoiding Mrs. Weasley in the hall. He deposited Malfoy in bed before tiptoeing to his own room, hoping to catch at least an hour of sleep before showering and preparing for the day. But that morning, sleep eluded him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French Dialogue**  
>  _Enculé! Tais toi et tu prenez, salop! Ferme ta Gueule!_ \- Bastard/Faggot! Shut up and you take it, bitch! Shut your fucking face (animal, non-human)!  
>  _Casse-toi, Mouffi!_ \- Go fuck yourself, prick!  
>  _Merde_ – shit  
>  _salop_ – (m) bitch/whore/trash  
>  _D'accord_ – I agree/okay
> 
>  
> 
>  **DISCLAIMERS:**  
>  \- Heather is loosely based on the character Tippi from Roger Simpson's television series “Satisfaction.”  
> \- The song mentioned is “Sparks” by Coldplay. The album Parachutes was released July of 2000.  
> \- No slight or injury is intended on The Gladstone Arms, which is in fact a delightful little pub on Lant.
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I had to pay homage to Scar Head The Blundering's first sexual encounter—sometimes I think it's a miracle he made it to penetrative intercourse! The hetero scene contained herein was first envisioned in a much colder light but, as I've been writing Harry, I've arrived at the realization that he is very much a fragile spirit and needs the affirmation not only of his physical attractiveness but of his own sensuality, feelings and desires. This scene took on a life of its own and I'm pretty happy with what ended up on the page. Sexual exploration is a huge topic and I'm trying to be as realistic as possible. Anal sex is like professional football—you don't go from the stands to the field. There's intramural, junior varsity, varsity. Baby steps. I promise you, Scar Head will get there.


	11. Eight of Wands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when Harry needs a moment to sit and process the new developments in his life, the world owls him a complete set of limited-edition curve-balls. How will he handle the pressure?

 

 

  
Harry knew it was going to be a bad day. He'd gotten less than four hours of sleep in total, most of it filled with nightmares of the Department of Mysteries. He'd laid in bed for two hours after sneaking back with Malfoy: he'd spent those two hours staring at the canopy of his four poster with his arms behind his head, trying to decipher what exactly had happened with Heather. Her phone number was still stuffed in his pocket. He wondered if he would ever have the nerve to sneak out to a pay phone and call her—Grimmauld Place had no telephone and electricity in only one room, which was wired sometime in the 1920's by Harry's estimation. It was so behind building codes, he wouldn't advise plugging in a toaster. The house might go up in flames and then what?   


Harry had sort of, maybe, kind of lost part of his virginity the night before. He wasn't exactly sure. And the only person he could talk to about it was Malfoy. And the Slytherin was probably blissfully asleep, dreaming of whatever the hell he'd done with Jack the muggle. That was something Harry really didn't need to dwell on.

He'd forced his aching body out of bed only to find he also suffered from his first hangover. His stomach hurt, his eyes were sensitive and dry, and the only thing he wanted was tea. Maybe some toast. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and nearly scared himself.

A long, hot shower had sounded like such a good idea. Tired beyond words, he cut his jaw shaving. After that, the steamy water just burned and he called it quits. He dabbed on a little Fast-Healing Potion from the medicine cabinet and dragged his sorry arse to the kitchen. In retrospect, he probably should have gone back to bed and died. The kitchen was where the day's troubles began.

 

 

Hermione and Ron sat across from one another, her nose in a book and his face in a plate of seconds. A large basket of various fruits, breads and biscuits sat on the buffet and Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen or heard.

“Morning,” Harry mumbled, making himself a cuppa while wishing he could do like Malfoy did—just wave his wand and watch everything make itself up. That was something to look into. “Post here yet?”

“No, mate,” Ron shrugged, tearing into a scone loaded with cream.

“Harry, you don't look well,” Hermione observed.

“I feel like shite. Didn't sleep at all last night. Old nightmares,” he put everything in simple terms bound to elicit sympathy and limit questions. He couldn't deal with much more talking. “Now I have this headache. It's like a mountain troll trying to get out of my head. Hermione, I believe those are your specialty?”

That got him a laugh around the table.

“I think Mrs. Weasley left some potions ingredients. I'll whip you up something soon as we're done here,” she patted his shoulder.

“I... thought I heard her early this morning,” Harry caught himself just in time. He'd almost run into Mrs. Weasley on the stairs, carting one shagged-out Slytherin Ice Prince to bed. “Should we expect her later?”

“I don't think so,” said Ron, licking cream off his lips and leaning in conspiratorially. Never mind that they were the only ones in the kitchen. “I think she's suspects we're planning something. You know, the Horcruxes. She wants to give us space to do what we need to do.”

“You think?” Harry asked, gingerly taking his tea.

“I sort of had a talk with her,” Ron scratched the back of his neck. “Told her that we love her but we're seventeen now and we're making our own decisions. She's not exactly happy, but she understands. She said she respects what you're trying to do, Harry.”

“And what's that?” he asked dryly.

“Givin' people hope, mate,” Ron said as though it should be obvious. “Your fightin' him.”

“Sitting in my Azkaban with my tail between my legs,” Harry muttered darkly. “Some hero I'm turning out to be.”

“You're sounding like that bloody git, Malfoy,” Ron scolded.

  
  
  
_  
Maybe that bloody git Malfoy has a stonking great point   
_   
  
, Harry thought.   


“We just have to gather more information,” Hermione reassured him. “I have a few books coming in from the Restricted Section courtesy of Professor McGonagall, and we still need to check the books here. We're just in the planning stages, Harry. Don't be discouraged.”

  
Harry almost told her “   
  
_  
d'accord   
_   
  
.” Maybe he    
  
_  
was   
_   
  
spending too much time with Malfoy.   


“Okay,” he said blandly. “Mrs. Weasley was bringing in food every week, though. So how're we eating?” The thought of food made his stomach turn at the moment but he hoped that would change as the day went on.

“Well,” Ron flinched and Hermione gave him a dirty look. “Kreacher will pick up our grocery order for now. Dad says the three of us are too high-profile to go ourselves. We shouldn't be going into major wizarding areas.”

“Makes sense,” Harry agreed. Much as he didn't like the idea of using Kreacher—the demented thing at least partly responsible for Sirius' death—it was a better option than inconveniencing Mrs. Weasley. And this way, Harry might have his house a little more to himself. “I guess I'm cooking.”

“Why would you say that?” Hermione said lightly but her face was firm. “I'm a great cook.”

When she settled back to her book, Ron discreetly pointed to the soggy remains of whatever she had attempted to prepare for breakfast now occupying the rubbish bin. Harry would be cooking, then.

  
He looked up when he heard the flutter of owls entering the kitchen. When the birds dropped their parchments and packages, Harry realized he had plenty to sort through. He started with an official-looking owl addressed to him from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. This could be very good or very bad. He broke the seal as Hermione pounced on a copy of    
  
_  
Witch Weekly   
_   
  
. She never liked those gossip rags... maybe she was on her period. Harry shrugged and quickly read his letter. It made him smile.    


“What's up?” Ron asked.

“I've been named Malfoy's Official Ministry Liaison,” Harry couldn't stop smiling. He was happy to be able to do something and at the same time so beyond frustrated with the Ministry's antics. “Now that they know I was behind Malfoy's change of heart and the subsequent 'daring rescue,'” he and Ron snorted in unison, “they want the both of us to do a press conference as soon as possible. The old poster boy motif. Except now I'm supposed to convert people, too. Hermione, is Malfoy my Mary Magdalene?”

Hermione nearly laughed herself off the bench. Harry tried to explain why it was funny to Ron, who had grown up with almost no exposure to world religions, but comparing Malfoy to a female prostitute traipsing around in Harry's wake was enough for Ron and he started laughing too.

Harry found a muggle package addressed to Malfoy care of himself. It had already been scanned by Aurors so he knew it was clean. When he shook it, the insides swished around like they were soft.

“The last of Malfoy's clothes,” Hermione informed him as he eyed the package.

“This is French, right?” Harry asked, pointing to the white scroll on the front of the large black box.

  
“Yes, Dior is French,” she said. “   
  
_  
Homme   
_   
  
at the end just means 'for men.'”    


Whatever made Malfoy happy, right? Harry set the package aside. He reached for a stack of his muggle post. It wasn't like he ever got much.

“Oh goodness!” Hermione gasped, flattening her magazine to the table and pointing. “Harry....” And then she was laughing. “Is that what happened?!”

  
Harry looked down at the stupid article.    
  
_  
Witch Weekly   
_   
  
was always running mindless drivel about him. He'd stopped paying attention.    


The photo got him. Under the banner of “Potter's New Flame” stood himself and 'Petra,' also known as The Day Draco Malfoy Had Tits. Merlin, had it only been yesterday? With everything that had happened between then and now—Malfoy punching him, their excursion to The Gladstone Arms, then Heather and Jack—it felt like a week, at least. He needed to sleep more.

  
The photograph had been looped to capture their exact actions. The Harry in the picture looked aggravated and aggressive as he advanced on Petra. She appeared to be egging the little Harry on. At the last second, little Harry flicked his wand and a gust of wind blew by, flipping Petra's skirt to show her knickers. She pushed the fabric down with one hand, leveling her wand at Harry with the other.    
  
_  
Witch Weekly   
_   
  
readers didn't get to see the perfect Full Body Bind 'Petra' had cast, followed by a bloody fantastic Incarcerus Charm complete with ball gag. They'd both been thrown out of the examination area for dueling. It hadn't been funny then, but Harry chuckled now. He got Malfoy a little bit more every day.   


Hermione scanned the article, summarizing that the writer suspected Harry was on the prowl for a new romantic interest. The writer played it in such a way as to suggest Harry should play the field and give as many ladies as possible the opportunity to, well, date him. In light of last night's experience, Harry thought about a whole string of witches parading through his bed. The image didn't give him much pleasure, surprisingly. He'd had a bit of sex and as nice as that had been, he wanted someone to share his life, not just his bed... once all this Horcrux bullshit was over with, anyway. There was no point getting sentimental about it. He should focus on staying alive.

So he ignored the magazine and went back to the muggle mail. It was all pretty mundane. Advertisements for new restaurants he wouldn't be able to go to, discos he had no interest sneaking out to, and coupons for a few local food markets he would never shop at. It did nothing but make him feel more isolated. Then he found a bill. His first bill. Wasn't that something?

“Hermione, look!” he said, pulling out all the junky ads to upgrade his credit card features before taking the crisp white page in hand. “My first bill. Guess I'm an adult now.”

When he saw the total he gasped, all joy dripping from his face as though he'd taken a bucket of ice water over the head. He shook with anger, the paper fluttering to the floor.

“I'm gonna kill 'em,” Harry growled, tearing from the table and racing wildly up the stairs. He didn't care if Malfoy was sleeping. All reminders of headaches and hangovers burned up in the inferno of his complete rage. When he found Malfoy's door unlocked, he kicked it in.

“Ten thousand pounds, Malfoy?!” Harry bellowed, slamming the door as hard as he could behind him just because it felt good to smack things around when he was brassed off. “How could you possibly spend,” he gasped anew, recalling the exact damage, “nine thousand, six hundred seventy four pounds, five quid in _one fucking day_?!”

“You said to get whatever I liked,” Malfoy shot back, steaming regally from across the room. He'd showered and dressed and was sitting at the desk with a very dusty old schoolbook from the Black library. “Am I now to understand that offer was conditional? How much do I owe you, Potter? You can have it from my hide after the Dark Lord gets to me.”

“Slytherin's balls, Malfoy! And Hufflepuff's taint, too!” Harry raved. He could punch a hole in the wall, he was that angry.

“No,” Malfoy said sternly, surging forward. “No, you don't get that one. Hufflepuff—fine. That twat's communal property. But Slytherin? No and no. You have to _be_ a Slytherin to use that one.” The way he said it, it was like being a Slytherin was next to godliness. In what was left of Malfoy's twisted little world, it probably was.

“I would've been if it weren't for you!” The words were out of Harry's mouth before he could stop them; immediately, he knew he should have bitten his tongue and stormed out in a huff. Malfoy's sharp silver eyes rounded on him like two expertly aimed arrow points. Sleep deprivation only seemed to make the man more acutely aware, observant, accurate. His intensity was a little scary.

“What. Did. You. Say?” Like it was a slight to Salazar Slytherin that the lowly likes of Harry Potter would be placed in his house.

“The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin,” Harry said, suddenly finding himself too upset and just plain tired to give Malfoy a proper fight. “That fucking hat really pushed for it, too. But I begged it to put me anywhere but Slytherin because _you_ were in Slytherin. And I knew I wanted nothing to do with a house that would take a poncy, stuck up little prick like you.” 

Malfoy hung his head and Harry had no idea why.

“Nine thousand, six hundred and seventy four pounds, five quid,” Harry repeated. “Know how much that is in galleons? You understand that's an entire year's tuition at Hogwarts. And then some.”

“I... I'm,” Malfoy groped for words—his gaze flitted all over the room but he seemed unable to locate the words he was looking for. Perhaps the “I'm sorry” ones. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he settled for something else. “Will you be... are you able to attend in the fall? I haven't....”

“I can afford Hogwarts, Malfoy,” Harry said flatly, sticking his hands in his pockets before he broke something. Malfoy didn't need to know Harry wasn't going back this year because of his mission with the Horcruxes. “I still have money from my parents, plus Sirius' estate. I'll be alright. I live very modestly,” he shrugged. “So long as I don't buy a new broomstick for a few years, I'll manage.”

“Oh,” Malfoy's head shot up. His eyes were very wide, as though he'd discovered his non-friend had three heads. “You live on the interest, then? That's very savvy of you,” he paused, assessing Harry's mien for a long moment before treading dangerous ground. “Slytherin, almost.”

“I understand that's a compliment, Malfoy.”

“Yes, it is.” Malfoy gave a long upward sigh that ruffled his lengthening hair. That he hadn't spelled it short was probably a sign that he intended to keep it the way it was. The blonde smiled a little sheepishly, making a helpless gesture with his pale hands. “Suppose I'll owe you back rubs 'til one of us dies, then.” Malfoy must have expected Harry to laugh or at least smile a bit. His face fell when Harry gazed steadily back.

“Is that all you're worried about—getting yourself off the hook?” Harry asked coldly. “Then there isn't much for you to worry your pretty head about. I'm not much longer for this world.”

“Don't say that,” Malfoy whispered. His big, silvery eyes were just creepy. Between his overlarge eyes and the way he wrung his hands, he reminded Harry of a frightened house elf.

“Why not? It's true,” Harry turned to get away form those weird, watery eyes. He knew Malfoy was still looking at him; he didn't need to hear the man speak plainly to know that his weird-ass eyes were boring into him with a fixed intensity.

“Because you're Wonder Boy, Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived,” Malfoy said in a slow, shaky voice. He didn't sound like himself. For once, the aristocratic lilt sounded forced. “Yer gonna kill 'em in the most spectacular way. And yeh'll be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, an' go on to a fantastic career. Professional Quidditch, yeah?” Malfoy picked up speed and enthusiasm. “Then you'll retire to a life of country leisure with your gorgeous wife and brood of short, messy-haired, bespectacled offspring.” He'd gotten his pithy diction back by the end. He was spitting the words with practiced venom but there was no anger hiding behind them this time.

“Who says my children would wear glasses?” Harry mused, keeping his eyes focused on the ugly wallpaper. He should really change that along with the rugs in the hall. “Why would I play Quidditch? And why must my wife be gorgeous? Maybe I'll shack up with Luna Lovegood and start writing for    
_The Quibbler_   
.” 

He'd only said that last bit because Malfoy had hit his fantasy life spot on. Except the gorgeous mystery wife would be Ginny, and he'd be an Auror instead of a Quidditch player, and not all of their children would wear glasses—just one or two of them. He heard Malfoy laughing.

“Oh, Potter! You'll do no such thing,” he smiled ruefully and his creepy eyes sparkled from across the small room. “For starters, I think Granger would hang herself if you wrote for    
_The Quibbler,_   
although your writing skill would at least be on par with their minimal publication standards. But that specy Ravenclaw for a wife?” Malfoy raised a delicate eyebrow. Man, Harry wished he could operate only one brow at a time like that. “Come on, Potter. You can do so much better than that. You could have anyone you wanted, served up on a platter.” 

Harry turned wordlessly toward the door.

“What's wrong?” Malfoy asked, casual and confident. How could he be so fucking confident? Was it because he was truly brilliant in the sack? Or was confidence something you could learn to fake if you tried hard enough?

“Headache,” Harry mumbled, reaching for the door knob. Malfoy's hand was suddenly at his shoulder, gently but firmly turning him around. Harry avoided eye contact.

“You clench your jaw when you're angry,” Malfoy observed, casual as ever. “Wreaks havoc on your neck. Best come and lie down, then. I owe you.”

“You don't owe me, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, pulling away.

“ _D'accord_. I don't owe you,” parroted Malfoy, all things cool and calm. His wrinkled shirt and the thin, hard line of his mouth said the opposite, but his voice was smooth as honey and pleasant as lemonade in July. He turned without a word and sat on the edge of the spare bed, looking up at Harry with gentle grey eyes reflecting the blue bed hangings and flecks of darkness from his black shirt. Harry stood frozen.

“You have a headache, yes?” he asked. There was no sweetness in his voice and that was fine. There was no business in his voice, either. He was offering to do Harry a solid, no strings. Harry nodded. “So lie down, then. I can't if you're standing, remember?”

Harry remembered. He went to the bed and laid down, allowing Malfoy to cradle his head in chilled, slender fingers. He actually did have a terrible headache, but Malfoy took care of that.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry, Ron and Malfoy had put together a second lunch of sandwiches and chocolate frogs. The blonde had pulled several bottles of white wine from the cellar and soon they were having a nice, quiet afternoon reading over the interesting and absurd facts printed on the cards while munching the wiggly sweets.

“How the man having seventeen cats all named Figgy is ranked above his essays on Non-Verbal Endopathotic Theory, I'll never understand!” Malfoy whined, biting the head off a wriggling frog and washing it down with a swig of wine.

“Hey, there's what we should do with our N.E.W.T. scores!” Ron exclaimed. “We should get jobs rewriting these damn things! They're all so dated.”

It was nice to see Malfoy and Ron at least interacting; granted he had to supervise and ply them with wine and chocolate, but it was a start. He was also clueless about what they were discussing sometimes, but it was nice to sit around with a few bottles of wine and just relax for an afternoon. Ron was a little foxed. Harry and the blonde were still recovering from the previous night's escapades and took it slower, eating more sandwiches. Ron blustered right on ahead, the life of their little party.

Harry's peace was interrupted by Hermione's shrill, excited screams. She raced into the room with four fat envelopes in her fists, all bearing the Hogwarts seal.

“Hogwarts owls are here!”

She was    
_  
so   
_   
happy. He'd thought it best if they all took the year to search for Horcruxes but perhaps it would be beneficial to have a home base like Hogwarts, full of resources and magic to draw on. Plus, Harry wasn't sure how to tell Malfoy he wasn't going back—or if he should tell the Slytherin at all. Why would Malfoy be particularly concerned? Harry would only be an owl away. 

A thick Hogwarts envelope was stuffed into his hands and he opened it obligingly. Of course Headmistress McGonagall offered to continue his Quidditch captaincy should he choose to return. Her letter was a bit more personal than the usual return to Hogwarts script. She seemed to have a sense that Dumbledore had charged Harry with a final mission. Everything in the letter rode on him—   
_  
if   
_   
he would come back. 

“Head Girl!” Hermione exclaimed, pressing the letter to her chest before Ron swung her around in his big arms. She laughed like the eleven year old girl he'd met first year.

“I don't think anyone's surprised!” Ron laughed too, kissing the top of her head before setting her on her feet again. “What about you, Harry? What does your letter say?”

“Quidditch captain,” Harry replied, using his eyes to signal Ron not to say anything to Malfoy. In his lacquered state, it might not have sunk in all the way. Hermione gave Harry a quick nod of understanding. “And a prefect.” He pulled out the shiny badge and gazed at it.

“About fucking time!” Ron roared happily, clapping his friend in a rare hug. He pulled away beaming. “What about you, Malfoy?”

Draco sat on a bench, scanning his letter probably for the sixth time, committing it to memory for some later purpose. When he looked up at Ron's address, Harry caught confusion in his big grey eyes before the mask slid down like a guillotine, severing all connection to feeling.

“Please excuse me,” the blonde said, formally dismissing himself. He laid the letter out on the table to go upstairs empty handed.

“Let's give him a minute,” Harry suggested, picking up his wine glass but not feeling nearly as pleasant as before. “He left the letter because he wants us to read it—that's how he is. He won't say it, though. Let's look.”

Ron and Hermione peering over his shoulders, they read together. McGonagall's tone toward Malfoy was similar to that of Harry's letter—   
_  
if   
_   
you come back, not when. She acknowledged that Malfoy's future was at the moment bleak and uncertain but that a good education might help open many new paths. The envelope was heavy with a badge—that of Head Boy. But it was devoid of house colors. The last paragraph of the letter explained in no uncertain terms that Malfoy would not be safe in Slytherin house, given the students who had thus far enrolled for the coming term. In the next few days, Malfoy would be re-sorted into a new house, representing them as Head Boy. It didn't really matter what house Malfoy was resorted into. The occupants of that house wouldn't want to accept him, would judge him for the acts of his father and the Mark on his arm. Harry only hoped the Ravenclaws could see past the patented Malfoy mask and get to know the confident, funny, deviant man Harry did. Ravenclaw was the only other house Harry could imagine Malfoy being comfortable in. At least he'd have like minds with whom to discuss that Non-verbal Endo-whatever research he'd mentioned over chocolate frogs... but he'd better learn to be nice to Luna. 

“I can't imagine a Hogwarts without Malfoy, funny as that sounds,” Harry said into the silence. “I'm going to offer to McGonagall to pay his tuition if it hasn't been covered already. He needs to go back.”

“That's... extremely kind of you, Harry,” Hermione said, mushy with pride as she held a hand out to him. He took her hand in his and gave her a quick, one-armed hug. “After what happened yesterday... well, I take it the two of you made up.”

“Er, yeah,” Harry shrugged dismissively. He didn't really feel comfortable discussing his non-friendship with his friends. It was personal, somehow. After last night, he and Malfoy had pretty much cemented their unusual understanding. “Look, he's had a few minutes to brood. It should be out of his system. I'm gonna go talk to him, see what's up.”

Hermione and Ron both gave him raised eyebrows but didn't say anything more as he polished off his wine and left the room.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry tentatively opened the door to Malfoy's bedroom only to find the blonde reclining in bed reading Ingo Imago's _The Dream Oracle_ , one of Harry's old Divination textbooks. Harry heaved a nervous sigh and entered the still, quiet room. Malfoy looked up at him blankly. Harry had to clear his throat before he could speak.

“Uh, you've been acting funny all day. Something's off,” Harry looked at his shuffling feet. “Did... do you need to talk?”

Malfoy shook his head. Looking away as he was, Harry barely caught the movement.

“Does it have something to do with us fighting before?”

“No,” the blonde said evenly.

“Your Hogwarts letter, then? Head Boy, being resorted... nervous? Worried?”

“No, Potter. And really, I'm fine,” Malfoy rolled his eyes dramatically, as though to say Harry was vastly overreacting.

“Then it's about Jack.”

Harry felt Malfoy stiffen. He didn't just see it. He felt it in the air. One minute Malfoy was relaxing on the bed and the next, every muscle in his body seized and he stopped breathing. Several very foreign emotions fluttered across his pale face before he clamped down that cold, Malfoy mask.

“What exactly did you and that guy _do_?” 

“None of your business, Potter.”

Harry was dismissed with a single, regal wave.

“You sure about that?” Harry pressed. Malfoy's eyes were nearly blue form the bed hangings when he snapped to meet Harry's gaze. That look told Harry everything—something important had happened, something Malfoy _did not_ want to talk about. Because it was too hard.

“Positive,” Malfoy sneered, eyes narrowing as he made to go back to his book. Harry took a few tentative steps forward, regaining Malfoy's attention. “What is it, Potter? Think you're of the bent persuasion? Looking for tips?”

“No,” Harry rolled his eyes. “I like women, Malfoy. Obviously. I... wanted to ask you something else.”

“Alright,” Malfoy sighed mightily, setting his book aside and rounding his agitated focus on Harry.

Harry sat himself on the spare bed before beginning. This had weighed heavily on his mind as he'd tried to sleep that morning. It still nagged at him, eating away.

“How do you do it? How can you have sex with muggles?” Harry blurted. Malfoy wouldn't expect him to phrase it elegantly and that in itself was a relief. “Every time she asked me a question I had to lie. It got to the point where I didn't wanna talk anymore, you know? Just shag and get the hell out of there. Is that what it's always like? With muggles?”

Malfoy nodded solemnly.

“Really?” Harry bowed his head. “It felt kinda awful.”

“Are you sure you're not gay?” Malfoy teased quietly. Only Malfoy would be making lewd jokes when Harry was being vulnerable and serious. Fucking Malfoy. Deep down, Harry appreciated the man's dark humor.

“The sex was good, I guess,” Harry shrugged. “I have nothing to compare it to, so what can I say? But lying to her, not being able to tell the truth... sort of ruined it. Is that normal?”

Malfoy folded his hands in his lap and stared at them for a long time.

“Wonder Boy, I don't feel like talking politics with you. It's not a good idea.”

“This has nothing to do with politics!” Harry whined.

“It has everything to do with politics,” Malfoy spat. “You know what I believe; hell, you despise me for it! I'm not spoiling for a fight—”

“And I'm not trying to start one,” Harry interrupted evenly. “I don't have anyone else to talk to about this. You don't have to talk to me about whatever's crawled up your arse. That's fine. Don't tell me your problems. But I can't exactly talk to Ron or Hermione about this. Not without getting us both in a lot of trouble.” Because Hermione, much as he loved her, would not approve of his getting laid. She would also snitch on him for sneaking out so that the Order would increase the guard, preventing him and Malfoy from ever getting pissed or shagged again. They had to keep this between them.

“Look,” Malfoy shot him a pained look, twisting his long fingers in that sickening way of his. “I'm sorry I let you take me to that muggle pub. I really... it's a weakness I shouldn't have allowed you to indulge.”

“What, are you saying you only do muggle blokes?”

“Gods, you're thick!” Malfoy scoffed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. His other hand gripped the bedspread. “The magical community is pretty small, yeah? There aren't exactly gobs of bent wizards running around looking for a toss. If that's what you're in the mood for, you've got to go out amongst the muggles.”

“So you've done that before,” Harry inferred. “Gone to pubs and picked up men. That's how you knew to put a kerchief in your pocket.”

“Yes. There's a code for it. Keeps things simple. The less talking one does, the better,” Malfoy noted, calm and collected because he was talking about rules. “It's actually easier with men, believe it or not. Very little chit chat. I might've warned you but, I'll be honest, I was pretty well ploughed.”

“Me too,” Harry admitted, snorting silently at Malfoy's double _entendre_. They could make sexual jokes now. And it wasn't strange at all. “Do you think I should stick to witches, then? Would that make things easier?”

“Golden Boy, I'm not talking politics,” Malfoy heatedly snapped, getting up and walking swiftly to the window. He parted the curtains and peered out. Harry could tell by the set of his shoulders that he wasn't really seeing anything beyond the glass. His eyes looked a little haunted.

“Talk politics, Malfoy,” Harry offered. The words came out gentle, though they were intended to be only neutral. “Say what you need to. I won't interrupt to tell you you're wrong.”

“Why?”

“I already told you. There's no one else I can talk to. And believe it or not, I value your opinion. Even if I don't always agree with you.”

“Fine,” Malfoy said on a heavy exhale. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned to face Harry. His expression was made of steel. “Yes. I think you should stick to witches and leave muggle women alone. I'm ashamed I have to go the muggle route on occasion, but it can't be helped. Still, I try to do it as little as possible.”

“As to your statement regarding lying to your little tart—that you couldn't tolerate lying to her, I believe? That it ate at you until you couldn't enjoy a presumably great fuck? Imagine if you dated her, if you built a relationship with her based on those lies. Imagine if you fell in love. Would you feel even worse for lying to the woman you loved?”

“I'd feel like shite. I already do, Malfoy.”

“Of course,” Malfoy smiled ruefully. “You're a selfless hero, after all. But there are people who go on and marry their muggle play-things despite all that. Eventually, they break and tell their spouses the truth. You get plenty of divorces and a few deaths that way, but I digress. Marriage, in the modern sense, is a promise two people make to share everything, every part of themselves and their lives. When a wizard marries a muggle, there's always going to be something he holds back, something he can never share with her. Oh, he may tell her about our world, he may tell her everything and she might even understand it—but they will never share magic. That muggle will never ride a broomstick or cast a spell, attend a Quidditch match or see a Thestral. They are forever cut off from our world because we have the spark of magic and they do not. It isn't right, to put that kind of distance between yourself and a supposed partner. That's not a loving marriage, if you ask me. Not if you can't share everything.”

“Witches and wizards should operate as a leper colony, keeping out of sight, secluding ourselves so as not to spread knowledge of our existence, spread panic and misunderstanding. Everyone is better off if we mix as little as possible—it prevents our accidentally falling in love and cocking it all up. We need to contain ourselves. If someone has the infection, has magic, it's our duty to take them in and teach them as best we can, but they'll never understand our world the way those of us who were born into it understand. We have our world and the muggles have theirs. There's no excuse for us going off and infecting others. Telling a non-magical person about magic is akin to giving them an infection: they'll always be scratching at it. They'll always be curious, they'll always want to know more. They think—if they only push hard enough—one day they'll get it. But they never can. It's not right to do that to someone, to bring them so close that they can put their nose to the glass that separates us but never be able to cross it. You shouldn't ask someone you truly care about to love you through the glass. It's selfish and it's wrong.”

“So I think you should stick to witches, Potter. I think we should all stick to our own side of the glass. We can protect ourselves and the muggles at the same time. And we should. It is the only logical thing to do. Even Granger knows it, deep down. You don't see her snogging a nice muggle boy; no, she chose a wizard. A pureblood wizard who can help her fit into our world. She's one of us now and she's bright enough to adapt. It's only natural that we keep to our own. We are what we are. We can't and shouldn't fight it. But we're best kept separate from the muggles. It's as much for our own good as for theirs.”

Malfoy settled on his bed, arms folding behind his blonde head as he reclined. He'd said his peace. “Those are my politics, Wonder Boy. We shouldn't mingle; it only risks exposure and certain heartache on both sides. I'm sure you're gagging to tell me how utterly wrong I am—”

“Malfoy, I agree with you.”

“I beg your pardon?” the blonde spluttered, rolling onto an elbow and starring open mouthed at the crazy dark haired boy.

“It would only be selfish of me to start a relationship with Heather. Or any muggle girl,” Harry sighed. “You're absolutely in the right about it. As much as I wanted to tell her the truth, I knew it was wrong. You're right, Malfoy—all or nothing. As much as I hate being The Boy Who Lived, that part of me—and the magic that comes with it—contributes to who I am. And I won't lie about myself. That's no way to get someone to like, love or respect you.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, looking dazed.

“What?” Harry asked. Malfoy's expression reminded him oddly of Ron.

“You said I was right,” Malfoy said quite pensively, staring unseeingly at the floor between them. “You actually, legitimately agree with me. Harry Potter and I share a political stance; on intermarriage, no less!”

“Is it so shocking that we might agree on something?” Harry joked.

“It most certainly is!” Malfoy shot back, the beginnings of a smile lifting his face. “Would you repeat it?”

“Repeat what?”

“When you said I was right.” Malfoy's grin was just great. It made his eyes look a little crazy, but crazy in a good way.

“Would you like me to get down on my knees and grovel, too?” Harry said sarcastically.

“Oh, would you?” Malfoy shot back, joy in his big eyes turned very blue by the bed covers.

“I think you'd like that a little too much,” Harry chuckled, getting up from the bed. “Like you said, not very many bent wizards running around. I can't have you making designs on me.”

“I don't think you have anything to worry about, Potter,” Malfoy chuckled.

“What's the matter? Am I not your type?” Harry flinched the moment the words left his mouth, a nervous hand shooting up to brush his hair out of his eyes. He'd accidentally hit on something that had been bothering him—that Malfoy's muggle, Jack, had looked an awful lot like himself. He was curious to see how Malfoy would respond. The blonde rose from his own bed to stand about two feet from Harry, giving him a slow, critical once-over. Malfoy's appraising gaze made him nervous. “Well?”

Malfoy's brows furrowed as though in deep concentration as he observed Harry's hands, his shoulders, his neck, and finally his face. He heaved a mighty sigh.

“You've got good stock, Potter,” he admitted begrudgingly. “You might change your grooming—”

“What the hell's wrong with my grooming?” Harry shot, on the defensive. “I bathe.”

“As I am most acutely aware each time I go for a shower and the hot water's gone,” Malfoy returned fire. “You might elevate your manner of dress, perhaps, or simply learn a proper shaving spell,” he pressed a cool, bony finger to the scab on Harry's jaw. He'd been half-dead shaving that morning and had given himself a nasty cut for his negligence. “Unfortunately, I don't believe any number of cosmetic changes could bring me 'round to your fan club, Boy.”

“Yeah?” Harry sneered, playing along. He knew this was just Malfoy's game, his amusement, and was happy to go along with it. Placating Malfoy had become a hobby of his.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Malfoy mocked, drawing his hand back from Harry's face. “The problem is that you lack a certain confidence which attracts sexual partners, male or female. Oh, you have that wounded bird bit down,” Malfoy replied to Harry's incredulous stare. “And the Heathers and Weasel chits of the world will flock to that, rest assured. They'll want to bandage you up, fix you, make you presentable. But you'll never be able to pursue a partner with any real vigor until you possess a certain self-assurance and comfort in your own skin that only comes with time. You're still searching, Potter. You don't really know who you are. Not yet, anyway; but I suspect you'll learn.”

“So what's that supposed to mean?” Harry quipped. Malfoy had hit unnervingly close to home. “Come back later, maybe you'll bite?”

“Saint Potter, you are so hopelessly straight, I wouldn't waste my time. Not like I have better things to do,” the blonde sighed, turning away. Harry could have sworn that Malfoy was smirking, but there was a sad cast to his gray-blue eyes.

“Is that why you always needle me? Because you have nothing better to do?”

“Something like that.” Harry got the impression he'd gotten awfully close to another of Malfoy's many sore spots. It was about time to back off and preserve their fragile peace. He cast about for a more neutral topic of conversation: he found it in a blooming potted violet sitting on the desk. The plant hadn't been there when he and Ron had shared this room in the past.

“Malfoy, did Mrs. Weasley bring a plant into my house?” Harry asked. “Because I'm death to houseplants. I touch them and they die.”

Malfoy gave a half-hearted chuckle, mostly in appreciation for the dark haired boy's obvious efforts to change the subject.

“She did not. And you can't kill it, Potter, rest assured,” Malfoy pulled his wand as he approached the plant. “I transfigured it from a dung bomb wrapper—Merlin knows I had enough of them in the rubbish bin.” To prove his point, Malfoy swished his wand at the happy little plant and it began to twist and sparkle, reducing down to a brightly colored cellophane wrapper.

“That's brilliant,” Harry said earnestly, drawing closer.

“Simple household magic,” Malfoy shrugged. “I could teach you if you like.”

“Please,” Harry smiled, drawing his wand. “Is this my initiation to the leper colony?”

“Sure,” Malfoy agreed lightly. He noted Harry's wand technique and scoffed. “You won't get anything done that way. Who taught you to hold a wand?”

“Hermione,” Harry said without thinking.

“The blind leading the blind,” Malfoy muttered, twisting Harry's wrist so that his wand sat in his palm rather than his usual way of gripping the shit out of it. Harry stiffened and Malfoy processed how his choice of phrase could be seen as offensive. “Granger's a talented witch, to be sure. She's come quite far and it does her credit—but that is not the way a wizard holds his wand,” Malfoy pressed at Harry's calloused hand, urging him to relax his hold. “There, see? Now there's no need to wave it about. Just quirk your hand up and let it fall back in place.”

Everything Professor Flitwick had ever screeched about “swish and flick” came flooding back to Harry, finally making sense. If he'd had his mother and father to guide him, would he be a better wizard? Would he know the proper way to hold a wand? Would he know how to turn spare bits of parchment into plants or how to magic a snifter of brandy out of thin air, like Malfoy did? There really was something to what Malfoy had said.

“Makes sense,” he mumbled as Malfoy's cool hand guided him through the motion once more.

“Of course,” Malfoy said quietly. “It's the old way.” As though that explained everything.

“What's the incantation? For the houseplants I can't kill,” Harry almost laughed. He could finally have plants in the house and not worry—magic plants. Bloody amazing!

“ _Lusum Arboris_ ,” Malfoy supplied.

“ _Lusum Arboris_ ,” Harry repeated, letting his hand and wrist move as Malfoy had instructed. Sure enough, the old wrapper began to contort and shimmer. A moment later, there was a very beautiful orchid blooming in a wicker planter. The flowers were a vivid orange, shot through with red and purple veins. Malfoy leaned forward and leisurely smelled the largest of the blooms, an approving smile gliding across his face.

“Doesn't smell like dung bombs, Potter,” the blonde chortled happily, slapping Harry hard on the back. “We'll make a wizard out of you, yet.”

Harry took that with a grain of salt, coming from a man with the Dark Mark on his arm and a few hundred pounds to his name. Then again, it wasn't money or power that made a man, but the things he did with his life. And Malfoy was certainly turning himself in a new direction.

“Malfoy, is there a spell to, I dunno, spruce up the carpets? Or the wallpaper, for that matter?” he asked. “It's sort of driving me crazy. Everything's... dingy.”

“There are a few things we might try,” Malfoy mused, folding his arms over his chest, still gazing proudly at the exotic, sweet-smelling plant. “Between your being the owner and my being a blood relation, I should think we could get it done if we put our heads together.”

“Shall we give it a go, then?”

Malfoy smiled, his hands dropping to his sides as he stowed his wand in a trouser pocket. “Let's. Just because the place is our Azkaban doesn't mean it has to look it.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Hermione finally found the odd couple late that evening, crouching in the third floor hallway. The boys knelt beside one another, backs to her, touching at shoulders and hips and heads so close together that strands of their hair mingled, black and gold in the low light. They had their wands out and they spoke quietly, unaware that she stood a few feet behind them.

“Look!” Harry said, pointing at something on the floor.

“I'm tired, not blind, Scar Head,” Malfoy drawled. His voice sounded different, less cold. Even though his words were the same as ever, his behavior was familiar—warm, even. “We've changed the color but it's still in tatters.”

“Well at least it's something,” Harry sighed, moving his hand to pat Malfoy on the leg.

“Something that took us the better part of an hour,” Malfoy whined.

“It's a start,” Harry said bracingly, squeezing the blonde's thigh. Harry turned to look at Malfoy, his face tilted and forehead brushing the man's temple.    
_  
What in the hell is going on here?   
_   
Hermione thought.    
_  
Did I miss something?   
_   
If she didn't know better, she'd say Harry was flirting with the blonde. But Malfoy was so neutral about it, as though Harry behaved this way all the time. She could count on one hand the number of times Harry put his hand on Ron's knee—because the number of times was definitely zero. But here they were, sitting close and casually touching like a couple of girls. 

Hermione cleared her throat loudly. Both men turned to look at her, a blush creeping up Harry's face. Good. Malfoy's face was completely passive. If anything, he looked worn out and in need of a solid night's sleep.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said primly, “but I wanted to let you know that Tonks and I have cooked up a little surprise. She and I were talking about getting a group of Aurors together so we could all go out and have some fun—we never go out, Harry, but we should! This way we'll have guards just in case, but it should be fun. I guess now it's a bit of a celebration—you're a prefect, and then us as Heads,” she included Malfoy and her smile didn't waver. “Tonks and the twins are free tomorrow night. What do you think?”

Harry and Malfoy shared a knowing look that was not lost on her. Not one bit.

Malfoy got to his feet and offered Harry his hand. It was like a really weird dream when Harry smiled, taking Malfoy's hand and letting the blonde pull him to his feet. She spotted what they'd been working on—a carpet. It was now green instead of dingy grey but, as Malfoy said, was still rather beaten up. Both men stowed their wands.

“Sounds like fun,” Harry said.

“One thing,” Malfoy said, rather menacing. Harry's dark brows drew together. Malfoy leaned into his face a bit. Where there once might have been tension or anger, Hermione only picked up familiarity. Malfoy poked a bony finger to Harry's chest, articulating his point. “Make me go as a girl and I    
_  
will   
_   
kill someone. I don't think I need say who.”

Harry simply dissolved in laughter.

 

 

 


	12. Seeking For The Wrong Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione and Tonks have engineered a special summer celebration. Life so rarely goes according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** flirtation, dancing, under-aged drinking, m/m kissing (finally, right?)  
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**  
>  \- The Blue Iguana is a fantastic salsa club in my hometown of New York City. I've borrowed the name and nothing else.  
> \- The dance Harry described as lead from the hips and thighs is bachata.

 

 

Harry Potter stood before the large and ornate bathroom mirror, swearing up and down at his hair. No matter what he tried, it simply would not look decent. He had borrowed Hermione's hair gel and some Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. He'd used too much potion the first time and had to jump in the shower to get it all out. Shirtless and utterly frustrated, he was about to abandon the cause forever when there was a sharp knock on the door and an even sharper voice on the other side. 

“Potter! What are you    
_doing_   
in there?! You're taking longer than a girl!” Malfoy was mocking him. This indiscretion would not stand. Without thinking, he yanked open the door. 

Malfoy looked Harry once, twice, three times over, one delicate brow raised. His brows and lashes were just a few shades darker than his hair, offset by his pale skin and black tshirt. Smiling serenely, he brushed past Harry and into the bathroom with what sounded like “nice pecs.” Harry snatched his shirt from a hook on the wall and slammed the door.

“Can I help you?” Harry snapped.

“Yes, actually,” Malfoy smirked while examining his own immaculate reflection in the overlarge mirror. “You can put on a shirt and fix your hair—it looks wretched, Potter. What did you try to do? Make it lie flat?” Harry may or may not have actually growled in Malfoy's direction at this point. The blonde sighed at Harry's reflection behind his own pale, haughty one. “Well, you can't go out looking like that, so... this is the only time you'll hear me say this, Potter. Come here and bend over.”

“What?!” Harry exclaimed, his mind racing a mile a minute. He started to back away.

“Slytherin's balls, Wonder Boy!” Malfoy threw his hands to the sky, beseeching the great Salazar Slytherin to stop him before he did anything he might regret—like choking the life out of The Boy Who Loved To Be A Pain In Draco Malfoy's Arse. “I'm going to fix your hair. I'll need a comb. And you can leave that cheap hair tonic where you found it.” Harry stared at him. “Chop, chop, Gryffindor!” Harry threw the bottle of hair tonic at Malfoy's head.

“What do I have to bend over for, huh?” Harry asked pointedly, grabbing a comb and doing his best to saunter confidently over to Malfoy, who rolled his silvery eyes.

“So I can see your head,” Malfoy said simply, as though Harry were daft. “We're the same height, Potter. You could crouch and bend your knees if you like. I haven't got all night,” he sighed, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes again. He gestured politely. “Come here, my non-friend. Let me fix you.”

Harry took this final comment as a truce. He gave Malfoy a tight smile and bent his knees so that the top of his head was level with the other man's chin. Malfoy in turn took the comb from Harry's fingers and began vigorously attacking his unruly hair with both comb and bare hands, occasionally sprinkling water on his head that trickled down his neck and bare chest. There was an occasional “hold still, Potter.” At one point, Malfoy drew his wand and silently conjured a smear of tan paste, coating his fingers and then running them through Harry's hair starting at the back of his neck and working all the way up to his temples. After what felt like an eternity to Harry's burning thighs and calves but was probably less than two minutes, Malfoy announced that he was done. Harry put his glasses back on and looked in the mirror.

“Okay,” Harry said. His hair still looked messy and stuck up in places, but at least it appeared planned—maybe even artistic—instead of looking like he'd just woken up. There came an affronted spluttering from the Malfoy.

“'Okay?'” He mocked in indignation. “ _Okay_?! Potter, I am a Vela-buggering miracle worker!” He held his arms out from his sides, posing as a canonized saint. “I made Harry sodding Potter look hot!” he proclaimed.

“Thanks,” Harry said sullenly, picking up his shirt. “You're a regular    
Martín de Porres   
, Malfoy.” He was about to pull the shirt over his head when Malfoy's face suddenly changed to a concerned expression. “What?” Harry pleaded. “What now?” 

“You're not really wearing that shirt, are you, Potter?” Malfoy raised a theatrical brow. “Because,” and his voice dropped to a deathly-serious, Twilight Zone whisper, “it's positively hideous.” Harry growled, balling up the offending garment and throwing it at the prat. “I'm just being honest! As a devoted non-friend, I think it's my duty to tell you these things.”

“Fine!” Harry declared loudly. “I'll go shirtless! How's that?”

Malfoy cocked his head and appeared to be contemplating this idea. Harry could hear his blood hammering in his ears and realized that his hands were curling into fists, his rampaging energy begging to be channeled into something. Maybe Malfoy's smug face? He tried to relax. He and Malfoy were just starting to get on good terms again and he didn't want to blow it over something as stupid as his questionable wardrobe choices.

“Interesting idea, Scar Head,” the blonde said mischievously, reaching out a hand to touch Harry's bare shoulder, feeling his muscles in an appraising fashion. Harry looked him awkwardly in the eye. “We'll have to save that for a different sort of club.” Malfoy's cool hand slid slowly down Harry's shoulder, his thumb grazing nipple as he took a hold of Harry's upper arm. Harry felt a hot shiver dance down his spine. Malfoy smiled.

“Ready, yet?” Hermione's voice called from downstairs.

The boys broke contact immediately; Malfoy snatching up the offending shirt and moving toward the sink, Harry merely trying to look anywhere but at the body that had been inches from his own.

“C'mon, Boy,” Malfoy said after an uncomfortable moment of silence. “Let's go find you a decent shirt.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Hermione, Ginny, Ron and Tonks were all gathered downstairs. Hermione was picking a piece of lint off of Ron's shoulder while the other three watched the upper floor, waiting for Harry and Malfoy to emerge from the bathroom. Ginny was losing her patience. If those two didn't get their butts in gear, she was going to go up there and give Harry a piece of her mind (and possibly her Bat Boggey Hex at this rate). She'd give Malfoy a piece of her mind as well, reformed house guest or not.

Just as she was about to draw her wand and head up the stairs the bathroom door was wrenched open. From the darkened bathroom emerged the sleek form of one immaculately dressed Draco Malfoy, dragging behind him none other than a very fit looking, shirtless Harry. Ginny couldn't help but gawk a little. She had a feeling Hermione and Tonks were doing much the same. All that Quidditch combined with good genes and Moody's combat training gave Harry a very nice form to look at. Even from the hallway, she could make out a dark trail of hair leading temptingly down his toned stomach. Ginny may or may not have been blushing.

“Harry!” Tonks called. “You're not even dressed yet!”

 _He's dressed plenty_ , Ginny thought. She might have seen a hint of his dark colored boxers peeking out from his denims.

“Fashion Emergency! Potter can't do anything, apparently,” Malfoy yelled back before tossing the partially clad Harry into his room. “Be ready in a jiffy!” With that, Malfoy slammed the door to his room and rounded on Harry.

 

 

“Did I just say 'jiffy?'” Malfoy asked in a small, frightened voice, back and hands pressed tensely to the bedroom door. He gave a little shudder and then dove for his wardrobe. He began comforting himself by throwing clothes everywhere.

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry said. “Mrs. Weasley rubs off on you after a while... Malfoy! Ya cunt,” Harry had just been hit in the face with something soft and white that smelled like... well, like Malfoy.

“Put that on,” the blonde commanded, folding his arms imperiously and glaring at Harry until he did so.

Harry looked down speculatively. “Er, I dunno if it fits right.” The shirt was fine in the waist but a trifle snug across his shoulders and chest, his frame being broader than Malfoy's. The white fabric for some reason made Harry feel exposed. Maybe it was how tight the shirt was; after all, he was accustomed to baggy, ill-fitting clothes. Or maybe it was the way Malfoy was looking at him—examining him again. His eyes were a very penetrating sort of grey.

“Nonsense,” the blonde responded a second later. “It looks better on you than it does on me, anyway! I don't have the pectorals for it,” Malfoy admitted gracefully. “And you, Boy, have spiffing pecs.” Malfoy smiled another little smile. A moment later he seemed to catch himself at it, shook his head, and made for the door. “We don't want to keep your friends waiting, Potter.” And he was bounding out of sight; by the sound of it, he took the stairs two at a time. Harry didn't have a chance to understand what was up with Malfoy, or a chance to say thank you.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” Ron exclaimed as the blonde appeared at long last, Harry trailing quietly behind him. “Are you wearing my sister's trousers?”

After elbowing Ron in the ribs discretely, Hermione paused to consider. Draco Malfoy's dark trousers were, in fact, skin tight—especially in the bum and crotch areas. They could well have been Ginny's if Hermione hadn't seen the pompous git purchase them with her own eyes. Malfoy seemed to notice the room's attention inadvertently drawn to his generous south country. He moved to change the subject.

“You ladies look lovely this evening,” Malfoy said with a polite nod. Hermione blushed—she was wearing the dress that Viktor bought her. Malfoy's nod let her know that her secret was safe with him, though the completely visible Dark Mark tattooed on his forearm told her otherwise. She was almost accustomed to visible Dark Mark. She caught herself as she was about to shiver and forced a smile instead.

“Yeah, very lovely,” Harry put in shyly. “Sorry to keep everyone waiting.”

“Well, let's get this over with,” Ron almost groaned.

“Don't be so enthusiastic, ickle Ronnie-kins,” Ginny said absently, grabbing her purse. “Someone might think you actually want to go.”

“Not too late to stay home,” Tonks admonished with a chuckle. Ron glanced warily at Malfoy.

“Nah,” he said guardedly. “I think I'll take my chances.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“We have to go somewhere we won't be recognized,” Hermione said quietly as Harry paid the burly gentleman at the door. Tonks and Elphias Dodge had positioned themselves in a nearby coffee shop, ready and waiting should the artifact Hermione carried be activated. This way the young people had a bit of privacy but were still protected in case of emergency. Hermione and Ginny had everyone's wands hidden in their purses, transfigured into innocuous lipsticks and such. As Hermione suspected, they were searched upon entering the nightclub. It looked a little seedy, but the muggle newspaper had said it featured the best Latin dancing in town and was quite a feast for the eyes. She didn't expect the boys to dance much—it was more for her and Ginny. After her ugly break-up, Ginny needed to feel special and Hermione felt for her.

Ron and Malfoy looked especially confused as their pockets and backs were patted by two security guards, their twin expressions priceless. Malfoy threw the security people a dark look before stomping into the bar. Hermione raised a brow at Harry.

“He's not used to being touched,” Harry said quietly. “I think it makes him uncomfortable. He'll get over it.” Ginny and Ron cleared inspection and then they were off into the club.

The Blue Iguana was in the basement of a restaurant. They'd entered from the side of the building and passed through a long hall that ran along the back of the building. Through the big metal door, music thrummed. The bricks seemed to shake with the beat. Ron opened the door and they were struck by lights—pink, yellow, purple and red. A utilitarian railing separated the door's landing from the long, deep basement below where bodies moved fantastically to the rhythm. Harry didn't think he could dance like that if his life depended on it. At least there was a big bar on one side of the room.

Malfoy stood leaning against the railing, waiting for them, the lights blazing around his silhouette. The colors lingered in his hair, making him glow. Harry stepped up beside him as Hermione and Ginny dragged Ron down the stairs to the dance floor.

“There's a bar,” Harry shrugged. “Do you want a drink?”

Malfoy leaned until their shoulders touched but didn't look away from the sea of muggles. “I'm fine for now. Thank you, though. I think I'll just watch Weaselby make an arse of himself.” Malfoy chuckled softly in his throat. Harry looked out to see Ron's ginger head protesting as Gin and Hermione tried to get him to copy their steps so he could lead a dance. If Harry didn't keep his distance, he'd soon be put through his paces with no better result.

Walking down the stairs, he couldn't resist looking back at Malfoy. Lights played in his blonde hair and probably reflected in his eyes, too. How would that look? The man still leaned against the railing, looking out to the crowded room below. He didn't scan the space so much as his gaze moved from one couple to another, analyzing the steps of the dance and each man's style. His head bobbed to the music, long fingers tapping the metal rail under his hand. Harry would bet money that Malfoy could dance—and probably quite well. There didn't seem like much the man couldn't do; granted, he'd been trained from a young age to be a number of things—a pompous arse and a good dancer among them—and had probably been miserable most of the time, but at least he could do things like dance, play the piano and speak French. Harry hadn't had any of those opportunities.

He realized he was blocking the stairs gawping at Malfoy. He went to get himself a soda and then hung low at the end of the bar, doing his best to avoid eye contact. The last thing he needed was a pretty girl coming up to him and making small talk, asking him to dance. He was a sucker for pretty girls and it would be the Heather dilemma all over again. It was best to simply follow Malfoy's advice and stay away from muggle women for his own protection as much as theirs. He was happy enough watching his friends, the bass reverberating in his chest.

Soon he was flanked by two familiar bodies—Fred and George Weasley. Together, they lifted him from his stool and crushed him in a hug between them.

“Our other baby brother!” Fred shouted, mussing his hair.

“Oh, stop that! Can't you see someone made him up?” George said mock-sternly, slapping his brother's hand away from Harry's hair. “How've you been?”

“Fine,” Harry shrugged. “I saw you guys a few days ago.”

“I know! Why aren't you dancing?!” George said pleasantly, trying to grab hold of Harry's arms and drag him out to the dance floor.

“I can't dance like that,” Harry shrugged, tugging his hands away and hunching in his stool. “Can you?”

“Can't be that hard,” Fred observed the couples and bobbed his head to the beat as Malfoy had done. “One, two, three, one, two, three!” And he moved his feet in the same forward, shuffle, back, shuffle, as many of the people dancing. “Spin her 'round a bit, and you're done! See? Painless. You try.” Both twins attempted to seize Harry's arms then. He held up a pleading hand.

“Please. Really. I don't feel much like dancing.” Harry pointed across the room. “Look, there's Ron. Why don't you go help him? I think he'd appreciate it.”

“I think he needs it,” George smirked. “I'm off!” He clapped Harry on the shoulder before dancing his way off through the crowd, bumping his hips.

“You seem on edge, Harry,” Fred observed. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just have a lot on my mind.”

Fred nodded understandingly. Harry thought he was about to bugger off when his ginger brows went up and he gave a little squawk of surprise. Harry followed Fred's gaze and got a shock. Malfoy was being tugged into the lights by a tall woman in a skimpy, sequined top. She swiveled her hips knowingly before wrapping a languid arm around his neck and inserting herself in his personal space. A a sort-of slow song came on—the way the drums featured in this song was different than the other songs he'd heard so far. Malfoy's calm face watched the other dancers for a second before picking up the the basic step, pulling his partner so close that they touched from stomach to knees, his thigh tucked between hers, guiding her hips with his own. It was like sex standing up and Malfoy was apparently rather good at it.

“What's she think she's doing?” Fred asked from beside Harry.

“Huh?”

“Well, I mean, they play for the same team,” Fred said vaguely, thinking his meaning should be clear enough. He forgot he was talking to Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived... In A Cupboard. Fred saw Harry's look of confusion and expanded the analogy. “They shoot their quaffle through the same hoop.” Harry still wasn't following. “He's the bludger, where's the Beater, yeah?”

“Malfoy's not gay,” Harry said firmly, finally catching Fred's drift. His mouth gone, dry he sipped his drink.

“Not a poof—you serious?” Fred's mouth fell open. “But he's so...” He bent his wrist and waggled his hand exaggeratedly, like he was trying to dry fingernail polish or something.

“What, effeminate?” Harry rolled his eyes. “Not really. Just because he's not an oaf, you're calling him gay?”

“If the shoe fits,” Fred shrugged.

“He's not gay,” Harry repeated. “I know for a fact he likes both.”

“An equal opportunity seeker, then?” Fred joked. “I can see that. Malfoy's so greedy, he wouldn't make up his mind if he could have his cake and eat it, too.”

That made a certain amount of sense. Harry watched Malfoy lead the beautiful woman in a series of little turns. He seemed to direct her movements not with the arms wrapped around her body but with his hips and thighs, sliding her lithe body against his own, back and forth across his crotch and back and forth across the floor. She smiled, trailing fingers through his hair, her dark skin in sharp contrast to his white blonde locks turned shades of purple and pink in the swirling lights.

“I'm gonna go entertain Ginny,” Fred said. “She looks lonely. I'll catch you later, yeah? Maybe have a dance with Malfoy, try my luck.” Harry rolled his eyes as Fred bade him goodbye and disappeared into the swaying bodies.

Harry watched the dancing for a while. Malfoy's partner seemed to like him, clinging to him as each new song played. Fred and George teased Ron until he was red in the face before offering a few dancing pointers. Ginny laughed and swayed from side to side with a smiling Hermione. Eventually, Hermione spotted Malfoy and signaled him over with a wave. He dismissed himself from his partner and made his way to Hermione, offering her his pale hand with the tiniest of courtly bows. He held her a polite distance from his body, guiding her steps with their clasped hands. The blonde quickly had Hermione twirling and dipping her hips all over the place to a heart-pounding beat. Ginny stepped up to dance with Ron when Fred and George tired of teaching him. The twins quickly found partners and were shaking it goofily, much to the ladies' pleasure and delight. Malfoy worked his way closer the the knot of gingers and, with an expert twist, switched partners with Ron. Now Ron danced stepping on his girlfriend's feet and Malfoy had Harry's ex in his arms. In her high heeled shoes, Ginny was slightly taller than Malfoy. She looked straight across at him, her mouth a thin line. Malfoy turned his head to the side but kept his eyes on her in a sort of “go ahead and slap my face if you want to” gesture. Ginny took in Ron and Hermione's utter happiness for a moment before consenting to Malfoy's lead. He danced her in little turns, guiding her by her hands, arms and elbows. Once she figured out his rhythm, he lead what looked like pretty advanced steps to Harry; at least, it looked like what everyone else in the club was doing—quick steps, catches and undulations of the torso and hips. Malfoy did a quick little turn hmself, trailing Ginny's hands around his back before bringing them to slowly drape around his neck. Ginny actually closed her eyes once and smiled, forgetting who she was dancing with and just enjoying herself.

Ginny stepped away as the song ended and Malfoy was eagerly swept up by his earlier partner, the muggle woman's hands hands roaming his chest before locking behind his neck, dragging their bodies flush together. Malfoy's silver eyes met Harry's over the woman's shoulder. He smiled tightly, holding Harry's gaze in a sort of plea. _Rescue me_ , Harry imagined those eyes saying. But that was ridiculous. Toward the end of the song, Malfoy danced his way to the end of the bar, the woman plastered to him as though by a Sticking Charm. She was not letting go of her prize. When he was still several yards off, Malfoy raised an arm to get Harry's attention.

“C'mon, Potter!” Malfoy called over the music, waving his arm impatiently. Harry just smiled weakly and shook his head. Malfoy was now able to make excuses to his bewitching partner and made his way over to Harry. “What?” Malfoy blurted, wiping at a thin sheen of sweat on his arms and forehead. “What noble cause is it this time?”

“It's not like that,” Harry said as quietly as he could and still be heard over the music. “I... I can't dance, really.” He shrugged. Malfoy laughed in his face; a short, clipping little laugh at the hopelessness of the boy hero.

“Is that supposed to be news?” Malfoy gave Harry a bracing look and sat down on a nearby stool. “Hate to tell you Wonder Boy, but I saw Patil drag you around the dance floor like a show monkey a few years back. And there were plenty of other witnesses. Secret's out, Potty.” He smiled a very goofy, playful, un-Malfoy-like smile. “Time to face the music!”

“But, I can't—”

“Fine!” Malfoy shoved him. Malfoy then stared at him incredulously, clearly expecting him to have fallen off his stool. “You're not even drunk?!” he asked in shock, haughty demeanor and dirty looks back in full swing.

“Well—”

“Two waters, four pints, six shots of Tequila!” Malfoy shouted down the bar. The bartender nodded once and set to work.

“That all for you?” Harry chuckled. He knew Malfoy's penchant for getting bombed and having a good time but wasn't sure that would be wise with all his Gryffindor mates. They might not understand Malfoy like Harry did. _That_ was a peculiar thought.

“Only half,” Malfoy said, swiveling on his stool to watch the dancers. “And it's your shout.” Harry muttered to himself and pulled out his wallet. The bartender gave him the total and he balked.

“You're expensive,” Harry said mildly.

 

 

“It's the only way to be,” Draco replied, preening as Potter handed over the money for their drinks. Potter reached for one of the pints and Draco had the distinct pleasure of slapping his hand away. Potter looked incensed. “Don't touch. You'll spoil them.”

Potter rolled his big green doe eyes to the heavens, grunting, “Whatever, Malfoy.”

“Alright, listen up, lightweight. I'm only going to explain this once,” Draco chortled, making sure to poke Potter in the side to get his proper attention. “This is Tequila. I doubt you know what it is, even though you are a—” Draco carefully mouthed the word “muggle.” Potter's eyes watched his lips with barely concealed concern from behind his glasses. “Now lick your left hand.”

“What?! Why?” Potter demanded.

“Because this is Tequila and you're right handed,” Draco said matter-of-factly. “Look here, Potter. I'm licking my hand, too,” and he did, so Potter acquiesced. “Now put salt on it.” Draco unceremoniously—for a Malfoy—salted his hand and handed the shaker to Potter, who did likewise—without the flourishing or the arrogance. “On the count of three, you drink the Tequila as fast as you can, lick the salt off your hand, and slam the glass up side down on the bar. Then chase it with the water for now. Got it?” Draco mimed each action as though The Chosen One didn't speak English, just to be degrading.

“I think so...” Potter muttered darkly, hunching over the bar.

“Ready? Three!”

Draco was halfway through his tequila before Potter knew what hit him. He almost laughed and choked on his liquor. With the choking, Draco finished a good two seconds before the dark haired man.

“Not fair!” Potter protested, reaching for the cup of water in front of him.

“Oh, fine!” Draco agreed, taking a sip from his own cup and eying Potter sideways. “You count the next one, then.”

 

 

They tied. Even the bartender and the girl sitting two seats down said they tied. Malfoy sighed.

“Okay, new contest,” he declared. “Kamikazes.”

“Huh?” Harry hunched protectively over his first pint, trying his hardest to enjoy himself by ignoring Malfoy. Couldn't he go find a cute guy to grind on and leave Harry alone? Malfoy seemed determined to see that Harry enjoyed his evening—and Malfoy's definition of enjoyment involved getting thoroughly lashed.

“Stop that,” Malfoy ordered, hitting him again. “You look positively plebeian.” The girl two seats away laughed. “Kamikazes. Take that pint there, drop this shot in it, then drink—”

“As fast as I can,” Harry cut him off, picking up the shot and poisoning a perfectly good pint. “I'm starting to catch on to you, Malfoy.” Harry began to drink.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry had both elbows resting on the bar as he sipped at his second pint. Draco Malfoy wasn't nearly as annoying during drinking games; or, rather, after them. Harry was just realizing how much fun he was having when a pale hand came out of nowhere and shoved him hard. Harry nearly tipped off his stool and had to slap both hands on the bar to catch himself before he got them thrown out of the club. Malfoy roared his squealing, very real laugh.

“Yup! You're drunk enough!”

“Yer drunk tooooo,” Harry slurred, going back to his beer.

“True,” the blonde admitted easily, draining his pint with some grace intact. “Jus' not as shit faced as you.” He smiled. Another one of those slow songs with the drums came on and several girls in the crowd screamed. Apparently, this was a good one for the sex-standing-up dance.

“Let's go dance!” Malfoy declared. And Harry was being dragged onto the dance floor by his left arm, still trying to polish off the last of his pint with his right.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Ginny sat at the bar, alone at last. Fred and George were busy tonguing girls. Ron and Hermione danced, smiling happily at one another, Ron stepping on Hermione's feet. Ginny smiled, too. Hermione looked beautiful, Ron embarrassed, and they both radiated happiness as they swayed to the lively music. Gin realized that she was the only one of their group at the bar—everyone else was dancing. She watched the couples a bit more, nostalgic. Everyone in the club seemed happy... and completely oblivious to what was going on in a dark corner furthest from the bar. She had to squint.

Harry and Malfoy were getting along again.

Harry and Malfoy were dancing. Together. That slinky Latin dance.

She felt a muscle in her jaw twitch. She ordered a shot.

Harry was laughing, his back to Malfoy. The blonde guided Harry's hips with his own.

Malfoy was saying something in Harry's ear, his face half buried in Harry's dark, messy hair.

Harry closed his eyes, his lips parting as the sexiest little smile graced his handsome features.

Malfoy's lanky, Dark Marked arm snaked around Harry's waist, fingers splaying across the flimsy fabric covering his flat stomach. The shirt was so thin, you could see the shadowy outline of dark hair leading down Harry's front.

Harry leaned back, his body making contact with Malfoy's from shoulders to knees. They seemed to keep their balance by leaning against each other as they moved, hips rocking lazily with the steady drum beat.

Harry was very, very drunk. Malfoy seemed drunk, too; his movements were fuzzy but still elegant, graceful even. Men had no business being that graceful. She wondered where her shot was.

Harry pressed himself to Malfoy as they swayed.

Malfoy grabbed a hold of Harry's hand, twining their fingers together.

Harry's smile broadened, eyes still closed.

Harry bent his knees, dropping low. And Malfoy went with him, keeping their bodies snug, tightly pressed, needing the contact.

The only thing in the club grinding harder than the two men was Ginny's teeth.

Harry rose slowly, arching his back and resting his tousled head back against Malfoy's shoulder.

Malfoy circled his hips slowly, pushing Harry's arse nestled against his crotch, a pale hand gliding up Harry's neck to ruffle the hair at his temple, effectively knocking his glasses askew. The spectacles slid half way down his nose without his caring.

Harry took a step away.

Malfoy tugged Harry's hand still in his, pulling them face to face. He hauled Harry to a nearby wall, pushing him bodily against it. The swirling dance lights lit their bodies every few seconds, Harry's white shirt and Malfoy's pale hair captured in a different pattern of vibrant colors each time.

She downed her shot, spluttering and transfixed.

Harry's hands tangled in Malfoy's hair. Malfoy touching Harry, pale fingers running up and down his bare upper arms, curling around his arching back. Their faces pressed hotly together. Malfoy's tongue darting out to wet his parted lips. The deep flush in Harry's cheeks. Their legs crossed-about and winding together. Their chests heaving. Their breath coming in pulls. Their lips touching, meeting hotly. Again. And again. And again.

 

 

 


	13. You Gryffindors & Your Bloody Tossing Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning—Ginny is fuming, Hermione is curious, Malfoy is calm and Harry is clueless. Questions about his life's direction only serve to make Draco question who, exactly, he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** reflections on consensual sexual violence, allusions to m/m anal intercourse  
>  **DISCLAIMERS:** The “[no one calls you an engineer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ajR9PLvN73k)” saying is a reference to one of my favorite writers, Dan Savage. I am shamelessly plugging him. A ton of my plot bunnies come from his intelligent and poignant ravings. He harps on a lot of the same points I dabble with in this pile of rot.

 

 

 

Draco looked up from buttoning his shirt when he heard stomping in the hallway. Something told him trouble was about to knock on his door; indeed, before he could finish his buttons, trouble in the form of Ginevra Weasley kicked his door in, Harry Potter style. These Gryffindors could really do with some manners. He'd seen more doors kicked in this week....

“Last night,” the angry witch prefaced, hurtling across the room and into Draco's person space. “You and Harry. What the bloody hell were you thinking, Malfoy?! And you'd best tell me the truth or I'll hex your bits off!” Her wand was indeed pressed to his groin and he didn't doubt her threat. Draco had only the slight upper hand of having absolutely nothing to live for and therefore wasn't frightened in the least.

“Your threat would have the average bloke lying out his arse to tell you whatever you fancy,” he sneered. “Unfortunately, I am not the average bloke.” He pressed a hand against his trouser pocket—all he needed was contact with his wand to cast a non-verbal Light Shield that had her stumbling back several paces. It gave him time to draw his hawthorn wand and gather his bearings. “Why don't you try again, Weaslette? I hear 'please' is quite efficacious.”

“I don't have time for your rubbish 'please,'” Weasley chit snapped. “What are you playing at, Malfoy? He has feelings, you know.”

Ah. The part of last night wherein he and a pleasantly ploughed Wonder Boy had gone tonsil diving. The Weaslette    
_would_   
be upset by that—it was probably as far as she herself had gotten with Prissy Princess Potter. The dark haired deviant was now well on his way to becoming a delightfully slutty drunk. If only his friends weren't quite so puritanical. This was how Salem started. 

“Of course he has feelings,” Draco replied bracingly. “He's a Gryffindor. I wouldn't expect any less. The real problem is that said feelings are not bent in your direction.” He couldn't resist the snide double entendre; in hindsight, it might have been brighter not to fertilize that particular seed but he couldn't resist an opportunity to flex his sartorial wit. As it was, the Weasley girl went redder than her hair, hand clenching around her raised wand.

“Malfoy,    
you're really full of it,” she spat, eyes brimming with fire and water. “You think Harry could ever have feelings for the likes of you?” 

“Me?! Gods, no!” If    
_that_   
wasn't an interesting thought! “I happen to know our Wonder Boy is madly in love with a muggle woman from Southampton. Heather Lightley. Its been a torrid affair but he ultimately realized their worlds were too different and—being perfect, as I'm sure you're full aware—he let her go. Tragic, no?” 

Draco let the outrage drum through her veins a moment before amending. “Although I do acknowledge the compliment. My humble sexual prowess up to the task of switching the great Harry Potter's side of the pitch—The Straightest Boy Who Ever Lived, you might say? You must think my cock about a foot long and flavored of blancmange.”

  
_That_   
drove her from his chamber with a missish stomp of her foot. Smiling to himself, Draco stowed his wand and resumed buttoning his shirt. It was certainly another exciting day in Azkaban. 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry was trying to figure out what to do with Malfoy's shirt. First he'd picked it up from the floor and folded it neatly on the bed. Then he realized he was being ridiculous—the thing wreaked of his sweat and would need to be washed before returning it. But the washing instructions were only provided in French or Italian and he didn't speak either and couldn't bear guessing wrong. He ended up setting the refolded shirt on top of his hamper. He was staring at it when Hermione knocked on his door.

“May I come in?” she asked before poking her head through the door. “I hope it's not too early. We were out late.”

“It's fine, Hermione,” Harry dismissed her worry and sat down on the bed in his pajama bottoms and dressing gown. “Did you need something?”

She remained standing, hands folded nervously over her stomach. “About last evening....”

“Yeah, that must've been weird for you to see. Sorry,” Harry half-shrugged. “It's just that—you know, for Malfoy—getting drunk and carrying on was something he did with his Slytherin mates. And now I'm the closest he has to a mate. He's really starting to trust me, too. So messing around, carrying each other around and stuff? That's just something we do now. I'll take it over fighting any day,” Harry scratched the back of his neck. “Um, I was really lashed last night. I didn't... say anything weird, er, to Malfoy?” He felt his face flinch in anxiety before he could clamp down on the emotion.

“Ah, no,” Hermione shook her head guardedly, hands still clasped. “Neither of you said anything out of the ordinary.”

“I know it's strange to see me and Malfoy getting along,” Harry admitted. “But it's a good thing—proof that people can change given time and some proper motivation. Look how much Malfoy's evolved.”

Hermione was torn. A part of her wanted to tell Harry that he and Malfoy had kissed—rather passionately. But she didn't know quite how to put it. And Harry's attitude toward Malfoy was so obliging, he would probably write it off to Slytherin antics or plain old loneliness. Malfoy probably was lonely. And so was Harry. So she said nothing.

“Yes, Malfoy's changing,” she agreed quietly. “You have that effect on people, Harry. You bring out the good in everyone.” She could only hope that was true of Malfoy. She'd have to ascertain the truth from the mouth of the dragon, himself. “I'm feeling like a little breakfast. I'll see you downstairs, yeah?”

 

 

 

Harry didn't feel much like breakfast. He blamed yet another spectacular hangover. He had crawled back into bed when his bedroom door was thrown open with a _bang_. Merlin, his bedroom was seeing an unusual amount of traffic this morning! Seeing his intruder was one very angry looking Ginny, he propped himself up on his elbows.

“What's up?” he asked benignly.

“Who the hell is Heather Lightley?!” she demanded in a low voice.

Harry gulped; his bright, distant eyes and deep flush probably said it all.

“Oh my God,” Ginny gasped, taking an affronted step back. “Malfoy was right....”

“Don't let him hear you say that,” Harry quipped. “We'll never hear the end of it.” Malfoy loved being told he was right. It seemed to mean the most coming from Harry, but the blonde reveled at every utterance. It amused Harry endlessly. He might even tell the man about this, just to watch his pale face light up.

“You slept with that muggle woman, didn't you?” Hurt burned in his ex's eyes along with the accusation. Harry felt the urge to roll his eyes and huff. This was really juvenile. He'd grown up a bit while Ginny and his friends stayed the same.

“Not that it's any of your business, Gin, but yes. I did.” _Sort of-ish_ , he thought. _Close enough_. _Further than I ever got with you._

“I can't believe you,” she stammered, shaking her head in shock. “Malfoy's got you all twisted up, hasn't he? I don't know who you are anymore. Do you?”

“I know who I am,” Harry said firmly, sitting up in bed and fixing her with as firm a look as he could muster. It drove her back another step. “I'm tired, Gin. I have a hangover and I'm not in the mood to discuss my sex life with my ex girlfriend.” It came out harsher than Harry had intended but the words were true enough. Who he slept with wasn't any of her business. And who he slept with didn't make him a different person. He would always be Harry Potter and nothing could change that. If she didn't like his non-friendship with Malfoy—a relationship that was opening new doors and probably making him a better wizard—then that was her problem.

“I'm going back to sleep, Gin,” Harry said, falling back to the pillows and preparing to throw the blanket over his head. “Please tell Hermione I won't be there for breakfast. I can't hold anything down just yet.”

“Fine,” Ginny sniffed, schooling her emotions poorly. “Malfoy's a righteous prick, but you make your own decisions. I'll see you later.”

Surprisingly, Harry didn't have any trouble getting back to sleep. Darkness claimed him almost instantly. He dreamed of pink and purple lights swirling across grey skies. He dreamed of flying.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Malfoy hadn't come down to breakfast, but that was hardly unusual. Hermione observed Kreacher bringing a tray of tea and biscuits upstairs around eleven and knew it had to be for Malfoy, as Harry wouldn't want to eat anything Kreacher touched let alone prepared. However, Harry hadn't come down to breakfast either, and that made her worry. Ginny had gone back to the Burrow in a righteous fit. All she'd said was “bloody Malfoy.” Hermione assumed she was upset about what had happened between Harry and Malfoy last night—not just their bold kissing on the dance floor, but the way they had been so chummy, getting drunk and dancing together. When Tonks and Elphias Dodge had come to collect them, Malfoy had hoisted Harry onto his back and carried him all the way to the underground. Their closeness had been natural rather than calculated. Ginny was probably jealous that her recent ex was becoming so intimate with someone she despised. Hermione had to admit she wasn't exactly pleased, herself.

Ron was blissfully unaware of the tension filling Grimmauld Place. He'd munched toast all morning, leaving a trail of crumbs wherever he went. Hermione followed him with a Vacuuming Charm. When she mentioned the previous night, he'd only apologized for letting Fred and George buy him one too many drinks. He hardly recalled dancing with her, let alone what Harry and Malfoy had done. Hermione decided not to worry him; instead, she gave in and sought Malfoy out.

The recondite blonde was easy enough to find—he sat playing the piano in the empty front salon, a half-eaten sandwich and a cup of tea atop the grand instrument. He played a jazzy rendition of the traditionally sober _The Founders March_ but his fingers stilled on the keys as she entered. Picking up his tea, he turned slightly on the bench to regard her. He crossed a foot over his knee, resting the tea cup against his loafer.

“Afternoon, Granger,” he said with a little nod. “I doubt you've come for a request. So out with it—whatever's crawled up your arse. I'm not known for my unerring patience.”

She brushed off his rudeness and got right to the point. “Malfoy, are you gay?”

“Why would you say that? Do I appear gay?” He gestured down his front. He wore a pair of tailored tan trousers and one of Harry's grey tshirts. He appeared casual and ordinary—well, as ordinary as one could be with a shock of platinum blonde hair, massive scarring and a big tattoo on one's forearm. And Malfoy wasn't exactly effeminate—graceful, poised, aristocratic, but not particularly female. But there was a strong image burning in her mind: Malfoy kissing her best friend in a crowded disco, their bodies glued together and his hands all over the dark haired boy. _That_ made her say he was gay.

“Well,” she suppressed a blush, “last night. You and Harry were pretty... familiar.”

“I was lashed,” he shrugged. “Potter was in worse shape. I recall having to carry him most of the way home. Is there something I'm missing?” he waggled a trademark Malfoy brow at her. She couldn't help scowling back.

“You honestly don't remember?” she scoffed, eyes gone wide. “You two were dancing and... you, you kissed him! Rather intensely, if memory serves.”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Malfoy drawled. He had the nerve to roll his eyes.

“Yes,    
_that_   
! So I'm asking, are you gay?” 

“And why would kissing your Golden Boy indicate that I prefer my own sex?”

“Because he's a man, Malfoy!” Hermione insisted, stamping her foot. “And so are you!”

“So that makes me gay,” Malfoy held his chin and gazed off in mock thought. “Me, and not Saint Potter.”

“Harry was drunk!” Hermione defended him. “He probably had no idea who you were or what you were doing.”

“Typical,” Malfoy sighed.

“That I'd defend my friend? He's a good person, Malfoy! I don't know why you're yanking him around like this, acting all chummy with him and then going and doing something... like what you did, but you've no right! I don't care if you're gay—I'll admit, I was just morbidly curious. But Harry deserves better than this jerking about. If you were really his friend, you'd never treat him that way.”

“I am not Potter's friend,” Malfoy said in a slow, bracing voice, as though trying to clarify all her misconceptions in a single sentence. He looked as though he were about to pinch the bridge of his nose a la Severus Snape. The blonde inhaled deeply before continuing in the same even tone. “Nor am I making passes at him. We were both very, very drunk and we happened to tongue a bit. You build a thousand bridges and no one calls you an engineer; suck one cock....” he sighed sadly.

“W-what?!” she stuttered noticeably. “You and Harry....” She trailed off, words lost to a deep, consuming flush.

“No, Granger,” Draco articulated regally, “I did not nor have I ever fucked your Precious Prince Potter. Nor do I intend to—he is _persona non grata_ in my bed, as I am sure I am to him. It's simply a saying.” It was something Blaise said all the time as a warning: party with the Durmstrangers all you want, just don't get caught. You can spend a lifetime building a reputation only to be taken down by a single conquest. Society judged hastily and harshly in matters of sex. Now Draco had partied with Potter and gotten caught. This was an awful bloody mess.

“So you're not...?” Hermione pressed, less sure of herself than the last time she'd accused.

“I'm not,” Malfoy confirmed. “And Potter is The Straightest Boy Who Ever Lived. It was nothing. It meant nothing.” Malfoy turned back to the piano keys, starting up a complicated tune she couldn't recognize.

Hermione made for the door without knowing where she was going. Her mind kept referring back to some recent reading from her Muggle Relations texts; in _Hamlet_ , the word “nothing” meant both nothing and impassioned sex at the same time. She couldn't help but think Malfoy's “nothing” held some deeper meaning, too.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Professor McGonagall arrived by floo late the next afternoon bearing the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. She discovered Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy on the stairs, the blonde seated on The Chosen One's shoulders as they worked at unsticking the unsightly house elf heads affixed to the wall. The two were having reasonable success and she stood observing them for a few minutes without making her presence known.

It was as though the boys had been in the same house these six years together; the way they half spoke, half grunted at one another was unguarded and familiar. Perhaps being locked up together was exactly what these two needed.

The Potter's charm went awry, burning Malfoy's hand. He cursed loudly and boldly, swinging a leg to kick Potter in the gut. Potter winced, the wind knocked form him, and doubled over—Malfoy's blonde head smacking the wall with a dry, dusty thud. Malfoy hollered again, both boys going down hard. In a tangle of limbs, they rolled down the stairs to land at Minerva's feet. Malfoy bled from the forehead and Potter clutched at his stomach with one hand while clawing at Malfoy with the other. Perhaps things hadn't changed so much after all.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said and both boys jumped to attention. Malfoy cast a quick Healing Charm at his forehead and Potter attempted to stand up straight, still holding his gut cautiously. They muttered greetings in return. “Mr. Malfoy, am I correct in assuming you are eager to get this over with?” She received curt nod from the blonde. “Excellent. Then let us proceed.” She gestured with an open hand, signaling the boy should lead her to wherever he was comfortable.

The young man lead her through the main sitting room, Potter trailing behind. Hermione Granger and Remus Lupin sat on the sofa with a collection of books she had sent from the Hogwarts Restricted Section. Miss Granger gave her a polite nod as she passed. Malfoy lead on to the small library off of the sitting room. It was a disused room that had undergone only enough cleaning to be habitable but it was private, with only the one door and no windows. A few candles dimly lit the space.

“Professor,” Malfoy turned to her, leaning against a large desk. “Is there any precedent for this?”

“Some,” she offered. “To my knowledge it has been necessary for students to switch houses in two other instances. You are not the first, though it is a rarity.”

“So, is there a protocol? Or do I just....” he inclined his whitish head toward the Sorting Hat. “Because I can tell you what house I'll be in. I don't think there's any doubt.”

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, drawing on years of authoritative diction to penetrate the young man's massive ego. “The only protocol is that you must be resorted by the Hat. Need I remind you it is a prophetic instrument? I would be remiss in my duties as Headmistress of Hogwarts if I allowed a single student to err from this tradition. Can you imagine what would happen, Mr. Malfoy, if I allowed every student to select their own house? Pandemonium, Mr. Malfoy. Chaos.”

“And four Hufflepuffs,” Potter muttered quietly.

Malfoy chewed the inside of his cheek as he schooled his expression; for a moment, it had appeared he was about to laugh at Potter's joke.

“Just do it,” Potter suggested, taking another step into the room. “Get it over with, yeah?”

Malfoy nodded slowly, reaching a hand out for the Sorting Hat. He took to a faded, wing backed arm chair, holding the artifact at arm's length and regarding it with a certain amount of apprehension.

“Go on, then,” Minerva encouraged firmly.

The blonde gingerly placed the hat on his head, immediately screwing his eyes shut and balling his fists. The man had changed some. This was quite a show of emotion for the once stoic Slytherin. Perhaps it was his experiences at the hands of the Death Eaters, perhaps it was his experiences living with Harry Potter and his tight little trio—Draco Malfoy was different. He demonstrated more genuine emotion, much of his false airs stripped away. Minerva watched him bite his lip in wonder. The boy shook his head minutely, arguing with the hat. She watched his lips mouth the name “Ravenclaw” several times, more emphatic with each repetition.

  
  
“   
  


 

  
_  
Fait chier!    
_   


 

 _Je n'en sais_   
_  
fichtre   
_   
_rien_   
,” he muttered. Remus, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley appeared at the door, peering in. Malfoy shook his head vehemently, the hat wobbling. His breathing was heavy as he became more and more upset. 

The Hat must have said something to his liking because he froze mid head shake. Eyes still closed, his face twitched up almost imperceptibly; soon, a little smile took over his face. He leaned back against the chair, folding his arms over his chest as he appeared to listen. He sat this way for more than a minute, listening and considering. Finally, he gave a little nod and reached up to remove the artifact from his head. The brim opened for its pronouncement.

“Gryffindor!” the hat shouted loud enough for anyone else in the house to hear.

“   
_Quoi?!_   
” Malfoy squawked, ripping the hat off his head and shaking it. “We had a deal!”

“I believe congratulations are in order, Mr. Malfoy,” Minerva said, offering the fuming boy her hand. He ignored her, throwing the hat across the room in a fit of rage. Potter stepped out to snatch the priceless artifact mid-flight before it caught fire on a nearby candle. Malfoy had jumped to his feet, kicking his chair and actually screaming through clenched teeth. Potter set the Sorting Hat on the desk and moved forward, attempting to comfort the irate blonde. He got himself screamed at.

“There's been a mistake!” Malfoy shouted.

“What, you want a redo?” Potter countered.

“Don't be ridiculous,” the blonde snapped, hands clasped and trying to pace in the tiny room quickly filling with curious bodies drawn by his shouting. “There's just been some sort of mistake, is all. Give me that!” He lunged for the Sorting Hat but Potter intercepted him, taking the blonde roughly by the shoulders and giving him a good strong shake. Those seeker hands would leave bruises.

“You're hysterical, Malfoy,” he asserted. “Don't make me slap you.”

The blonde rolled his eyes grandly.

“You're acting like a five year old,” Potter scolded. “It's just Gryffindor. You've survived worse, right? You're a Malfoy. You'll be fine.”

These words, spoken in an almost fatherly tone, settled young Mr. Malfoy instantaneously. He folded his hands behind him and straightened his back.

“You're right, Wonder Boy.”

“Ooh,” Potter said in a fake-snide voice, “that must've hurt.”

“More than you'll ever know,” the blonde sighed heavily. “A Malfoy in Gryffindor.”

“Why would the Sorting Hat do that, Professor?” Miss Granger asked. “I mean—no offense, Malfoy—but you're not exactly Gryffindor material.”

“Did the Sorting Hat give its reasoning for your placement, Mr. Malfoy?” Minerva asked. She watched Potter squeeze the other boy's shoulders before releasing him. Malfoy looked from the Sorting Hat to Potter before responding.

“It said it had to consider the safety and interests of others above my own. That it could not in good conscience place me in a house underground, ruling out Hufflepuff or reentry to Slytherin. It could not place me in a house to alter my destiny—I thought that meant Gryffindor, but I was tricked. Apparently a year in Ravenclaw would change my future, while a year in Gryffindor will keep me as I am. And we all know how I feel about self-preservation.”

“Oh, pish-posh!” Remus scoffed playfully. “That's just decoration. I think you've changed.”

That was a sentiment Minerva was beginning to share.

“Sure, whatever you say,” Malfoy said absently. After a moment, his gaze traveled to Remus. “I guess you of all people would know about changing.”

Minerva couldn't suppress a little gasp. Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley were equally stunned. Remus, however, broke out in laughter.

“That's exactly the sort of thing Sirius would've said!” he wheezed, leaning against the door frame as tears pricked his eyes. He held his stomach as he cackled.

That was true, enough. Mr. Malfoy had a few Gryffindors in his extended family tree. And his sharp wit and odd humor would serve him well there. She only hoped the rest of Gryffindor house would be as accepting as Potter seemed to be.

“Professor, if I might have a moment,” Malfoy said quietly, retreating to a corner of the room. Minerva followed. “I wished to speak with you about my apportionment as Head Boy. Why?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why, Headmistress?” the boy pressed, his face neutral but his eyes demanding. “I know for a fact Theo Nott was ahead of me in house standings at the end of last term. My grades were rather poor that last semester. So why am I Head Boy? If I was given the position out of pity, I won't have it.”

“Mr. Malfoy, Head Boy is awarded solely on academic merit. I have no influence in assigning the post,” she insisted. “That being said, consideration for Head Boy does include one's entire academic history, not solely sixth year performance. Your record as a prefect and Quidditch participant worked highly in your favor. You are correct in your assertion that Theodore Nott preceded you academically and he was first choice for Head Boy; however, Mr. Nott will not be attending Hogwarts this fall. The same with Stephen Cornfoot of Ravenclaw, who was runner-up. And so it fell to you, Mr. Malfoy. An academic scholarship has been made available to you as a student of good standing without parents to put forward your tuition. You have only to accept.”

“So I earned it fair and square,” Malfoy said slowly, scratching the back of his neck in a very Potter-like gesture, not meeting her eyes. “At least by process of elimination. I suppose, as a Gryffindor,” he said it like it was akin to being a lacy tea cozy, “I can accept a victory a la Wonder Boy; a combination of sheer luck and the seat of one's trousers, but still. It feels good to win sometimes.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry's brows furrowed in concentration. This was a lot harder than Tonks made it look. He focused even harder and the numbers gave a little wiggle.

Malfoy was still brooding in the front room, banging out a rendition of the Hogwarts school song so loudly that it drove Hermione and Lupin from the room. Harry could hear the man tinkling on the keys from his room on the second floor. Oh, well. Whatever kept him sane at that moment was fine by Harry. He set back to his project—changing the date of birth on his muggle identification card. He only needed to be a year older to buy hard liquor. And if there was one thing Draco Malfoy needed of him, it was a big ole drink tonight.

He wasn't sure how to tell his now fellow Gryffindor that he wouldn't be returning in the fall... or if he ought to tell him at all. Harry thought maybe he could head up to Scotland with him—just make the journey to the castle, make sure he was settled in alright and then head back to Grimmauld Place. After all, he and Mad Eye Moody had another training appointment and it was one he wouldn't dare miss; non-verbal offensive magic, Harry's weakest point. Maybe Hermione and Ron could go up with them and stay with Malfoy for a few days after Harry left. The Gryffindors would be a lot more agreeable if Ron and Hermione were there to pave the way. It wasn't that Malfoy couldn't hold his own or anything. Harry just felt... protective. He was responsible for the git. Malfoy respected him, trusted him. It was a two way street. He wasn't about to let Malfoy down.

With a surge of magic Harry felt in his fingertips, the little black number finally changed. Just like that, he was eighteen. In for a pence, in for nine thousand six hundred seventy four pounds, five quid, right? Now to get Malfoy drunk—and over himself.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Draco sighed, the hot shower water pouring down his back, streaming through his hair and into his eyes, dripping down his face like tears. This was stupid. He hadn't... not since Jack.

It was so utterly stupid. He tossed off like the Italians ate meals—leisurely and several times throughout the day. Why deny himself? Just because the last time, he'd....

He slumped bonelessly to the wet floor, water beating on his crumpled legs as his upper body hit the shower wall. Okay, he'd always been a violent pervert. There were a million reasons for that, many of them genetic. A good part of it was just the intensity, the wave of power that took over when he hovered on the edge of madness like that. It was a sort of freedom, like flying, and he reveled in it. For the better part of two years it had been his escape. And then... two days ago, it caught up with him.

Jack had understood what was being asked of him. In the dark pub, he'd seen the kerchief as pretty much black, anyway. That had worked in Draco's favor. They'd talked for a long time, discussing exactly how it was going to go, what was okay and what was off limits. There weren't a lot of limits, surprisingly. Draco would have thought that, with a complete stranger, the man might've held something back. Either Jack had really liked him or was more of a sadistic wretch than any bent wizard Draco had come across. And there were a few depraved ones out there, too. He'd been unsure but didn't let it show. That first punch had been the hardest, what with Jack just kneeling there with his eyes closed, hands tied together at his front. Draco hadn't made the knots easy to get out of, either. If the muggle wanted out, he had to say so. That was part of the agreement. Once it started, Jack had to be the one to stop it.

He didn't stop it. It got easier after the first hit, blood on his fists and pounding in his ears as he wailed on the man. Doing it in French had been eerie—he hadn't spoken French in the bedroom since he was fourteen but it felt right, easier, knowing he wouldn't be understood. He could say whatever he wanted needing to Obliviate the obliging muggle afterward. He realized Jack got off to the foreign language. His big green eyes may have been pained but his body betrayed his true feelings rather gloriously.

Bloody knuckles made him remember when he wanted to forget. The muffled shouts sounded an awful lot like the ones echoing in his head. He'd gritted his teeth and gone on, tears streaming down his face as Jack moved under him. It was easier not to see his face. Even in struggling, he seemed to say that it was okay, that he could handle it if there was more. It had taken an agonizingly long time to get everything out—every last explicative, every last thought and memory pouring out to break skin and crack ribs. He hadn't known he was strong enough to do that. He searched for that power, that mind-altering control. But it wasn't like before. This time the sense of mastery was a lie. He was still trapped. It wasn't fireworks when he finally got there. It wasn't flying. It was more like crashing. He began to understand why they called it release.

Draco watched the water pool together in a wavy puddle before slithering down the drain, taking his new tears with it.

As soon as it was over, Jack had darted off to the loo. Draco hadn't had words. He'd lain with his eyes shut, letting the wet paths cake and dry on his cheeks. He'd listened to the soft, mundane sounds of the muggle bathing. The shock had come when Jack returned to the bed with a wash cloth and a bowl of water. He'd taken Draco's hands, cleaning the blood from them, wiping the sweat from his face with delicate, tender care. He'd laid with him until he fell asleep, all the while kissing his face and stroking his hair softly, telling him it was over and no one would hurt him again.

Was it over? Most days, Draco felt like a part of it—a part of those dark, endless days that blurred together like soot-black storm clouds—was still inside him and biding its time. It wasn't the sort of thing one got rid of.

Perhaps he was changing, or had already changed. If anything, he felt himself getting worse by the day. Fewer and fewer things made sense as his control boiled away to nothing. It was change and die or simply die. Would he ever be a normal, caring person like Harry tossing Potter and all his perfect little Gryffindor friends? He'd rather die. But he could try, for this last instant of life, to be himself.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French**  
>  _Fait chier! Je n'en sais fichtre rien!_ \- Damn it! I don't know a bloody thing about it!  
>  _Quoi?!_ \- literally, What?! Most people use “ _comment_ ” because simply saying “quoi” sounds rather like a duck quacking and is generally considered gauche


	14. Tequila Will Be The Death of Us, Potter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what it sounds like. Harry and Draco get shit-faced. In inebriated bliss, the two conclude that their non-friendship has tipped over into actual friendship. This pleases Harry while scaring the life out of Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** under-aged drinking, boys being boys, inevitable Draco/Harry arguing

**PODCAST:** This chapter is now available as a podcast, read to you by, well, myself. Because my devotion to this epic beast knows no bounds. The podcast is available in both [.MP3](http://www.mediafire.com/?yhsi36w1hyh80oo) and [.WMA](http://www.mediafire.com/?jr9b3cjix41729h) formats.

 

 

 

 

Harry waited nervously on Malfoy's bed, thirty pounds worth of tequila in a paper bag on the pillow. His bounced his legs as he waited. Malfoy normally didn't take this long in the shower. He was about to head back to his room when he heard the door open.

Malfoy wore a towel around his skinny hips, carrying his clothes in a little bundle. He jumped a foot in the air when he spotted Harry in the room, a hand flying to his pale chest as though to stop his heart from escaping.

“Hey,” Harry said awkwardly. “Didn't mean to scar—I mean, scare you.”

Malfoy regarded him through long, dirty blonde lashes, his expression giving away nothing. “Nice save, Potter.”

It was hard not to see the scars lacing up his torso and running down his arms. A particularly nasty gash split one pectoral on the diagonal, going right through his pink nipple. The bite mark marring his left side was tinged red from the shower, the area permanently shiny as the skin would never grow right. Most of the marring lines were short and angry, inflicted more for pain than internal damage. The scars slid dangerously low, disappearing under the towel. Harry suspected they kept right on going.

When he tore his eyes away, Malfoy was looking right at him. He felt his ears go red.

“I'm not used to it, either,” the blonde offered with a shrug, tossing his clothes at the hamper and going to the wardrobe for fresh ones. He cast a button down tshirt, denims and pants onto the bed behind him.

Harry just stared. He could see the sinew of muscle and tendons shift under the bite mark. You could just see everything there, like his body had lost the protection of skin, completely exposed to the world. Malfoy was skinny—you could see his ribs in other places, too. The look reminded him of Heather Lightley, the way her ribcage protruded when she put her arms above her head. Granted, she'd been moaning and pretty darn happy at the time, so it was a good memory. Malfoy was no girl, though. He turned to catch Harry staring again.

Instead of the dirty look Harry had been expecting, Malfoy only regarded his own body pensively. He traced bony fingers over a long, thick scar on his upper stomach.

“This one was you,” he said mildly. His hand went up to his shoulder, touching a scar of similar appearance at the juncture of his left shoulder and chest. “This one, too.”

Harry wasn't sure what his face looked like. It probably should have been somewhere near “aghast.” In embarrassing reality, it was probably “mild interest.” The blonde reached down to secure his towel.

“Am I a peep show?” Malfoy joked with a little smile. “Pay up or turn 'round.”

“Um, I got you something,” Harry said hesitantly, reaching for the paper bag, “but not to get your clothes off or anything. I thought you might fancy drowning your misery with something a little stronger than the usual fare.” He removed the bottle and held it out for Malfoy's inspection. The blonde held his towel with one hand, taking the bottle with the other.

“Hundred proof,” he commented. “Silver. That's good shit. My clothes might come off, anyway.” Harry got up and turned around so Malfoy could get dressed. They kept talking over the rustle of fabric. “So what's the catch? We're not drinking with Weasley and Granger, are we?”

“Oh fuck, no,” Harry rolled his eyes. Hermione was still giving him dirty looks from the last time he and Malfoy had gotten drunk together. “Let's wait til they're all in bed.”

“All?” Malfoy inquired.

“Lupin left but Ginny's here now. She and Hermione took over the front room.”

“Damn,” the blonde muttered. “Okay, Potter. It's safe.”

“Ace,” Harry said, turning around with his hands securely in his pockets. “You hungry? I could knock something up before Hermione wastes supplies.”

“Yeah, sure,” Malfoy replied, unbuttoning his cuffs to roll his shirtsleeves. “Lead the way.”

 

 

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Malfoy thought it was especially funny when Harry washed and chopped potatoes by hand. With a wave of his wand, the blonde had onions minced, chicken herbed and dressed and everything simmering in a large skillet with a bit of broth. He even magically orchestrated the mixing and kneading of a quick-rising bread. Harry, remembering he had a wand and could perform magic, too, Summoned a butterbeer from the ice box. Sometimes being a wizard really was phenomenal. There certainly was a lot Malfoy could teach him.

Ron sat with them while dinner cooked, the two girls holed up in the front parlor. Several times, Harry caught Malfoy drumming his narrow fingers against his leg or the table, playing a soundless tune. Harry understood why the women were using that room and he didn't like it one bit. After the meal, the men were admitted to the parlor where Ron and Malfoy struck up a game of Wizard's Chess and Hermione slapped Harry with a thick pile of notes concerning the books they'd acquired from the Restricted Section. Quickly bored out of his mind, Harry read them through, pulling out pages for the few things that sounded promising. The only excitement was Ginny teaming up with Ron and Malfoy trouncing them both. Ginny practically stomped up to bed. Malfoy made his excuses soon after. Harry spent a solid ten minutes with Ron and Hermione so as not to arouse suspicion before forcing a series of convincing yawns that had Hermione suggesting he head up to bed. Harry agreed, said his goodnight, and snuck up to Malfoy's room.

Malfoy made these silly things called tequila slammers, one part tequila to two parts conjured champagne. After an hour of drinking and idle Quidditch banter, they moved up to the third floor hallway. Hardly anyone went up there so they weren't likely to be caught if someone got up in the middle of the night. Harry cast a quick _Muffliato_ on them just in case. When Harry finally got up the nerve to ask what, exactly the champagne was to celebrate, the blonde had toasted him, declaring, “my demise, of course.” And then he downed about half the glass.

“Cor, don't talk like that,” Harry implored, setting his own drink aside on the window sill and facing Malfoy.

“Why the fuck not?” he spat. “No matter how you look at it, I'm dead. A part of me already was. And sorted into Gryffindor? That's just another nail in my coffin.”

“You'll be fine, ya cunt,” Harry rolled his eyes, stealing a sip from Malfoy's drink right out of his hand. The blonde gave him a look but didn't say anything. Malfoy had made his drink a lot stronger and it burned on the way down. “Head Boy gets private quarters, yeah? Maybe you can throw a party or something. Conjure some booze, invite a few people. Really, Malfoy. It won't be that bad.”

“Get yer own,” Malfoy slurred darkly, holding his drink closer to himself. “An' it _will_ be that bad, ya cunt. Who do you suggest I invite to these parties, hmm? All my Slytherin mates? Do you want them in your precious Gryffindor tower? Maybe I'll invite Loopy Lovegood and Wayne Hopkins from Hufflepuff. That'll be a great party,” the blonde's short burst of laughter was like a bark. It reminded Harry of Sirius.

“I think it's just gonna be you an' me, Wonder Boy,” Malfoy said into his glass before draining it. His hand looked a little shaky.

Harry couldn't respond. His throat had just closed off. Knowing he was really well lashed didn't help, either. He took the last of his drink, anyway, avoiding Malfoy's statement.

“What?” the blonde asked. “Does this end when we go back to Hogwarts? Is that it?”

“That's not...” Harry began to plead but the words left him after that. He had no idea how to tell Malfoy he wasn't going back, that he would essentially be alone in Gryffindor Tower, friendless and alone. Wasn't that what the man wanted, though? Loneliness because he feared human connection. What a pathetic way to live.

“I get it,” Malfoy brushed off Harry's concern, turning his back on his dark haired non-friend. “You have a reputation, as do I. So it's back to the way things were. Don't worry,” he sighed, giving Harry a very cold look over his shoulder. “I'll start a spectacular fight on the Hogwarts Express. We'll arrive at Hogwarts cursed and bloodied and no one will be the wiser of our little summer together. Apologies if I cost us house points,” he sneered, “but it'll be worth it.”

“You're such a prick, Draco,” Harry muttered, eyes closed. The man just did not get it at all. How could someone who knew him so well misunderstand him so fantastically?

“Mind out, Potter!” the blonde spluttered, red in the face and livid at the use of his given name.

“What do you want, Draco? Do you want things to go back to the way they were; us at odds, you thinking I'm an attention-starved prat and me thinking you're in league with Voldemort?” The blonde flinched when he heard the name of his old master spoken aloud. Alcohol loosening his brain, Harry kept right on going, his voice near yelling. “Is that really what you want, to go back to us hating each other? Or do you want what's next?”

“It's not one or the other, Potter! It's not black or white! There are plenty of other choices; thousands of them! Choices that don't involve the Dark Lord or _you_.”

“I'm not talking about choices! I'm talking about what you want, Draco.”

“Don't call me that!” he spat, eyes narrowing.

“I'll call you what I like.”

“Oh, you like that?” Pithy, blithe, sniping, sarcastic, caustic. Using sex as a weapon again. “Get off on the control, do you, Potter? Or maybe my anger gets you hot. That explains a lot.”

“This 'last name only' pants is just another thing to keep everyone away,” Harry insisted. He would not be derailed. “And it worked pretty well until now. 'Malfoy' is an unfeeling, manipulative, bigoted bastard. But I got to know Draco. 'Draco' is bright and cracking funny. 'Draco' fancies adventure and challenges me when I just want things to be easy. And 'Draco' doesn't want to be alone. _That's_ what scares you.”

“ _Ta Gueule, poilu_ ,” the blonde snapped, looking away, hair falling over his eyes. “You haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about.”

“Don't I? Tell me to my face.”

“Tell you what?” He glares, trying to make his eyes steel. He fails. Emotion bubbles through. “That I'm a fragile little flower just wanting to be loved? Fuck off.” He turns to walk away.

Harry bellows, incensed. “Fuck off? You're just gonna push me away—the only person who wants to help you? The only person you trust?”

“Trust? Ha!” he slaps his leg. “Now _that's_ cracking.” 

“Stop it, Draco.” Harry pushes him against a wall and pins him there. “You have to move on. Distant and cold has gotten you a very lovely life, hasn't it? Pain and torture and grief with no friends and nothing of your own.” Draco, anger rolling off him in waves, pushes Harry's hands away in an attempt to escape. Harry checks him with a shoulder to the chest, winding him, keeping him trapped against the wall. “Isn't it time you gave the old bit a rest? Maybe try being honest about who you are.”

“I    
_am_   
distant and cold!” 

“No you're not!” Harry insists. He pushed a bit harder with his shoulder, keeping the squirming blonde pinned and talking to his chest. “If you were, you'd be downstairs asleep instead of here, shit-faced, arguing with me!” Harry bangs an angry fist against the wall, landing a scant inch or two from Draco's blonde head. There a sweep of air, blowing strands of Draco's blonde hair across his fierce, angry eyes. Harry's hands come to rest on either side of Draco. He stares the man down, holding him down willfully as much as bodily.

“Maybe I just like a good row,” Draco suggested. It was a weak retort, especially for a Malfoy.

Harry snorted. “This is hardly a good row.”

“Hand me the tequila. I'll show you an argument you'll never forget.”

Were it not for holding Draco down, Harry would have thrown his hands in the air. “Would you stop turning everything into innuendo? You're not going to seduce me, either!”

  
“Really?” Draco actually looks put out. “I was rather enjoying our    
_tête-à-tête_   
. Are you sure I can't seduce you just a little?” 

“You know,” Harry observes, “it's really perverse that you use an intimate thing like sex to avoid intimacy. You have serious issues getting close to people.”

“Is that a 'no,' then?” The anxious knit to his brow is terribly adorable in an openly arseholed way.

“That's a no,” Harry confirmed. He couldn't help the foolish grin taking over his face. He wanted to be angry—he really did. Draco did this to him.“We've kissed twice and you're not in my trousers.”

“Three times, Scar Head.”

“Three?” Harry pauses to think. Draco takes the opportunity to duck under his outstretched arms. He steps away but turns to face Harry almost immediately.

“Our little duel,” Draco counts on his long fingers. “Then that roach-infested hell hole you had the nerve to call a hotel, and when Granger took us all out dancing. You discovered tequila, remember?”

“We k... again?” Harry takes refuge leaning against the wall.

“Oh, that one wasn't as bad as the others,” Draco says, coming closer. “If I recall correctly, you even reciprocated. I dare say, it was a vast improvement! I had begun to worry you didn't know how.”

“And why would you care whether I can kiss or not?”

“Oh, you know,” Draco trills, hands clasped behind his back. He's playing innocent. He's only wavering on his feet slightly. “Calloused, distant, cold—and terribly bored. I decided to seduce you; because I need another notch on my bed post, naturally. How did you put it? I... needed a little intimacy to avoid intimacy. How's that?”

“Sounds like bollocks,” Harry shot.

Draco throws his hands out to his sides, his skin flushed and eyes large. “Then what do you want me to say?!”

“The truth, maybe?”

“That it was you or Weaselby and I wouldn't stick my dick in that troll trap for all the gold in Gringotts?”

Harry rolled his eyes. Suddenly, Draco's back hit the wall next to him. The blonde sunk to the runner carpet in a liquored pile. Harry let his legs slide out from under him, too, his backside hitting the floor with a thud.

“That I was bored out of my mind and needed to do something offensive and devious before my head exploded?” the blonde offered. Harry let his head flop to the side, fixing Draco with a stern, disbelieving look. He waited patiently, knowing the truth would bubble forth from the man's tanked lips.

“That,” Draco swallowed thickly, “if anyone was going ta understand me, it was you? An' I didn't know how ta keep yer attention any other way?”

“That one sounds like the truth.” Their gazes held.

“Too bad it's the second one that's bang on,” Draco shrugged. “You suck at guessing, Potter.”

“You suck at lying, Draco,” Harry replied. “At least to me.”

Draco is stunned silent for a minute.

“So, what do I do, then?” It's a tiny, scared voice. “To keep your attention, Wonder Boy.”

“Just be my friend.”

“Maybe ya haven't noticed—I don't have a stellar record for friendships.” Draco's head sags to fall against Harry's shoulder. “I think you'll need to provide detailed instructions to avoid a failure of epic proportions, here.”

“Well,” Harry thought about it for a minute—as much as he could think, with nearly a third of a bottle of tequila engaging his stomach in a punch-up. “Keep drinking with me, for sure. Talk to me about shit an' listen when I talk to you. Argue with me when you think I'm wrong. Tell me if you think I'm about ter do something stupid—”

“Then I think you're doing something very stupid,” Draco speaks up.

“Yeah?”

Draco nods against his shoulder. “You're trying to make friends with me.”

“I... think it's too late.”

“Damn it.” The words are there, but they lack any heat.

“You don't want to be my friend?”

“You're a good person,” Draco sets a hand on Harry's knee and gives him a pat. The thin line of his arm rests along Harry's thigh, elbow tucked against Harry's hip. It feels very normal through the tequila haze. “Don't waste your time on me.”

“But—”

“Really, Potter. Don't bother. I'm not worth the effort.”

“Can't—can't you call me Harry?”

“No,” Draco sighs.

“Because, even though you're afraid of being alone, you're even more afraid of getting close?”

“Yes,” he sighs again.

Harry understood that one admission, that single word, took a whole fucking lot. He ruffled the blonde head on his shoulder. It felt nice to have Draco's warmth beside him. His fingers and toes were getting cold—which made no sense, it being summer and all. He realized he was sleepy. And Draco's breathing was evening out.

“Oi,” he muttered. He put his face in blonde hair and it smelled like crisp leaves and fall, the way the man always smelled. Harry probed with his nose, brushing the hairs around. “We can't sleep on the floor. We'll get caught. Come on.” The blonde made a disagreeable noise in his throat. “Get up or I'll carry you.”

The man lifted his blonde head with a groan of “bloody hell.” Harry took that as his cue, getting to his feet and seizing the man's arm to pull him up. They both wavered for a moment, grabbing at one another for balance.

Draco waved a warning finger between them. “Drop me and I'll kill you.”

“M'kay,” Harry agreed. He bent forward, putting his shoulder to Draco's middle and then heaving the dead weight over his shoulder. He'd never carried someone this way before but it worked alright. Draco was drunk enough to just give in to it. Without thinking, Harry went directly to his room, releasing the blonde safely onto his own bed. He blinked up at Harry, pupils consuming his irises so that only the tiniest sliver of silver shown around them.

“Potter, there's a Privacy Ward on yer bed,” he pointed out, depositing his wand on the nightstand before lying back against the pillows. _Git_ , Harry thought, _that's my side_. 

“So?” Harry set his wand and glasses on the nightstand beside Draco's. Too lazy to walk around the bed, Harry crawled over Draco to get to the other side. He toed off his trainers and socks, content to lie comfortably on his back and struggle.

“Well, what for?”

“Maybe I'm a loud wanker.”

A moment of bemused silence met his statement.

“Sure, right,” Draco drawled. Then a thought occurred to him and he rolled onto his side, head propped up on his elbow and facing Harry. “Are you still having those famous nightmares?”

Harry didn't dignify that question with a response. He dropped back against the pillows to escape Draco's questioning gaze.

“Alright then,” the blonde sighed, lowering himself to the bed beside Harry. “Let's go with loud wanker. You _would be_ the elusive male screamer....”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Ginny woke at the ridiculous hour of half six and could not get back to sleep for the life of her. She had half a mind to ask Hermione for a sleeping potion, as she hadn't had a good night's rest the last four days. Groggy, she dragged herself to the kitchen for a cuppa to start off her miserable day. Another day watching Harry and that slimy git, Malfoy parade around like best friends? Sounded miserable, indeed. If the Burrow weren't so crazy—Bill's release from hospital having spurred Phlegm into a frenzy of wedding planning that suffused the house—she'd head right back home. As it was, this dark and creepy house was her refuge.

Cuppa in hand, she bypassed the unused dining room and went to stand in the formal parlor.

She hated to admit it, but Malfoy had done an incredible job repairing the Black family tree. Her name glittered back at her, along with all her brothers and sisters, plus Fleur Delacour. There was even a thread of marriage appearing beside Charlie's name. Another wedding wasn't far off, apparently. She hunted around until she found Tonks; unfortunately, no line of marriage there. Not even a little one. Ginny got close and squinted just to make sure.

Movement close by caught her eye. At first she thought it was a spider or something crawling on the wall. This room was rarely used now that the Order of The Phoenix held their meetings God-knows-where, so a few bugs wouldn't be surprising. Grimmauld Place was an old house. But that wasn't a bug. The tapestry was active, moving, creating a new link as she stood there and watched.

A line of marriage shot out from Draco Malfoy's name. Transfixed and aghast, Ginny drew closer. Malfoy's place on the tapestry was at chest height and so she bent her knees slightly, bringing her eyes even with it. The silvery line quivered a moment, as if unsure, before supplying the name of Malfoy's intended.

Ginny dropped her tea cup.

There, in her face, was a name.

 

 

_Harry James Potter_.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translation of Malfoy's French**  
>  _Ta Gueule_ is, of course, one of Draco's favorites: shut the fuck up.  
>  Draco calling Harry _poilu_ is his idea of a joke. The word literally means “hairy,” a cheeky play on The Chosen One's given name, since Draco can't bring himself to Christian name-calling. Poilu is also a somewhat vulgar means of calling a man attractive—especially a meaty guy with lots of body or facial hair. The name is commonly used in the French gay scene to describe “bears”—big hairy guys, often fond of cuddling. Malfoy is starting to realize that, against his better judgment, he's a little bit attracted to the Gryffindor Golden Boy. Lord help us.


	15. The Farce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny sees something. Ron sees more something. Hermione sees nothing. Draco has a decision to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** panic, judgment  & a dash of bigotry, partial nudity

 

 

> “ _So, even if you see everything, don't believe anything._ ”
> 
> \- Sganarelle in _Sganarelle_ , by Moliere

 

 

Ginny paced the parlor. Insanity was what this was. Harry Potter would not marry Draco Malfoy. For one thing, it was Malfoy. And for another, Harry was heterosexual. She knew to the marrow of her bones that Harry liked women. She'd felt his straight, hard, pulsing heterosexuality through his jeans once and it had been impressive. There was no way he would make it with a guy—let alone The Amazing Bouncing Ferret. No fucking way.

She could stand here ripping her hair out or she could do something about it. She dashed for the ultimate voice of reason: Hermione Granger.

“Whaaaat?” Hermione groaned as Ginny shook her in her bed. She sat up, her frizzy hair poofed up like a wild mane around her head.

“Hermione,” Ginny panted. “You have to come downstairs right away! The tapestry's gone mental.”

“Let me put some clothes on, Gin,” Hermione said weakly, swiveling out of bed and making for her dresser. “And explain, huh?”

Ginny recounted what she had seen just twenty minutes ago. How the tapestry had woven a new line from Malfoy's name only to fill in Harry as his spouse. Hermione's brow furrowed as she struggled to pull a plain cotton blouse over her bushy head.

“Alright, that _is_ odd,” she agreed, picking up a brush and working at her hair.

“It's more than odd!” Ginny persisted. “Why would it do that? Why would it say something like that? I mean—Harry likes women. I dunno about Malfoy; he's a fruity one. But Harry?” She shook her head vehemently. “No. I just can't see it.”

“I tell you what,” the brunette offered, wrestling her hair into a bun and pinning it down with a spell. “Why don't we go and have a look at the tapestry? Together. I hope to God you were hallucinating, but there might be some other explanation.”

“I wish,” Ginny rolled her eyes. It was a bad day when the most comforting explanation available was hallucination. “Why don't you go ahead, Hermione. I'll meet you downstairs.”

“Why? Where are you going?”

“I'm...” Ginny winced. “I'm gonna go have a peek in Harry's room, make sure he's okay.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Hermione asked tenderly, her tone both concerned and warning. She didn't want her friend to suffer any more heartache pining after her ex.

“I know he sleeps in his pants,” Ginny admitted with a small blush. “But—what if Malfoy's in there right now, casting the Imperius Curse on him or something? I need to know he's alright, that nothing's happened to him under his own roof.”

“I'm not going to stop you,” Hermione replied with an air of neutrality, slipping into her flats and gathering Ginny's hand in hers as they made their way to the door. “You just be careful he doesn't see you. You know how he gets about his privacy.”

“I know,” Ginny nodded, giving Hermione's hand a squeeze before separating from her to go down the long hall. Harry's room was at the very end. She didn't sense any magic surrounding the big wooden door and a simple _Alohomora_ unlocked it. She lowered her wand before stepping inside, the morning sun already lighting the room in a hazy, orange and gold glow. Harry's room had two big windows, one to either side of the heavy, king size four poster. She saw a large lump in the bed, uncovered by sheets. Stepping closer, she had to stifle a gasp.

Harry and Malfoy were in bed together. They were fully clothed with the exception of socks and shoes, but still! Ginny had six brothers. She knew that boys sometimes slept in the same bed out of camaraderie or occasionally pure laziness, but she'd never seen her brothers like this. They were... there were no other words for it: they were holding each other.

Ginny would have said it was all Malfoy's doing but the only way two bodies arrived in that kind of position was mutually. They were wrapped up in each other like lovers; both on their sides and facing, Harry much lower on the bed so that his face pressed against Malfoy's abdomen, one of Malfoy's long arms curled protectively around Harry's broad shoulders, thin fingers in his dark, messy hair. And Harry held Malfoy tightly about the waist, a leg tucked between the blonde's to encourage as much contact as possible. Harry was wound around Malfoy like ribbons on a village maypole. Malfoy sort of sighed in his sleep, his head resting on an arm. His pointed face tilted down toward Harry, chin tucked to his chest as though he'd fallen asleep looking at the top of the man's dark head and just stayed that way. Under his breath, Harry hissed something in Parseltongue while rubbing a shadowy, stubble-covered cheek against Malfoy's stomach. The blonde responded by draping a leg over Harry's hip, quieting the other man with his touch.

Ginny backed slowly out of the room.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco dreamed he was flying over Stonehenge in the pressing darkness just before sunrise. He often flew around Wiltshire at night so the muggles wouldn't see. The Manor grounds were beautiful but this was an issue of confinement; he needed to be free, even if that meant straying into muggle territory. He flew low, zipping between the massive stones and then vaulting up into the dark, crisp sky. Hunkering down and holding tight to his broom, he soared higher and higher.

As dawn broke the sky in a riot of orange, yellows, and pinks, his broom began to twitch. At first it was imperceptible but soon the wood was moving, alive with magic, swelling under his hands until it was large and heavy. His broom had turned into a huge snake. It hissed against him as they both plummeted to the earth.

He woke with a start, the hissing still in his ears. Dear sweet Merlin, there was a snake in his bed. A big, coiling snake tucked close to his body, wrapped between his legs, its hissing head at his heart, inches from his throat. Frozen in fear, he opened his eyes to slits.

It was not a snake in his bed, in his arms. It was Harry Potter, hissing Parselmouth in his sleep. Draco wasn't sure if this was better or worse.

Extricating himself would be difficult, curled up as they were. Draco flushed with embarrassment. Harry Potter had strong arms around him, a leg between his, and was performing a kind of sleep-induced nuzzling against his chest. And he had an arm around Potter, cradling the man's head to his middle. It would be relatively easy to break the man's neck like this—pressed to his chest as he was, Draco's hand at the back of his head. One swift twist and it would be done. Potter hissed something which sounded almost pleasant and pulled Draco closer, squeezing him with surprisingly meaty force. A part of his spine cracked, not unpleasantly. No, extrication would not be easy.

He got his legs away easy enough. Potter was stubborn about having his arms pulled away and clutched tighter at his prize. Draco cooed French curses to his messy crown, massaging his toned bicep and forearm until the man relaxed and could be prized off without a fight. It was hard to resist ruffling that dark, thick mop—especially when he pouted in his sleep like that, small noises escaping his throat. It became less cute when he hissed dangerously, catching Draco's hand and pulling it to his prickly cheek.

“ _Putain de merde!_ ” he whispered, vehement words in a gentle tone so as not to wake the sleeping prat. “ _Quel con!_ ” 

The hissing stopped when he stroked Potter's scruffy cheek with the pad of his thumb. For a man who claimed not to be an attention-seeker.... Draco couldn't help brushing a dark fringe of hair from his forehead and planting a soft kiss on that lightning bolt scar.

Now he'd completely lost his mind. It was time to get out. He slipped from the large bed and crept across the room. He watched Potter roll, taking up his vacated pillow and pressing it to his face, breathing noisily through it. Draco almost climbed right back into bed.

No. He needed to go. This was ridiculous. Potter would be upset if he woke to his horny, bisexual house guest humping his leg. He mustered his courage and forced himself back to his own chamber.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Hermione, really!” Ginny pleaded from the parlor doorway. “We know I'm not hallucinating. Will you just go look for yourself?”

“Oh, fine!” Hermione snapped, straightening up from her intense examination of the Black family tree. She couldn't find any obvious signs of tampering. She had a theory Malfoy had misaligned some part of the blood magic and the thing now ran rogue. Next it would say Charlie was marrying Kirley Duke from the Weird Sisters.

Ginny huffed impatiently.

“Let's go have a peek, then,” the brunette offered with a shrug. She really wasn't keen on spying on her best friend but Ginny needed the reassurance more than Harry needed his privacy. And if he truly was in bed with Malfoy, as Ginny raved, then he deserved to be caught red handed. “And if Harry catches us sneaking a peek at him, you cast the Shield Charm and I'll hide behind you.”

“Deal,” Ginny said with finality, turning swiftly and heading as quietly as possible up the rickety staircase.

Hermione had to admit the entry to Grimmauld Place was much nicer now that Harry and Malfoy had gotten rid of most of those morbid, stuffed house elf heads. There were still a few hangers on but things looked cheerier. The two girls paused at the end of the long hall, both extinguishing their wands which they had lit in the dark, windowless hallway.

Ginny opened the door with only a tiny squeak of the hinges and Hermione crept in first, her wand held out in front of her. She saw Harry—mercifully clothed—sprawled out on the bed. Alone. She turned to Ginny.

“Well?”

Ginny looked dumbfounded. She could only raise her brows and shrug.

“He was here a few minutes ago,” she put forth in a whisper.

Harry grunted, rolling onto his stomach and tossing the pillow he had been hugging to the floor.

Hermione jutted her head toward the door, indicating that they should talk someplace else in case Harry woke in a snit. Ginny nodded her agreement and soon they were in the kitchen with the kettle on.

“I don't understand,” Ginny sighed, head in her hands as she sat at the worn wooden table. “I saw Malfoy there not ten minutes ago.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Ginny,” Hermione shrugged, idly watching the kettle that refused to boil. She retrieved the sugar bowl and a small carafe of cream, setting them both on the table before the confused, deflated red head. “Maybe a bit of tea will make you feel better?”

Ginny took her tea with a bit of cream. It was easier to hide Cheering Potions in cream. Calming Potions, too. Hermione offered Ginny a reassuring smile.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco paced. He was not the type of man who paced. Pacing was a definitive sign of agitation and Malfoys were trained from infancy to feign indifference, not to show any emotions unless they were useful ones. Confusion and sexual frustration were right up there on the list of utterly useless emotions and yet they bubbled forth, manifesting in this needless, pointless, limitless pacing. He was going to wear a track in the floor soon. Eventually, he forced himself to sit at the little desk by the window and do some actual thinking.

Maybe a cold shower was in order? Maybe he should have taken Jack the muggle's sodding telephone number. Maybe he was just undersexed? There was no logical reason for this sudden attraction to a man who by all rights should repulse him. Draco Malfoy, a drooling member of the Golden Boy Fan Club? Absolutely not.

And yet it stared him in the face. Just like Potter's exotic, fragrant orchid sitting on the desk. It didn't smell like an orchid. It smelled like Potter. Draco knew it, too. It smelled like that warm, saffron and juniper tang that lingered on his skin. Like the musk of his sleepy breath. Like the robust heat of his compact body.

He could not be attracted to Potter; yet these stubborn, poignant details flying up from his memory like sparks from a bonfire told him otherwise. He didn't obsessively file away sensual facts unless he was sharply, intensely attracted. He couldn't recall what Pansy Parkinson's lips felt like, but he could describe the birch-colored flecks in Viktor Krum's hooded hazel eyes, or summon the exacting memory of the supple, springy texture of Margaux Vigier's nipples. That these details of Potter now taunted his psyche was a clear indication—something was going on with Potter. Every fiber of his logical mind urged him to stay the hell away. Every fiber of his groin told him to sneak back into Potter's big bed and take his bloody chances.

It was a calculated risk. At worse, Potter would awake and relegate him to a cold corner of the bed. At best—what? He might get to hump the healthy curvature of Potter's thigh for a solid twenty minutes? Sounded like a bet just gagging for it. Because the bet was gagging, not him. The bet wanted to fuck Potter's tempting eyes and magnetic form into mind-blowing oblivion, not him. It was all the risk, the temptation, the intrigue—not him and not Potter. It couldn't be Harry Potter... could it?

He was completely mental.

He was out of his chair before he realized what he was doing. He wasn't making for the washroom and the cold shower awaiting him. He was making for Potter's bed. And when he arrived, the man engulfed him in warmth.

The simple fact that Potter's sleepy fingers reached for him as his weight settled on the bed, seeking without awareness to touch. And when Potter pulled him to his tepid chest and constant, beating heat? Priceless.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Tea was served, followed by toast, leftover scones with sweet clotted cream and biscuits, all served and consumed without ceremony. Hermione tried to enjoy the pleasant quiet of the morning. The house did an excellent job of blocking out the noise of morning commuters, delivery trucks, honking car horns and the like. It was like being in a glass bubble where the outside world didn't effect you. Hermione always got her best reading and research done on mornings like these. She was looking forward to a stack of books left in the front sitting room. She looked forward to getting her mind off of this strange haze surrounding Harry and The Ex-Slytherin Prince and back to the problem at hand—Voldemort's Horcruxes.

She shuddered, the calm of her morning shattered.

Ron skittered into the kitchen, his eyes shifting and wild.

“What's up?” Ginny asked, Hermione's mouth full of tea.

Ron braced himself against the door frame, his big brown eyes unable to settle. Hermione observed his pulse in a thick vein of his neck. He was close to hyperventilating, his freckles and moles standing out starkly against his pallid skin.

“Harry... Malfoy,” he stuttered. His big hand pressed his heart, begging it to slow so he could speak.

“In Harry's bed?” Ginny asked gently. It wasn't as bad if you said it softly, as a question.

Ron nodded.

“Ginny mentioned,” Hermione said, trying for bracing. Ron balked. “I was up there maybe a half hour ago. I didn't see anything.”

“Anything?” Ron said with a hitch to his voice. “Did Harry have his shirt on?”

“Yes,” she nodded, setting her tea aside. “Why?”

“An' wha' 'bout Malfoy?” Ron pressed. “He have his pants 'round his knees?”

“What?!” she couldn't help a gasp. Ginny went white as a sheet across the table, a scone forgotten half way to her waiting mouth. A clot of cream slipped from the pastry, falling to her plate with a wet splat. “That can't....”

“Saw it,” said Ron.

“But...” Hermione uttered dumbly.

“I saw it. Malfoy's arse, everything. I saw it, 'Mione.”

Ginny seemed to pull herself together first. “We should go up there.”

“No we should _not_ ,” Hermione insisted, bordering on hysterical laughter and panic in one nervous flutter. There was no way.

“We should,” Ginny asserted with firm resolve. “What if Malfoy Imperio-ed him or something? What if Malfoy raped him?” She swallowed past a lump in her throat, the scone allowed to tumble to the floor. “We need to go up there.”

“Yes,” Ron agreed.

“Fine,” Hermione sighed. This had bad idea written all over it. The whole morning did. “Let's just finish our tea. Ginny, did you need more cream?”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French**  
>  _Putain de merde_ – Oh, for fuck's sake!  
>  _Quel con_ – what a cunt


	16. Let's Be Honest: Porn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No qualms, no pretense. An entire chapter of Draco and Harry doing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Here it is, just over 5k of uninterrupted porn; you've waited fifteen chapters for it... masochist. Perviness includes: burgeoning D/s, T &D, sapiosexuality, frotting, forced blindness, unprotected oral sex, biting, mild blood fetishizing and bondage. Plus, a view inside Malfoy's head while performing sexual favors on everyone's favorite scar-headed hero. I missed my calling as a gay porn wanker—I mean—writer.  
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** For the purposes of this chapter, let us follow movie cannon and believe there are such things as House ties to accompany Hogwarts robes. Such things make nawashi's life that much easier.

 

 

Harry looked down at the frankly gorgeous blonde sleeping in the crook of his arm. Morning light poured in from the window, lighting his hair like strands of fiery white gold. He looked soft and innocent, Harry thought. Like an angel. Draco curled against him in sleep, a pale hand clutching at Harry's shirt to prevent his rolling away in the night. Harry couldn't resist the urge. Before he knew what he was doing, he was leaning over the blonde, head bending low.

Draco's lips were soft. He pulled one into his mouth and sucked, savoring the taste and feel of him, delicate and very new. He grazed its tenderness with his teeth. Kissing Draco was the most erotic sensation of his entire life. Every part of him screamed for more. He pressed his lips to Draco's again, savoring each slide and each pull as he kissed. Draco's morning wood gave a little jump against his thigh. It turned Harry on so much he couldn't breathe. Maybe he was still drunk?

Draco was stirring beneath him. He was about to wake up. Realizing he could never move off without waking him, Harry dropped his head next to Draco's and feigned sleep. It was easy enough; hell, his eyes were already closed. The way he landed, his lips were against Draco's ear, his nose in sun-warmed, sweet smelling hair. It was almost worse than kissing. Harry was still so, so.... He had to be drunk. That was the only way to explain the lust coursing, sparking, seizing through his veins. Very, very drunk.

Draco made an incoherent sound as he woke. Harry could feel facial muscles move as Draco blinked, he was that close. He redoubled his effort to appear asleep, sorting out his breathing, relaxing every muscle in his own body. Draco's smell helped—it was Harry's own shampoo and soap mixed with something clean, tidy, natural and a bit outdoorsy. Autumn, maybe. Leaves and trees and a smart crispness to the air. That's what Draco smelled like. Maybe it was just cologne: Harry couldn't care less. It was the most comfortable smell in the world. Harry could feel himself drifting back to sleep.

Waking, Draco let go of Harry's shirt. Instead of pulling away, he ran a warm hand up Harry's side. Harry just breathed Draco's scent and enjoyed the touch—he would be asleep in another minute.

Then Draco's hand strayed under Harry's shirt.

Harry knew with absolute clarity what Draco was doing: he was exploring, exactly as Harry had done moments before. Draco thought Harry was still asleep. His fingertips found every last sensitive place as they journeyed lower. They met with Harry's boxers and began toying with the waist band, teasing little ghosts of contact making his toes want to curl. It took all of Harry's concentration to steady his breathing, his stampeding heart, as Draco's fingers slipped under. When Draco touched him, his whole body shuddered. He might have even moaned. Every inch of him sang, screamed at that touch.

Draco seemed to second guess himself. He pulled his hand away.

It was as good a time as any to pretend to wake up.

Harry shifted, letting his eyes open. He didn't want to move. Draco was so warm. He pushed up onto an elbow, not meeting Draco's eyes. Harry stared at his pale chest instead, at the patch of toned muscle and scarred skin revealed by his partly unbuttoned shirt. Harry had to clear his throat twice before he could speak.

“Sorry.” What came out hardly sounded like his voice, but he went with it. “I'll naff off.”

Harry made to sit up and move away. The second he began to move, his erection dragged against Draco's hip, Draco's own pressing strongly into Harry's thigh. Harry could feel a vein pulsing somewhere. He couldn't tell whose it was. He pushed unsteadily to his hands and knees, needing desperately to put some distance between them so he could think.

He looked down into Draco's eyes and saw it there: the same wild desire, the same blood-boiling, bone-searing lust. Any thought of sleep burned up in that instant, along with any thought of ignoring what had just happened between them. He wanted it. Draco wanted it. Slowly, Harry pulled off his shirt. Draco's watching grey eyes went wide. Harry could see the myriad of emotions flash across that beautiful face even without his glasses: confusion, desire, lust, lust again, excitement, hope, yearning, fear.

“Whatta ya doin'?” the blonde whispered, his features settling into honest disbelief. He sounded like Draco, just a bloke from Devizes. His slurred vowels were mesmerizing. Or maybe it was just his lips. Harry tossed his shirt to the floor and again leaned over Draco, wanting so much to be near him. He said the first thing that came to mind.

“Seducing you.”

And he kissed Draco again. It was better than before, better than better—it was fantastic. This time, Draco's lips responded to his own. The familiar scents and unfamiliar, intoxicating taste melded together in a way that made Harry's heart threaten to hammer right out of his chest. He felt like he was going to explode into a thousand, million pieces. Draco's lips were everything: delicious, soft, playful, demanding. Like nothing he'd ever felt before. It turned his mind inside out and binned the contents—it was a real bloody kiss.

He lowered himself onto the blonde, wrapping an arm around him, touching his face. Their kiss deepened. Draco's tongue swept his mouth, his hips bucking, teeth nipping, whole body tense with the need for more. Draco's pulse raced beneath Harry's hand. Harry used his own tongue in imitation and the sensation was incredible. He wanted to do it again and again; instead, he pulled back just an inch.

“Was it like this before?” he managed. “Did we kiss like this?”

“No,” Draco said, straining for Harry's lips. He wrapped an arm around Harry's neck and tried to pull him down for another mind-blowing go. “This is betta,” he murmured, managing to brush Harry's lips with his own. “Best. Do it again.”

With that confirmation, Harry allowed Draco to drag him down. It was a needy kiss. Draco fought him for control, wrapping a leg around him and forcing him onto his back. Harry used their momentum to keep right on rolling, throwing Draco to the bed, making it clear who was in charge of this seduction. He tasted Draco over and over, hands fumbling with the remaining buttons of the blonde's shirt as they rubbed against one another.

With Draco's shirt open, Harry trailed kisses down his chest. He wasn't going to rush it. He kissed, touched and tongued each livid scar. Draco moaned, winding his fingers through Harry's unruly hair. As Harry's mouth drew lower, Draco pulled and panted. He wanted more kissing. He wanted Harry's lips against his own. Harry resisted the urge in favor of a stronger one; he let Draco yank his hair. It felt good. But he wanted more than those amazing kisses.

He worked at Draco's jeans. Stupid button fly. A part of him wanted to simply rip the fucking things. Another part told him to do this slowly, slowly, until Draco fairly hummed with need. Harry had to focus on the buttons—his head was swimming from lack of blood. His fingers fumbled along and at last the stubborn things gave way. Harry peeled away denim and boxers until he had Draco.

 _Okay,_ his foggy brain said.  _Wow_ . Draco was... something. Draco used magic instead of a razor—he was completely, utterly smooth. And Draco was longer than him. A lot longer. Harry guessed he could fit maybe half of it in his mouth before he choked and died. Oh well. It sounded like a good way to go. 

He took Draco in his hand. That earned him an incoherent muttering punctuated by wild, keening, staccato sounds. And panting. Lots of panting: head back, eyes screwed shut, mouth open panting. Harry had no idea what he was doing, but it was working.

He took Draco in his mouth. That garnered him the best reaction yet. It was like a little scream. It came from deep in Draco's throat and sounded like gravel. Harry understood perfectly: it meant    
_please, God, more_   
. He'd never heard anything that sounded better. He took as much as he could, using his hands to stroke what his mouth couldn't reach. There was a lot his mouth couldn't reach but Draco didn't seem to mind. He pulled absently at Harry's hair as he made the noise again, louder. 

Harry was just as hard as Draco. They were both sweating. Draco's abdominal muscles started to seize in a quick, pulsing rhythm. He flexed, thrusting into Harry's mouth. He just about gagged. It took him a second to recover but he went right back to it. Draco's hands scrambled for Harry's hair, the pillows, the sheets—anything he might grip tightly, holding on for dear life. His taut stomach quivered and shook. If he was anything like Harry, that meant he was about to go over the edge. Harry went a little slower, a little harder, trying to help him last. Draco just punched the bed and let out a strangled, emphatic yell.    
_Harder is better_   
, it said to Harry. The yell went on.    
_More, more, more, more,_   
Draco begged. Harry really slowed down, using his tongue, grazing the head with the backs of front his teeth. He ignored the ache in his jaw as he sucked. He went at it hard, the way Draco liked. Crazed, Draco tried to pull Harry off him. It was time. Harry batted the hand away. He was seeing this through. 

He pulled back so just the head was in his mouth and used one hand over the other to stroke down Draco's shaft in a kind of endless stimulation that always worked on his own equipment. It got Draco there, too. He grabbed a pillow, bit into it and screamed as he came.

Bitter. Not wholly unpleasant but not the greatest, either. Sort of like tequila. Harry pulled a face and swallowed quickly, silently wishing for something to chase it with.

Draco still had him by the hair. He used his hold to drag Harry until they lay face to face on their sides. Harry decided he could really get used to this—the screaming and the hair pulling. Especially seeing the expression on Draco's face, that pleasant, half-brained shock. Slowly, he closed his big grey eyes. Draco's forehead rested against his, thin fingers exploring the landscape of the back of Harry's neck.

Draco kissed him. It was a sweet, gentle kiss. A happy, satisfied kiss. His lips were hopelessly thick, sucking at Harry's own with mindless pleasure. It was a kiss that made Harry's heart leap into his throat. Draco's lips pulled away too soon; Harry clung an instant longer, even as Draco ducked his head and pulled away.

“Yeh really jus'... did tha', didn't yeh.” It wasn't a question or a statement. It was nothing and everything. Draco was loopy.

  
_Sucked you off?_   
Harry's brain replied.    
_Swallowed? Reduced you to a quivering instant of madness? Completely and utterly seduced you?_

  
“Yeah,” Harry said. It was close enough. 

He worked a hand up Draco's side, savoring the feel of his flushed skin tinged with sweat. The blonde felt fucking amazing. They lay for a minute, just touching. Draco's breathing evened out but the zany, lopsided smile was cemented on his face.

“Wha' happens na?” he whispered.

“You tell me,” Harry said absently, running a hand over Draco's back. Harry felt the strength of muscle under that soft skin, bones and tendons concealed beneath such wonderful-ness. He wanted Draco again. He wanted Draco more. He wanted to taste and touch every inch of him, to make him scream all over again.

“Usually the other bloke just... leaves,” Draco sighed. Harry could detect an anxious note to his voice, the posh air creeping back with his nerves.

“Well, this is my bed,” Harry shot for a joking tone. It probably came out as knackered. “An' I'm not going anywhere.”

“Oh,” Draco paled, the contented flush fading from his cheeks. Harry missed it the instant it was gone. “Eh, should I go?”

He started to get up. He pulled away, his hand leaving the back of Harry's neck. Harry caught that hand with his own, bringing it to his lips. Draco smelled like something new: sweat, his sweat, Harry's sweat, all blended together. It smelled great on him. Harry kissed the back of Draco's hand and met his very confused eyes with a steady gaze.

“Stay.”

“A—alright,” Draco said slowly, settling back down beside him. Harry had a chance to sneak his arm under Draco's disheveled blonde head, forcing him to use the arm as a pillow. The muscles in Draco's neck worked as he swallowed. It hit Harry like a ton of bricks—Draco was truly nervous. His pale fingers traveled anxiously down Harry's chest to hover at his belt. “Should I—?” he began. Harry almost laughed.

“Cor, come off it,” he mumbled, taking Draco's hand and twining their fingers together. That felt really good. Draco's hand just seemed to fit in his own. He gave it a little squeeze. “That was serious. You must be shattered.” The lopsided smile came back as Draco gave in to a nod. “Why don't you kip here?”

Draco kept nodding—that, along with the goofy grin, was a good sign. So Harry rolled onto his back and settled Draco against his chest. He kept Draco's hand in his, resting their joined fingers over his heart. Even as they settled in, Draco's unease reared again.

“Are ya sure?”

“Yeah. Rest.” Harry couldn't help himself. He pulled Draco that much closer and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I'm gonna be creepy and stare at you while you sleep,” he joked. It was a bit true, though.

“Uh huh,” Draco mumbled. He was already half asleep, Harry's arm wrapped protectively around him.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry woke up thirty minutes later. He was warm. Even without a shirt, he was so warm. When he looked down, he remembered why.

The sun still shone through the window, lighting Draco's platinum hair. It formed a glowing, messy halo about his head... but Harry no longer thought he resembled an angel. He looked wonderful—in a highly inappropriate, debauched, devilishly sexy way. His bony fingers wandered the trail of hair at Harry's stomach, thin wrist brushing against Harry's belt buckle. Or brushing just a bit lower. Harry realized he was very, very hard.

“Oh,” Draco's face turned up toward his. “Yer awake.” His face remained passive but his _eyes_ smiled.

Fuck it. Harry crushed his mouth to the blonde's without so much as a “good morning.” Draco responded with immediate and marked enthusiasm. He suckled Harry's bottom lip, pulling at it with sharp white teeth. The pain just made it that much sweeter when Draco's hand cupped his crotch, gathering cock and balls in one practiced, reality-destroying sweep. Harry's mouth fell open in a gasp.

By the time his brain genned up, Draco was on top of him. And the blonde's shirt was gone. Those heavy, sweet lips never left Harry's. That tongue traced his teeth, begging for reciprocation. Harry got his arms around Draco's buff torso and pulled their bodies together from nose to toes. The firm feel of him made Harry sweat all over again, every slicked inch straining for more. With those narrow hips rolling hard against his own, he knew exactly what he wanted: Draco.

He had to break their kiss in a desperate bid for air. Draco was pulling his hair, sighs lilting on the end of each breath, trembling each time his groin scraped Harry's own. He moved with feverish need, running wet kisses down Harry's neck. Damn him! It was too much! Did he want Harry to come in his pants? He clenched and fought it, stilling Draco's thrusts with both hands on his ass. But feeling those pert cheeks.... the man's eager excitement only made it that much harder to hold back. Harry bit savagely down on Draco's shoulder, willing himself to last.

Draco moaned, long and loud, unrestrained. He was close, too. His hips bucked uncontrollably as he gasped for breath; apparently, he got off to the hard stuff, too. Harry was delighted to oblige. He muscled Draco to his back and pinned him to the sheets by his arms.

“You will _not_ make me come yet. Understand?” he growled.

Draco strained, trying to catch Harry's lips, eyes closed and breath reduced to ragged pulls. Rather than answering directly, he caught Harry's jaw and licked a wet stripe up his stubbled skin. It was a promise of what he could and would do, given the chance. Harry tightened uncontrollably. He was a second away from losing it. Draco placed a chaste kiss to Harry's bottom lip.

“Ya appear ta suffer from a severe delusion,” Draco whispered against Harry's lips, trying to wriggle his arms free to no avail. Harry held him fast, pinned to the bed. “I don't take orders. I give 'em.”

“That so?” Harry mumbled, teasing Draco's lips with his own. Talking wasn't a strong enough distraction from the hard grind of Draco's hips, their cocks rubbing together. Damn those layers of fabric still between them! Harry suppressed a moan. “I think you'll sort it out.”

Draco snorted.

Well, that wouldn't do.

Harry shifted his weight down, driving his hips hard into Draco's own, drilling him into the mattress. When Draco arched helplessly against him, Harry dragged teeth down his tender, pale neck. The act left an angry red trail. Draco's whole body hummed with pleasure. Harry finished with a biting, licking kiss to the base of that long, gorgeous neck—right at the worst of the livid burn marks. He breathed over them, kissing again and again. His hands slid up Draco's arms to twine their fingers together. Draco slowed to move with Harry, matching his breath, returning the intense, constricting pressure as their palms pressed hotly.

Harry returned his lips to Draco's. He was so good to kiss, his lips as soft as his skin. Their range and sensitivity was a wonder. Harry nipped and sucked, licked and prodded and pushed. Draco would catch his tongue and pull at it, all wetness and press and fire: a preview. A challenge. Always a challenge with him.

Harry rolled to his side, releasing Draco's hands to pull him close; immediately, Draco's fingers tangled themselves in dark, sweat-matted hair. Their kissing turned needful, passionate. Draco's tongue met his in a rush; his fierceness changed everything Harry thought he knew about kissing. Everything followed a heady, relentless rhythm. Harry felt like he was falling from the tallest Hogwarts tower—he let the waves of arousal and need rip through him. He abandoned himself to it, committed only to feeling, shaking, enjoying.

Draco cuddled close and cooed in Harry's ear, his voice deep and husky, lilting with the distended vowels of Wiltshire. The breaks in his speech betrayed him; he was seconds away from coming, too.

“I wanta do something for ya. Yeh'll like it. But ya have ta trust me,” he pulled back enough to meet Harry's gaze. His eyes were twin eclipses, dark centers blocking out all but the tiniest lining of silver. “Do ya trust me?”

“Yes,” Harry said readily, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.

“Close those eyes, then.” Harry obliged, thinking he liked Draco's garbled bedroom talk. The deep, stilted sound was at once natural and terribly sexy. Why didn't Draco talk like that all the time? Then again—if he did—Harry would be hard all the time. That didn't sound like such a bad thing.

Draco pulled out of Harry's arms to fetch something. Harry waited patiently. Draco didn't leave the bed, returning to Harry's touch a second later. Narrow fingers settled on Harry's chest. Draco seemed to absorb the feel of Harry through the pads of his fingers. His hand followed down the hollow of Harry's chest, testing the feel of skin, muscle and sweat. Harry knew the touch would go lower: the anticipation became half the fun. He pulsed with it, toes curling.

“ _Accio necktie_ ,” Draco said; he must have picked up his wand. With eyes closed, Harry heard his school trunk squeak open.

“Figures,” Draco muttered and probably shook his head, too. Harry couldn't resist opening his eyes to find Draco straddling him, wand in one hand and a Gryffindor tie in the other, a devious gleam in his eyes and a boyish smirk turning the corners of his red, swollen mouth. He looked so debauched, so kissable, so right half naked and seated atop Harry's hips.

“Oi! Eyes shut,” Draco chided under his breath. Harry thought he was about to have his red and gold tie used against him as a blindfold; he thought wrong. In a swift flutter of movement, Draco had Harry's wrists trussed together with the tie. He used a Sticking Charm to affix both ends of the necktie to the wooden headboard. A part of Harry's brain told him this could turn out very badly—the rest of his brain told the nancy part to stuff it.

He felt Draco lean over him, felt Draco's breath against his face, smelled his cologne and delectable sweat. Without his sight Harry could focus on these details. He didn't think he could be any more aroused until it happened: Draco rubbed his face in the crook of Harry's neck, warm lips and tongue seeking out the droplets of sweat that clung to his skin. Draco's hair tickled his face. It was probably a good thing his hands were secured above his head—if he could touch Draco now, in this heightened awareness, he would blow his load for sure. Instead, he was content to let every shiver, every touch, every lick and kiss simply wash over him.

Draco ventured lower, his teeth grazing Harry's collar bone; it felt like pitching off a broomstick, the way his stomach dropped to the vicinity of his knees and the rest of his insides quivered and swooped to fill the void. All he could do was arch his back and hope Draco would do it again; instead, he licked the blooming bruise then blew across it. Harry shivered and groaned. Draco's tongue plied Harry's nipple, his hands venturing south.

“Cor—fuck yes, _yes_ ,” Harry spluttered, incoherent. Draco roughly undid his belt with one hand, the other stroking him through his jeans. There were far too many layers of fabric between them, he'd always said. He needed to be kissed, touched, done to. Helplessness only fortified the need. He clenched his teeth, every muscle tight and straining. Draco bothered himself to remove every stitch of Harry's clothing—save the tie, of course.

Draco's breathing was noisy, heavy, fighting to stay even. His hand on Harry's thigh sent shivers up both their spines. Harry could only wait as Draco's narrow hand ventured higher. He sure took his sweet-ass time. Need threatened to explode out Harry's ears or perhaps burst his eyeballs and blind him. He could only bite his lips, thrash and whine.

He got louder when Draco brushed the underside of his balls. He probably shouted something when Draco made contact with his cock but the sound was lost to him. How could Draco do such amazing things with just one hand—one hand? Maybe the other gripped his wand. Maybe this feeling was magic. Draco's thumb pressed the head of his cock, slicking it with precome. He worked the slit until more bubbled up under his fingertip. He coated Harry's cock with it, a tactile connection to Draco's hot hand.

Harry felt Draco shift above him. For a moment Harry panicked, thinking the blonde was climbing off him, leaving the bed, changing his mind—and then the most fantastic thing happened. Draco's hand went to the bed, settling at Harry's hip, brushing the curve of Harry's ass with his fingers. Draco lowered himself and _dear sweet God he was naked, too,_ moving his hips in a way that got their cocks rubbing together. It was like nothing he'd ever felt before: the heat, the tension, the friction—and Draco's sweat, Draco's erection, Draco's sweet lips roughly plying his own. This was how it was supposed to be. This was it.

He bucked. He shook. He moaned, growled until his head spun and his voice cracked. The rhythmic pulsing deep in his gut told him it was almost time. He wanted so much to see Draco, to touch him, to claim every inch of the feverish, petal-soft skin that teased and pressed his own. He could feel Draco's heated breath all over his face—he was being watched. Unable to control himself, his mouth hung open as he keened and wailed, eyes firmly screwed shut. Mercifully, Draco seemed to know exactly what he needed. The blonde leaned in, giving that much more pressure, that much more unbearable heat. Sweat let their dicks glide against taut skin, making Harry very much aware of all his body hair compared to Draco's fascinating smoothness. Draco's tongue traced a mind-altering path up his neck. He kissed a sensitive place behind Harry's ear that made him gasp, made his cock jump up and smack Draco's flat stomach. He kissed the spot again, slower. White stars chased red and orange streaks behind Harry's eyelids. He'd never danced this long on the cusp. His chest ached from holding back the screams. Draco's tongue worked at his earlobe, his hands heavy, fingers gripping Harry's cheek.

“Come,” he whispered softly. “Come fer me.”

Harry didn't need telling twice. He bit Draco's shoulder again and screamed until his throat burned. The first scream was pure release. The second scream was pure pleasure. The third scream was utter shock because he was still fucking coming! He gasped for air against the return of Draco's demanding lips. And then he was screaming because Draco was screaming, crying out into their kiss as his own orgasm tore through him.

They panted against one another's lips, Draco absently worrying Harry's lower lip with his teeth, nibbling, suckling, out of his mind. Harry groaned.

He'd been so afraid this would happen. Why did he have to be such a freak? Draco was going soft and here he was getting even harder. He cursed his wretched body. Sometimes his stupid dick just decided one go wasn't enough; apparently, this was one of those times. His balls pulled high and tight and the head of his cock throbbed. He could feel the thickest vein of his shaft pulsing away. Why? _Why?_ What the hell was he going to do?

Draco's lips stilled and he pulled away. Harry kept his eyes dutifully closed.

“Yer still hard,” Draco observed.

“Er, yeah,” Harry said lamely.

“Open yer eyes, _mon beau_ ,” he drawled. “I want ya ta see me get yeh off again.”

 

 

Very vivid green eyes watched him as he moved lower. Why did Potter have such warm, expressive eyes? Green was supposed to be a cool color, after all. Draco was aware of staring helplessly back; gawping, even. He was aware of sweat and heat and his own traitorous body making a desperate bid at an early come-back. He had to pull himself away from those pretty doe eyes—something else required his attention. Begged for it. Wept for it, actually.

Draco prepared to dislocate his jaw. Cock sucking had never been his forte and Potter was murderously thick. He slid a hand to the base, fingers nestled in dark, coarse hair, fingertips not even touching. The part of his brain with a death wish wondered if he could handle being fucked by this cock—probably not. Sucking dick, pondering taking it instead of giving it... what the hell was wrong with him?

Potter. That's what was wrong with him. He breathed deeply, letting the mingled sparks of musk and spice register at the back of his throat. Normally he didn't suck cock but this was the best exception he'd ever had. Even the man's come smelled bloody amazing. How was Potter still hard? That had been the best frot in the history of modern civilization! One-eyed evidence to the contrary stared him down, threatening to spray him in the face if he didn't see to it soon. Now or never. He caught those doey eyes in a hard, meaningful gaze before....

Oh dear. Oh sweet Merlin. The taste of his own stuff mixed with Potter's and that hot, spicy, tingly something that hung on Potter's skin assailed him. He worked at not choking, wetness pricking his eyes. Potter wouldn't, couldn't last very long, right? This delightful experience would be over soon. He wasn't sure how much longer he could look at Potter, taste him, feel the deepest reaches of his throat violated by him, and keep the tears of absolute pleasure from falling down his face. He couldn't remember enjoying a blow job this much. Giving or receiving. Ever. The way Potter's wild eyes fixated on his face, bobbing in time with his strong, even suction. The way those powerful, sweat-slicked arms shook as he battled the restraints. The way the smell of him, the taste of him, burned into Draco's brain. Maybe Potter would last another thirty seconds, even a whole minute. He just wanted to remember this.

“Close, close,” Potter articulated between deep, bone-rattling, ragged sobs. “So close.” And then the man hissed in Parseltongue, staring soul-searchingly into his eyes. Draco hummed his agreement as he worked, his free arm braced against Potter's abdomen to keep the man's strong hips from bucking up and inflicting irreparable harm. He could see the headlines now: _Death Eater Dead, Choked on Chosen Cock_. And what a way to go. Draco pulled off enough to swallow before he drowned in his own spit.

“ _Please,_ ” he heard the plea even in snake language. “ _Harder. Please, I need it._ ” Okay, it was one thing to understand intent; it was another thing entirely to find oneself comprehending entire, complete sentences. “ _Please, please, please!_ ”

Looking up the muscled, taut length of his struggling bedmate, Draco worried his Sticking Charm might not hold. Potter looked about to rocket off the bed and attack him. With a pleased little sigh, he sacrificed his pharynx to this Sex-God-Potter mirage. He might speak with a rasp for several hours but it was entirely worth the scream it ripped from Potter; a head-tossing, body-jerking, honest-to-Camelot scream that hung around long enough to vibrate in Draco's chest and ring in his ears. He felt the zing of magic tingle over his skin.

Potter must really be a powerful wizard because he managed to hold on even after that; granted, his member pulsed so hard against Draco's lips it felt as though his teeth were being driven back into his gums. He'd been using his lips as a cushion against grazing Potter—he felt the tender burn as his teeth broke the insides of both lips and blood flowed into his mouth, metallic and harsh. He unfurled his lips and pulled back, a last-second whim of utter vindictiveness convincing him to track his blood-tinted teeth along the shaft and then the head of Potter's cock. Draco was able to pull off just as the wave hit.

Potter cried out; deep, achingly, long and loud as his orgasm overtook him. Draco watched, wide eyed, as the dark haired man shivered and convulsed, spilling between them. Green eyes burned into him, making his skin crawl. There was an almighty crash; it sounded distinctly like the bedroom window breaking. Draco forced himself to swallow a mouth full of blood that still somehow tasted like Potter.

“ _Draco,_ ” the man beneath him groaned. This was great; he really understood bloody Potter. Bloody Potter and his dirty snake mouth. “ _Kiss me._ ”

Draco found himself crawling up that fantastic body, delirious, still lapping down his own blood because it tasted like _him, him, him_. He hung inches from Potter's lips, reaching for composure that wouldn't come.

“Say my name again,” he heard himself whisper.

“ _Draco._ ”

Good enough. No. Perfect.

 

 

 


	17. Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting caught in the act leads to a conversation about “us.” Featuring an awkward Potter and withholding Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** accidental exhibitionism, sexual content: shower sex, handjob, mutual masturbation, Obsessive!Harry, Parseltongue, mild biting fetish

 

 

 

Harry was flying—Draco's lips the only thing connecting him to earth. He was airborne, not feeling the mattress beneath him or the headboard his hands remained tied to. It was just him and Draco in a void of nothing else; only the firm press of sweat-slicked bodies, only the wet slide of thick and heavy lips, only the mingling of sated sighs.

From very far away, Harry's ears registered a sharp gasp that was not Draco. A loud thump wrenched his unwilling eyes open. Draco's silver eyes fluttered open barely an inch from his own, reflecting a deep green. He could look into those eyes all day. Was it selfish to think the best thing Draco's eerie eyes could reflect was the color of his own?

Draco's entire body jumped when a woman's voice spoke from somewhere in the room.

“ _Enervate_.” 

Heads turned, one dark and one white blonde, to find Hermione Granger, Ron and Ginny Weasley standing in the doorway. Well, Ginny was standing with a hand clamped over her open mouth and her eyes bugging out. Ron had clearly passed out and Hermione crouched over him, her wand drawn and an unreadable expression on her face. Ron sat up, dazed. He shook his head and looked across the room, meeting silver and green eyes.

Time hung in the air between them, choked by tension, embarrassment and disbelief.

Ron got slowly to his feet with Hermione's help. Harry thought about getting up, crossing the room, going to his friends and trying to explain... but Draco was on top of him, both of them naked and messy. If this was a terrible position to be caught in, it would only be worse if he stood up. If he could stand up. The presence of his friends had burned away the last of his arousal but it wasn't his own nakedness that concerned him; it was Draco. Always Draco, now. It bothered him that anyone else saw this much of the man exposed—the twirling white scars covering him from head to toe, the vicious burn marks and shiny, coral-colored patch where a solid chunk of his left side had been bitten away and regrown by magic. A small part of Harry was relieved that was all they saw: some of the marks were worse. Harry understood those markings were more sacred than any sense of modesty. Draco pressed against him, stunned like a rabbit in headlights. Harry itched to put his arms around the blonde, to shield him from his friends with his own body.

“Can you release my hands?” Harry whispered in Draco's ear.

Draco gazed back at him and Harry watched as the calm and collected Malfoy mask drew over his unguarded features, smothering the wealth of emotion there. He'd much rather Draco stayed open, vulnerable, warmly, beautifully glowing, but it was probably better to close down and be strong. At least until everyone else was out of the room.

Draco gave a curt nod of understanding and stretched for his wand lying on the other side of the bed. Before the blonde had it to hand, Harry heard the bedroom door slam. He'd been so busy watching Draco that he hadn't noticed his friends' hasty retreat. He couldn't tell who slammed the door, but he had a gut feeling their last name was Weasley.

His head fell back to the pillows. He couldn't imagine a worse way things could have gone.

Draco sitting on him was a bit of a consolation, though; especially the ghost of a smirk on his pale face as he waved his wand, casting a few non-verbal spells before releasing the Sticking Charm that kept Harry fastened to the headboard. He brought his wrists down, watching the blonde above him toss his wand aside and work at the knotted Gryffindor tie. Harry knew he would never see a Gryffindor uniform again without flashing back to this moment. Draco chewed the inside of his cheek as he unfurled the intricate pattern of knots he'd made, finally sliding the tie off Harry's hands while being careful not to touch the silk to either of their bodies and risk staining it. Harry flexed his wrists, looking up at the passive mask of Draco's face.

Draco eyes narrowed, meeting Harry's gaze with confidence only to silently draw a single finger across his pale throat.

“Yes,” Harry agreed with a heavy sigh. “I'm dead.”

Draco swallowed, nodding. Harry could almost detect a glimmer of something—remorse, perhaps pity—before Draco rolled with a huff, collapsing onto his back. He and Harry lay side by side, their bodies separated by centimeters. They stretched simultaneously, Harry rolling stiff shoulders with a groan and Draco flexing and pointing his feet until his ankles popped. Harry groaned again and dragged his sorry butt out of bed, ready to face a Gryffindor firing squad. Once on his feet, he turned to look at Draco.

“Cleaning Charm?” the blonde offered in a hoarse whisper, wand on the sheets beside him. He waggled his eyebrows at their stomachs—particularly the sticky, matted hair of Harry's lower half now even with his flushed, handsome face as he slid over to lay on Harry's pillow.

The sight of Draco in his bed and looking so utterly comfortable, so kissable, so shaggable, so _just shagged senseless_.... Harry bent and took hold of Draco's arm, positioning a shoulder at the man's bony hips. With a sharp tug, Draco was draped over his shoulder and lifted from the bed, his familiar weight on Harry; a weight that only minutes ago had been on top of him, making him come for everything he was worth. As that last thought raced through his mind, he was genuinely surprised his knees held.

“Unhand me!” the blonde rasped, voice raw, flung over Harry's shoulder like a misbehaving kid. “Wha' on earth do ya think yer doin'?”

Gods, his voice sounded so damn good. Harry had to swallow for his response to sound remotely even.

“Shower,” Harry said simply, setting out for the hall.

 

 

Harry deposited a petulant Draco on the bathroom counter and went to start the shower. As the hot water got going, he turned to revel in an eye-full of naked Draco fucking Malfoy.

The blonde had twisted in order to examine himself in the mirror, his ivory skin seeming to blush everywhere, beads of sweat glistening in the bright light that his skin just seemed to absorb and then reflect out again. The man effectively glowed. One pale hand mapped the angry twin trails of Harry's front teeth still adorning his neck. If Harry was any judge of these things, it surely looked like it would bruise. Harry didn't feel guilty at all; marking Draco was the most natural thing in the world. Fucking Draco had been the most natural thing of all; especially tied up like that, with his eyes closed like that, Draco screaming and moaning, coming with him like that. Oh, that long, delicate spine twisting up from his narrow hips. The snarly battle scars winding up and down his slender body. The muscled arm he supported himself on. The miles long, blonde haired legs that hung lazily from the counter. The sweet rounded curves of his ass like two fat scoops of white chocolate gelato. Draco was so obviously a man. And Harry was so obviously turned on. This was something he'd have to process at some point—but not now, damn it. He'd just had sex with Draco Malfoy. Several times, actually. And it had been incredible. Not like those awkward snogs with Ginny or even the comfortable heat of Heather Lightley. This, this _thing_ with Malfoy, with Draco.... A part of him knew he was seventeen and just about anything touching his prick was bound to get him off. At the same time, a deep pulsing in his gut warned that something more was going on. With Draco, his senses were heightened, tightened, alert. He felt like a cat having caught sight of a bird; utterly focused, fixated, and nothing in the world would shake him.

He watched Draco slip from the counter and climb into the shower, his eyes zeroing in on a small, splotchy birthmark where the soft line of the man's right butt cheek met his thigh. Harry wanted to reach out and touch it, stroke it, bite it. What would that patch of caramel skin taste like? He heard Draco's echoing shudder of pleasure as the hot water hit him. _Maybe_ , Harry thought rashly, _I should find out_.

He stepped up to the shower and the magical partition slipped aside to admit him. Rather than barging right in, he ducked his head around the smoked glass, thinking to announce himself. The words caught in his throat as he was once again struck by the sight of the blonde, the creamy expanse of him now rosy and flushed from the shower's heat: marble-made-flesh surrounded by tendrils of steam and droplets of water that bounced off his thought-erasing, heart-stopping firmness. Long fingers fisted in his hair, his face pressed to a toned bicep as his eyes slid closed. An incoherent sound escaped Harry because the blonde turned, opening one eye. Still incapable of forming words, Harry bobbed his head to request entrance. Draco smiled ruefully, closing his eyes and shaking his head of damp hair before returning to the stream of hot water beating at his chest. He rose up on his toes to put his face in the water, slicking his hair back with both hands. Harry stumbled into the shower then, registering the door gliding closed behind him but completely focused on Draco.

Recalling his original mission, Harry took a step forward and quietly dropped to his knees. He reached a reverent hand to stroke the top of one firm, sugar-spun cheek with the back of his hand, letting Draco know where he was and what he was up to. He stroked lightly, exploring the landscape of milky skin, taking the time to slide over a slashing, spidery scar and then the stretched pink skin replacing flesh once ripped away. His eyes fell to that birthmark. It was like a splash of black tea that had been allowed to sit too long, sinking in to stain his porcelain skin like a favorite tea cup.

Draco spluttered something that was almost a moan, slapping wet hands to two different walls and bracing, his long spine arching at Harry's touch. Wasn't that something? Harry bent, his mouth exploring that caramel spot which bore the lingering salt of sweat and sex along with the man's crisp, autumnal essence. Harry licked and sucked, trying to get at the taste before the water bore it away. He pressed his tongue to that sweetest juncture where thigh met cheek, dipping under the fold of skin in search of more, more, always more. Draco moaned helplessly, his knees giving the slightest buckle; Harry felt the twitch of it in the man's thigh so close he reached out to splay fingers through the damp blonde hairs. He let his hand meander up to a bony hip, giving pressure as his thumb swept the dimpled muscle of Draco's arse. The blonde beat one fist against the tile, now resting weight on his elbows as he shivered, whispering the slightest “oh” to echo over the tile, becoming lost in the splash of water and the suckling of skin.

Harry groped blindly for the soap, his eyes having drifted closed when his lips met Draco's skin. Working a lather into his hands, he rested his forehead against Draco's rear, the blonde still softly quivering, disbelieving. Harry washed his calf first, carefully finding his way up to Draco's thigh and then starting over on the other leg. Normally he would have used a wash cloth to hold the lather but this occasion so clearly called for hands, skin on skin. He rose up to his feet, reaching down to soap the mark he'd obsessed over. Draco stood stock still as Harry's lathered hands washed his lower back, his shoulders, slipping around to his chest. Arms around his lean frame, Harry drew Draco back against him, out of the hot water in order to wash his stomach next. His half-hard cock nestled in the cleft of the blonde's ass—he hadn't thought of that. Suddenly he was fully hard and panting. It wasn't far to the shower wall; weight in his heels, Harry leaned back until his shoulders met with cool tile, Draco's slippery body settling against his own. He worked his hands lower, tracing the network of muscle and scars. He found Draco in a similar state and smiled. Nudging sopping wet tendrils with his nose, he eventually found Draco's ear. He kissed and nipped, breathing hard until landing on a spot that made the man's long prick jump. He worked the spot with teeth and heavy tongue until he could feel Draco's pulse racing beneath his mouth.

He forced his lazy eyelids open enough to glance down Draco's body and was met with the sight of his throbbing pink cock. Harry's own gave an involuntary twitch, cushioned between their soaped-up bodies. He just needed to touch. He ran hot hands up the blonde's sides, feeling rib and muscle and hitched breath, heart thundering under his hands. He continued to kiss the sensitive nerves behind Draco's ear, pressing his slick palms down the man's body to rest at either side of his cock, carefully not touching. He simultaneously loved and hated the feel—loving the smoothness but hating there was no pubic hair to roughly grip, something to hold onto besides slippery skin. Instead, he let his hands wander down to the tops of strong thighs, finally finding some hair thick enough to really hold on to. Draco's head tossed, trying to get away from Harry's lips.

“Yeh,” Draco mumbled, voice catching in his throat, wet hair slapping Harry's face and neck. “Fuckin' tease, yeh are!” Draco reached back to take a handful of Harry's damp hair at his temple, smacking his head forcefully against the wall. Harry saw shooting white sparks at the sides of his vision from the impact.

“Gods, you're demanding,” Harry whispered, taking a bite from the back of Draco's neck. He sucked on skin and wet hair alike: it all tasted like Draco.

Draco let out a strangled yell through clenched teeth, squirming in Harry's grip before bringing a hand down to touch himself.

“Yes,” Harry whispered against clean, wet skin kissed raw. He watched raptly over Draco's shoulder. “Show me how you like it. Show me,” he repeated darkly, “but I get to finish you.”

“Oh, fuck,” Draco whined.

“Maybe later,” Harry mused, biting down on the muscle connecting shoulder and neck. Draco's hips bucked. “I wanna watch.”

Draco rocked languidly against him, Harry's hands gripping his thighs and keeping them pinned together. Draco loosely held the skin at the midpoint of his shaft, thrusting into his hand. He strained at Harry's hands holding him back; the restriction just made it better. Every roll of his hips rubbed Harry's dick in the cleft of his perfect ass.

“You look so good,” Harry told his neck with a hot lick, taste buds picking up the diluted flavor of his skin. “Fuck, so damn good.”

Draco panted in short, sharp bursts, the fingers of his free hand firmly clenched in Harry's hair. He beat Harry's head against the wall a few more times but perhaps not as forcefully. It seemed like a reflex, the pounding almost in time with the undulation of his hips. Before he got a lump at the back of his head, Harry took Draco's hand and moved it to that bruised place, letting him pull the thick hair there. He wanted to close his eyes but he wanted to watch Draco more. He dipped his head, earning a fantastic yank to his hair. It probably cost him a few hairs but was well worth it.

Draco tossing off was about the hottest thing in the world. A thousand times better than any dirty magazine Harry had ever pilfered from Dudley and at least three hundred times hotter than any lame fantasy he'd ever concocted for his own right hand. Harry was keenly aware of the drool pooling in his mouth and his seeming inability to draw more than a weak, gaspy little breath through his open mouth. He could come from this.

He focused solely on Draco. The man didn't thrust so much as he rolled his hips, clenching his ass and thighs to push forward and up, fucking his hand. His stomach flexed, twitched and shook. The hand on his cock barely moved, squeezing now and again but letting his body do most of the work as he rode his arousal. He dug his heels in and leaned into Harry; friction, tension and pressure all building. His prick went from rosy to red, the head swollen. Even without his glasses, Harry could make out a thin white scar running the length of the shaft; Draco's thumb stroked it, lost in the pleasurable sensations poised to overwhelm him soon.

“Close,” Draco whispered.

Harry brought his left hand over the the head of Draco's dick. His right hand had callouses from Quidditch and a few days yard labor at the Dursleys. He was sure Draco was used to soft, smooth hands. At first he ran gentle fingers over the spongy, deeply colored head. He pinched lightly at the sides with thumb and ring finger, using his forefinger to tease the under appreciated nerves on the underside. Draco practically melted in his arms at the touch. Harry worked his fingers just a bit more, just a bit faster, until Draco's whole body spasmed. Then he let his hand slide down to ply the foreskin, coaxing it forward and back with a slight articulation of the wrist. He rolled pressure up through his fingers, releasing every time before reaching the head. The teasing dissolved Draco until he sagged against Harry's body, rutting his hips at a frantic pace. Every thrust into their waiting hands pulled Harry's own erection away from those tense cheeks only to slam back a moment later with a damp, satisfying slap. Skin went hot and red where their bodies met again and again, the water and soap adding an elusive, indecent rush as they slid and bounced together, closer and closer.

Harry wanted to tell him he was beautiful, sexy, gorgeous. Did you say those things to a man? He settled for releasing Draco's thigh to wrap that arm around his chest, holding him close. Draco continued to writhe, his hand now pumping his cock freely. Harry worked his hand under Draco's, edging him out for the grand finale. He worked Draco's length fast and hard, rutting rather hopelessly against him.

“ _You're so God damn beautiful, Draco_ ,” Harry growled into his sopping wet hair. “ _You're the hottest thing I've ever seen. I just want you to scream for me, come for me, know that it's me doing this to you, making you crazy for that one second. Go with me, Draco, go with me!_ ” 

“Fuck!” Draco yelled so loud he echoed off the tile. The sharp sound might've hurt his ears if it weren't so tense, so needful, so almost there. “Fuck, fuck, oh fuck! Yes!” he wailed. “Harder, yes!”

Harry gave a few good, hard tugs and Draco was spasming, screaming, spilling hot over his hand. Every muscle in his lissome body jumped, his raw-rubbed cheeks clenching Harry between them. One mighty yank of the hair, a delicious scream and he was coming, too, spurting up to paint Draco's back. It ripped a twin scream from his own lungs, wordless and guttural. His voice trailed off in a wail as his seed slid down Draco's back, his slick cheeks, to rejoin Harry's mercifully spent cock.

Draco's head fell back to rest on Harry's shoulder. As one, they collapsed to the shower floor. The boneless blonde landed between his legs, still tucked snug against him. If it weren't for the steam they'd be glued together by a white, sticky mess.

His hand still pressed to Draco's chest registered a fluttery heartbeat and labored breath. He slipped his other arm around Draco's lower stomach, cementing them together and preventing his treasure from falling away in mindless, shattered bliss. Draco took a good minute minute to recover brain function. Eventually his racing pulse evened out and his eyes opened.

“Hi,” he said quietly, tone distorted by the tile, the streaming water and his own abused vocal chords.

“Hi,” Harry offered back. He thought he sounded like a mountain troll awakened from an afternoon nap. He didn't know his voice could go that low or, well,    
_  
rumble   
_   
  
in his chest like that.   


“Again, bloody amazin',” Draco slurred. He gave his head on Harry's shoulder a sort of half-loll. The blonde could barely smile but bit his lower lip a little as the side of his purplish red mouth turned up.

“Fuck yeah,” Harry agreed. If his voice didn't get back to its natural register soon he was going to start coughing.

  
Draco braced both hands on the floor beside Harry's thighs. For a moment it looked like he was trying to stand up but that was crazy. No one could stand after coming like that—no one. Draco managed to scoot his arse about six inches to his right before his arms gave out and he landed on that biteable padding with a groan. He turned his head to look at Harry. The expression on his face was so unguarded. Genuine happiness glowed there, still nursing a flicker of disbelief. Disbelief that he would have sex with Harry? Or disbelief that they would have such utterly wild, mind-blowing sex how many times in the last hour or two? Harry dared to hope it was the latter.   


He took Draco's waiting mouth with a powerful kiss; _yes_ , it reassured him, _this is real_. Draco's lips slid readily open for him, giving as much as they took. Harry had to pull back, his head spinning with the joy of that needy, wanton, hungry kiss. He had to pull back from Draco's mouth now or he would get hard all over again. He already felt like he might walk a little funny. He wondered if Draco would. It would be quite a sight to see. 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

They managed to clean themselves off, wrap up in towels and scuttle back to Harry's room uninterrupted. Draco had honestly limped out of the bathroom and turned to go to his own room down the hall. Harry took up his wrist and led the blonde wordlessly back to his bedroom, instead. He wasn't even thinking of sex. There was something he wanted to say and the hallway was not the proper place.

The first thing he saw upon entering his bedroom was his big fourposter bed. The clunky, ornate furniture had never done much for him... but now that bed bore the tangled sheets, mingled sweat and memories of what he considered the true and final loss of his virginity. And that bit of mawkishness had him rock hard again. Or maybe it was the fact that his bedmate stood perhaps a foot behind him, now smelling of soap and crisp and clean while the sun-brightened room still wreaked of emboldened sex. He was tenting his towel: this really wouldn't do. He tried to turn back toward the bed and put some damn clothes on but Draco had already seen his pathetic condition and it was too late to run and hide.

“Wonder Boy, yeh've been hard fer the better part of an hour. Yeh sure ya don't want me ta take care of tha'? Well... again, I mean?”

“Don't worry about it,” Harry shrugged. “I think, at least for now, I'm gonna be hard whenever we're in the same room,” he said honestly, somewhat disgusted at his own hopelessness.

“Really, Potter?” It was meant to be scathing, but there was a hint of pride and more than a dash of astonished joy. Harry could read every emotion on the blonde's face as much as he struggled to hide them behind cold, polished poise.

“Yes, Draco,” Harry said, pushing the man against the nearest wall, pinning him bodily and claiming his parted lips in a quick, firm kiss. Harry spoke against those tender, abused lips. “You turn my fuckin' crank.”

“Does it take much to get The Chosen One riled?” Draco teased, smiling. He licked his lips and Harry felt his breath hitch in his chest. Draco probably felt it too, they stood pressed so close.

“Look,” Harry said, agitation lacing his quiet tone. “We've fucked. Several times. Can't you call me Harry?”

“I'll think about it,” said Draco, noncommittal.

“That's perfectly fair,” Harry swallowed, giving Draco a slow, approving nod. He had no idea how to go about this but figured he should air on the side of polite. “I appreciate your considering.”

“Yer bein' awfully agreeable,” the blonde observed warily. Those amazing silver-green eyes were questioning, throwing back the color of his own in the most enchanting way.

“Well, what can I say? I'd like to screw you again,” scoffed Harry; suddenly, boldly flippant. “And something tells me you like that I'm nice to you, so I might as well use it to my advantage.” So much for polite!

“Tha's almost Slytherin,” Draco pouted.

“I think you like that, too,” Harry couldn't help but smile. That pout was too adorable. He had to kiss it. Repeatedly. Draco let out a small moan as their tongues brushed. “Wait,” Harry slapped both hands to the wall and pushed away, locking his elbows to create a two foot gap between their bodies. His towel fell to the ground but he ignored it, focusing instead on what he wanted, needed,    
_had_   
to say. “Stop trying to fuck me for a second. I wanna talk to you.” 

“Uh oh,” the blonde drawled. That was probably as apprehensive as Draco would allow himself to sound in a towel. Draco had the upper hand. All he had to do was reach down or, God forbid, drop to his knees and the conversation would be over. Harry steeled his nerves.

“Okay, here goes,” he inhaled deeply, letting his breath out slow and looking right into Draco's eyes. Quick and painless—like a band-aid, right? “I'm not a casual sex kinda guy. It's not for me. I learned that the hard way. Anyway... you and me, Draco.” A little flicker of light scuttled across grey-green eyes at that. It might have been shock or surprise. The rest of his face showed nothing. It sort of made Harry wish for sex again, if only because Draco's writhing body and blood-pounding sounds were so much easier to read. “Us. We're good together. I mean, you make me laugh all the time. I would listen to you play piano all day if I could. And I can't think of anyone else I'd rather sneak out of Azkaban with.” That made Draco look away but his lips turned up before he could hide it. Ha! “We always have fun when we go out. But I like just hanging around with you, too. I want to get you, because I think you get me.” Harry's eyes strayed involuntarily southward then. He caught himself, bringing his eyes back to Draco's. He carded a hand through his hair, thinking of how to put this next part. “You're bloody attractive. Really. Just... wow. I had no idea. And I admit I don't have much to compare it to but I'm pretty sure this morning was fucking brilliant. And in the shower, too. More than brilliant—it was special. I think we've got something. I understand,” Harry swallowed dryly, forcing the words out, “with my being somewhat responsible for you and all, it might not be a good idea. I probably should've thought of that before I sucked you off. Too late now. We're here. And I don't want to ignore this. So what do you say?”

Draco blinked at him, one eyebrow frozen mid-quirk. He looked pensive. When he spoke, his voice was slow and even, if maybe a bit lower than normal.

“Wonder Boy... ya want wha', exactly? Ta date me?” He steepled his slender fingers and brought them to his lips, clearly thinking long and hard. Harry let him mull it over. After a very long moment, he lowered his hands to fold them over his chest and sighed. “I dunno, Potter. I don't really date.”

“We don't have to be boyfriends or anything,” Harry offered plaintively. “I'd like to take you out for another drink if you're game. And I won't lie—it would be bloody fantastic if we could have a repeat of this morning.”

Draco's eyebrow finally completed its journey, fully quirking now. He glanced pointedly at Harry's straining erection before looking back to his face. The blonde didn't say anything. That eyebrow told Harry he needed to up the anty. He decided to put all his chips on the table and potentially be sent packing.

“We have chemistry, Draco. We're good together,” he said firmly. He wanted to say something about how Draco's lithe body just fit against his own, how the sight of that ivory skin made him drool with anticipation and shiver in delight. But there were no words for those type of feelings. “I like you. And I'm pretty damn sure you fancy me, too. Will you go for a drink with me—just me?”

Harry waited again. Draco seemed to be studying their chests. More than once his eyes dropped to Harry's erect sex. He didn't make a great show of hiding it, either.

“Alright,” he said guardedly. “Yeh can take me fer a drink sometime.”

Harry almost sighed in relief before he realized Draco hadn't returned any actual sentiment. Was it too much to hope? He tried to let it go.

“May I ask a question without seeming base?” Draco added suddenly, his tone painfully formal.

“Of course,” Harry almost laughed. “It's me. Go right ahead.”

“Is sex still on the table?”

Harry pursed his lips to subdue the stupid grin that wanted to contaminate his face. “Do you want it to be?”

Draco smiled with one side of his mouth, showing just a hint of teeth. “Let's call it my condition.”

“That's fine by me,” Harry smiled back. “You set as many conditions as you like.”

Draco's eyelids drooped as he very clearly regarded Harry's erection. His expression was very pleased, an odd smile playing on his bruised, swollen lips. Harry couldn't help reaching out for the man's chin, turning his face up.

“What're you thinking?”

Draco swallowed a laugh, though his shoulders shook a little. He lowered his arms to relax by his sides. “Yer hard.”

“And?”

“An' talkin' 'bout yer 'feelings,'” Draco huffed. “Tha's unusual.”

“What can I say? You do this to me.”

Draco's eyes slid closed as he blushed. He looked so beautiful. Harry snuck forward, stealing a kiss from those irresistible lips. He wound a hand in Draco's wet hair, enjoying the taste and feel of him. It felt as though the very essence of his excitement and attraction escaped his lips, pouring into Draco's waiting mouth in a rush that made his lips tingle. The man let out a squeak.

“Wha'?” Harry slurred, lips thick from snogging.

“Nothin',” Draco muttered, shaking his head slowly. “Jus' have ter get used ta it.”

“Used to what?”

“Nothin',” Draco repeated, schooling his breathing. He rested his stubbled cheek against Harry's and Gods did it feel good. Harry couldn't help a little nuzzle with the side of his head and the blonde didn't stop him; he actually responded a bit, pushing closer.

“So,” Harry said to the wet blonde hairs sticking to his face. “What do we call this? I don't give a bloody fuck,” he clarified hastily, “but there's a tribunal waiting for me downstairs and I've gotta tell them something.”

Draco exhaled loud and slow. He put an almost comforting hand to the side of Harry's head, keeping their faces together.

“Tell them... we're together. A couple,” the blonde's voice was passive and low. Harry could tell he was anxious and a little unhappy. Harry didn't like the situation, either. He knew it wasn't a good idea to push Draco to a declaration but, like he'd said, he had to tell his friends _something_. He at least wanted it to be on Draco's terms. “Tha'll upset Weasley, but the women might take it better. Appeal ta their sentiment. Let them work on Weaselby.”

It was good Slytherin advice. “That's very smart,” Harry said proudly. “Probably the best option.”

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly. He delivered a tiny wet kiss to Harry's temple that made the dark haired boy weak in the knees. It was so... intimate. Harry breathed, his heart racing. “Yeh gonna make it?” Draco joked.

“I don't think I have a choice.”

 

\- - -

 

 

Ron had retrieved an old bottle of Firewhiskey he'd stashed in the cellar, adding liberal splashes to all three tea cups on the worn kitchen table. Ron and Ginny both gulped their spiked tea before helping themselves to more straight liquor. Hermione chewed her toast, though it was like rubber in her mouth. She struggled mightily to swallow.

Seeing Harry and that snake Malfoy _i_ _n flagrante_ had been a nasty shock. Malfoy had been up to something for weeks now, sidling up to Harry, getting his guard down. Was this his master plan—to get poor Harry in bed? To have his way with The Boy Who Lived? Malfoy was charming, devious and ultimately not to be trusted. She knew that now. Seeing Harry so debauched—on his back, tied to his own bed, Malfoy's face between his legs, devouring... it made her heartsick and mad. Malfoy was just using Harry as part of some demented scheme and Harry was too sweet, too innocent to figure it out. He'd even looked happy; the expression on his face blissful—as though Malfoy actually liked him, wanted to be with him, was capable of human intimacy. She cursed her near-photographic memory. 

“Merlin, would someone just Obliviate me?” Ron moaned, well in his cups on an empty stomach. Ginny poured fresh shots into their teacups and both Weasleys drank immediately.

“I think we need to figure out what's going on here,” Hermione said soundly. “Malfoy's clearly up to something.”

“Malfoy was 'up' alright,” Ron grumbled, his ears red.

Hermione was about to say something bracing when there was a loud thump from upstairs. The shower in the second floor bathroom had started a few minutes ago and Hermione had hoped that it was Harry cleaning up—and possibly coming to his senses with the aid of some very cold water. She now knew differently. Malfoy was cursing, screaming.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, oh fuck! Yes!” he wailed. “Harder, yes!”

Was that actually the sound of Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, taking it up the...? She forced herself not to think about it, instead observing Ron's shaky hand bringing a teacup full of Ogden's Own to his white lips.

“Obliviate me, too,” Ginny groaned, her fiery head falling into her hands. “Now. Someone, please. Before he—”

Malfoy screamed his release, followed quickly by Harry. Their mingled, masculine shouts woke Mrs. Black's portrait. She promptly began wailing like a banshee—which was terrible in and of itself but still didn't cover the noise of Harry and his ex-Slytherin Prince    
_delicto ad nauseum_   
.

Ginny shot up from her seat, hurling her teacup to the ground so forcefully that it shattered on impact.    
  
“Stuffing Malfoy,” she muttered, carding a hand crazily through her hair. “   
  
_  
Fucking   
_   
  
Malfoy? He's barmy. That tapestry's barmy. This house is barmy. Tits up! Absolute bloody pants. I'm leaving.”    


She stormed from the room, Mrs. Black screaming at her as she passed through the entry.

“What did she mean about the bloody tapestry?” Ron asked, bewildered.

“Malfoy botched the repair job. Must have mis-aligned a few synapses or something,” Hermione explained. “Now it says Malfoy's going to marry Harry.”

“That's pants,” Ron said plainly, his eyes gone wide. “Everyone knows Harry's meant to be with Ginny. It's fate! She's loved him since she was four.”

“Well,” Hermione sighed. “Tell that to the family tree.” _Tell that to the two spent boys upstairs._

Ron sighed and emptied his teacup. He lapped at the alcohol, lips numb.

Ginny could be heard over the roar of Mrs. Black, shouting “The Burrow!” before disappearing into the floo.

Ron smiled wistfully into his empty cup. “I never thought there'd be a place crazier than The Burrow.”

 

 

 


	18. The Day Harry Potter Said It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry faces the tribunal. Will Draco still be there for him when everything's said and done? And what about Ron and Hermione—how strong is their bond of friendship when faced with Harry's lusty betrayal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Ron grows a spine (unfortunately, it's a bigoted one), sex talk of a frank nature

 

 

 

Harry cast a quick    
_Reparo_   
on his glasses. They must've gotten knocked pretty hard because both lenses were cracked. There had been quite a few Repairing Charms cast in the last few minutes. He'd watched Draco cast one to fix a button ripped off his denims. “These cost two hundred pounds,” the blonde had whined, prodding the muggle garment with his wand to make the fly functional again. Harry had growled, still naked, that if Draco didn't stop harping Harry would tear more than his trousers—he'd tear the silly grin off the man's handsome face. Draco had laughed and gone over to see about repairing the bedroom windows. Apparently, Harry's uncontrolled magic had blown out every glass pane in the room, including several mirrors. Powdery bits of glass lay scattered over sections of the hardwood floor. When Harry left his bedroom, Draco's nose had been wrinkled as he mumbled to himself that the windows of Grimmauld Place should not be able to break. Harry didn't have much time to worry over that before entering the kitchen to face his two best friends and only ex-girlfriend. He wasn't looking forward to this judge, jury and potential executioner scenario, but what choice did he have? 

Hermione was speaking softly, bracingly to Ron at the kitchen table. Ginny was no where to be found. The brunette fell silent when Harry entered the room, her angry brown eyes rounding wordlessly upon him. She set down her tea cup, folding her hands neatly in her lap. She was waiting for an explanation. Ron, red around the ears and grinding his teeth, wouldn't meet his best mate's eyes.

Harry went to the stove and busied himself with putting the coffee pot on. He would bring Draco some coffee if he lived through this. He was positive the blonde would keep above stairs until after the bloodbath. Harry didn't blame him; in fact, he found he preferred that Draco stay upstairs. He was safe upstairs. Ron and Hermione couldn't hurt his feelings if he couldn't hear them—and that suited Harry just fine. He thought about making a cup of tea but it seemed rather pointless. He swung around, leaning against the stove with his arms folded across his chest.

“Okay, you two,” he said with a grimace. “Let me have it.”

Hermione scowled, hands tightening in her lap.

“You couldn't be bothered to set up a Privacy Ward on the bathroom, hmm?” she shot. “You were in too much of a hurry to stuff Malfoy silly!”

“We heard, you know,” Ron added, angry eyes on the kitchen table. Hermione sniffed, prim and loud, before pointedly turning her nose up at The Nasty Boy Who Screwed.

“You guys, it's not what you think—” Harry began. He didn't get a chance to finish.

“Yeah?” Ron spat. “What the fuck is it, then? Was he helping you with yer Transfiguration or something and yer dick just    
_happened_   
to slip up his arse?” He was red-faced and livid. 

“We didn't—”

“I don't care what you and that snake did,” Ron growled. “I don't know what gets me more: that you led my sister on—my sister and my whole fucking family—or that you actually made it with Malfoy. I ought to hang myself, really. I've failed as a man. I let a pervert like you into my life, my family home, let you touch my own sister! You couldn't keep yer God damn hands off him, could you? He had to fucking tie you down.”

“Ron, you don't understand!” Harry pleaded, stepping forward. Hermione shot him a very skeptical look and snorted. Harry struggled to keep his cool. He wouldn't win his two best friends back by screaming at them. “Draco and I have this—”

“Oh!” Ron shouted. “It's    
_Draco_   
now, is it?!” 

  
  
“You can't honestly expect me to sleep with someone and stay on a last-name basis?!”   


“That's exactly what I expect!” Ron shouted, banging a Keeper's fist on the table so hard the tea cups rattled and the little cream pitcher almost tipped. “This 'thing' with Malfoy is just a fluke. You and Ginny belong together. We're going to be brothers, Harry; nothing can stop that.”

“Ron, we're already brothers,” Harry exhaled sadly, hands listless at his sides as he pleaded. “That's why I thought you'd understand.”

“But you and Ginny—” Ron objected.

“Me and Ginny _nothing_!” Finally, Harry exploded. The truth beat at the backs of his teeth, desperate to get out. “It wasn't like this with Ginny. It wasn't like this with Cho Chang and at least I was attracted to her, sexually. I'm not a monk, Ron! I just... I didn't want to say anything. I thought maybe I wasn't that sexual a person. Then I was with Draco and this whole flipping part of me just came alive. Ron, I've never felt this way before,” Harry breathed against the tightness in his chest. The words forced their way out. “So maybe I'm gay. Maybe I prefer blokes. I know I like Draco. Can't you just be happy for me because I'm happy and you're my best mate?”

“No, Harry. I can't.” Ron's face was like stone now, like a statue of his best mate speaking to him from the kitchen bench. “That little prick has insulted me and my family—our honor, Harry—more times that I can keep track of. He almost got Hagrid fired and Buckbeak executed. He calls Hermione... well, you know what he calls her. I won't say it,” Ron huffed. “How many times has he almost gotten us expelled? And that shit he pulled with Umbridge—'Inquisitorial Squad' ring any bells? Then he tried to kill Dumbledore all last year. He nearly killed me with that meade! He put Katie in the hospital wing for months. He was a Death Eater, Harry. He let them mark him; he didn't fight it, even. He was one of them, believed what they believe; hell, he probably still does and you're just to horny or whatever to admit it. I can't just up and forgive him like you have. I'm not _screwing him_.” Disgust suffused his once friendly face, making him unrecognizable. “You keep saying he's changed, but I really don't see it. You're the one whose changed, Harry. I don't know who you are anymore.”

Harry had to fight not only the lump in his throat but the stinging, prickly sensation gathering behind his eyes. It felt like Hagrid had punched him in the chest. There was absolutely nothing he could say to change Ron's mind. He would just have to wait, give the guy some time, and maybe, _maybe_ he'd come around. Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets.

“I'm the same person, Ron,” he managed in a contrabass, tired voice, his shoulders slumped. “I wish you could see that. And I wish you could look past your own shit and see who Draco is; he's starting over, Ron. And this isn't a fluke. We're not fake. We're together.”

Hermione gave a startled twitch and Ron's fist struck the table again.

It felt weird saying that to his friends. It felt strange thinking of being in a relationship with anyone with what he knew he was facing; but somehow, the fact that it was Draco behind him actually made him feel comfort instead of crippling fear. Draco could take care of himself. He was a survivor. He was a Malfoy for fuck's sake—the man could weather anything and probably come out on top, richer and more confident than ever. Draco would be okay. That made Harry smile despite himself.

“I like him,” Harry explained, knowing his friends didn't give a shit but wanting to say it anyway. It felt good to get everything off his chest and in the open. “I like him a lot. And he fancies me, too. We're not in an ideal situation but we're going to make the most of it—you know, try to date and stuff. He probably won't join the Order with me or anything but he wants to support me... in his own way. He's helping me already.”

“I don't believe this shit,” Ron said to Hermione, ignoring his best friend completely. “You wanna head back to the Burrow? I think Ginny was right.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “Perhaps she was.”

“So that's it?” Harry spluttered as the two stood, joining hands and making for the door. “You're just giving up on me? You're done. Six years and you're throwing it in,” he chased after them, hounding them, talking to their backs as they went up the rickety staircase to collect their things. “What about the Horcruxes? You giving up on those, too? Gonna let Voldemort win because of where I put my cock?”

Harry thought Draco would be proud of his use of coarse language to make a point. He felt a little stronger, more in control, talking like that. Hermione paused at the door to her room, her hand on the frame.

“I'll floo call you with my research,” she said flatly. “This is more important than who you stuff. I'm glad you still recognize that you have a job to do. Just don't let Malfoy get in the way.”

She shut the door in his face. That was that.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry went back to the kitchen to collect Draco's coffee along with a few left over baked goods. He prepared a cup for himself, heavy on the cream, and set it all on a tray that he could carry upstairs. Pushing open the door to his room, he was greeted with the sight of Draco Malfoy, clothed and groomed for the day, sitting in his bed with Severus Snape's old copy of _Advanced Potion Making_ in his lap. Harry was irrationally glad Draco was still there—in his room, in his bed. He looked comfortable, ever-poised but relaxed. Maybe even a tiny bit happy. He turned a page, glancing up when he heard Harry enter the room. Harry's pleasure must have been written all over his face. Draco regarded him closely, focusing for long moment on his face. Harry blushed.

“Guess Gryffindor firing squads aren't so bad,” the blonde quipped. “Yeh appear to have lived. They should work on their aim.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, shutting the door with his foot. “The Boy Who Lived, remember?”

“How could I forget?” Draco's silvery eyes fell to the tray Harry bore, noting its contents with a subtle smile. “And The Boy Who Brought Me Coffee, too.”

“Went through hell to get it,” Harry snorted ruefully, sitting on the edge of the bed and setting the tray by Draco's hip. “You don't wanna know the burning hoops I jumped through for your extra sugar.”

“I'm sure they were substantial,” Draco played along, reaching toward the steaming mugs. He met Harry's eyes, silently asking which was his. Harry was amazed he could understand the question in the man's eyes, the query radiating from the tilt of his head and the angle of his shoulders. Harry couldn't resist ducking in to steal a kiss before handing over the correct cup. Draco's lips were still, surprised under his own. When he pulled away, Draco regarded him carefully over the rim of his cup. He blew over the steaming liquid, his face giving away nothing of what went on beneath. Harry could appreciate the morning mystery.

“Do you want to know what they said?” Harry asked, picking up the cup he'd made for himself. With enough cream and sugar, he could get used to the extra caffeine at the start of the day. He realized that, if they kissed now, Draco would taste like coffee, too. It was almost enough to make him jump the blonde—fuck spilled coffee or stained sheets. It would be worth it. Only the sight of Draco sighing at the aroma held him back. It was nice just to watch the man enjoy something whole heartedly.

“I'm sure I already know,” Draco took a tiny sip, rolling the piping liquid through his mouth before swallowing. “Filthy whore, snake, bastard, 'not to be trusted,'” he droned listlessly, not rightly caring what names he was called. “'What the hell were you thinking, Potter?' Oh, and 'betrayal of trust, all that is right and good in the world.' Did I miss anything?”

“Just the part where they heard us in the bathroom,” Harry shrugged, blowing on his own coffee before breaking off a bit of day old scone and dipping it in his cream-laden coffee. “They left.”

“Yeah?”

“Back to the Burrow,” Harry sighed, sucking the sweet coffee out of the softened scone before dipping it again, swirling it in the liquid while he thought. “I guess it should bother me but it really doesn't. They're being so pig headed about the whole thing. I mean, they could've apologized for barging in on us. That obviously made you uncomfortable. I don't think they took us into account at all,” he shrugged. “Ron's whole rant was about himself—how I betrayed him and his family. He said I was a pervert and he hates himself for letting me touch his sister.”

Draco listened without comment, working on his hot coffee.

“I didn't expect them to understand or anything. I'm not stupid. I just wish they could be happy for me, you know?” Harry looked away across the bed spread, remembering how Ron and Hermione had behaved when he and Ginny had started dating. “They were good when it was me and Ginny.”

“They like Ginny,” Draco pointed out, his voice casual and even.

“Yeah, but... Ginny was always there, always liked me and agreed with me. It was no big deal when we dated—if you could call it dating. You and me, though. We've put our shit aside to have a go at this. What we're doing is a much bigger deal: seeing past all our old crap, realizing we're good together... sexually; but in general, too. It's like my friends will only be happy for me if I don't grow up.”

“No one likes change,” Draco said, breaking apart the scone and taking a piece for himself. He sort of sucked at it, scraping a bit of icing off with his perfect white teeth before popping the pastry in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He washed it down with sweetened coffee.

“True,” Harry nodded. “Draco, can I ask you something—as a leper?”

“Go ahead,” he said after swallowing, a smile playing on his lips at the reference to their private political analogies.

“Well, Ron was especially angry that, um,” Harry tried very hard not to blush, “that you're a guy, I think. He kept saying I was a pervert. I don't really know if I like guys. But I told him and Hermione I might be gay and that really pissed him off. Did I use the right word? That's what wizards call it, right? Same as muggles?”

“Yes,” Draco nodded so he wouldn't shake his head in amusement. The smile on his lips was a priceless mix of disbelief and delight. “Gay, bent or queer are considered polite words for it. You might hear wand-swallower—Kneazler for girls.” He gave the tiniest of laughing shrugs; apparently it was kind of a cutesy name for lesbians. “It sounds like Weasley was being particularly low-brow about it. Being gay or bisexual isn't an issue amongst purebloods but people like the Weasleys, Longbottoms, Patils—wizards who associate more with muggles—they have a problem with it. I was told they got it from muggle culture.”

“I guess that's true,” Harry admitted. It was an ugly thing to say about people who he considered his friends; however, muggle culture _was_ very derogatory toward gay people. “Muggles generally don't like gays. They're not given the same rights as other muggles—like being able to get married or have custody of one another's children. That one's a big problem I heard about. It's just bad, generally. There was a boy at Stonewall—the muggle school I was supposed to go to before I heard about Hogwarts—and he was attacked by a gang because he was gay. It was a big story in the news because he was hospitalized for two weeks and almost died of complications. Muggle kids gets teased and bullied for a lot of stuff,” he clarified, “but calling someone gay is definitely the go-to insult, I think. My Uncle Vernon used to call me that a lot. And Dudley—that's my cousin. I used to have nightmares about the TriWizard and Dudley heard me mention Cedric Diggory. After that, he went around telling all his cronies that Cedric was my boyfriend. I never thought about it, though. He made fun of me all the time so what's another insult, right?”

“So muggles are the source of tha' kind of attitude,” Draco said pensively.

“You mean wizards don't think that way?”

“Oh, I'm sure some do,” the blonde shrugged. He finished the last of his coffee and set his mug on the tray before stretching back against the mound of pillows he'd made, leaving none for Harry.

“What's it like?” Harry asked, taking a full draw on his coffee now that it had cooled enough.

“With purebloods?” Draco peered at him with an unreadable expression before turning his attention to the canopy, folding his arms behind his head to recline regally. “No one really cares. It's about magical prowess, money, connections, influence. Just look at Dumbledore—powerful wizard, taught at Hogwarts for ages, contributed to the community, so no one gave him any trouble.”

“Dumbledore was bent?”

“The Boy Who Lived To Be Clueless,” Draco chuckled. When he smiled, the apples of his cheeks took on the slightest pink tinge and the outsides of his eyebrows turned down. His face scrunched a little, making him look younger, happier. It was a good look for his once sour, stern exterior. Harry wondered how many people had the honor of seeing Draco smile like that; hopefully, not too many. He counted himself lucky.

“I have my suspicions about Severus, as well,” Draco continued. “I think it was a source of camaraderie between them—and possibly why Dumbledore asked him to be a spy for your Order. I can see a certain usefulness. But then again, Severus is half-blood, so there wouldn't have been anyone hounding him to marry and produce an heir. Perhaps he was only being selective. It's just a hunch on my part.”

“Are your hunches always right?” Harry asked after setting his coffee on the tray and removing it from the bed. He laid down in reverse, his feet at the head of the bed and his head propped up on an elbow near Draco's bare feet. He liked that Draco removed his shoes and socks before getting in bed—he was tidy that way. Harry almost laughed at his Malfoy-like double entendre.

“No, not always,” Draco said slowly, raising one meaning-filled brow at Harry. He felt a blush creep up his cheeks despite his best efforts to stay collected. Draco had this effect on him.

“So...” Harry offered Draco a sly smile, letting his gaze travel up the man's “tidy” form—from his pale feet, up his long legs, past narrow hips and a lean chest to his handsome, softly smiling face. _Sweet Merlin_ he was gorgeous. “Purebloods don't care. Gay, straight, whatever?”

“Sex is never that simple,” Draco said agreeably before explaining fully. “Someone such as myself, a pureblood heir, would be expected to marry and produce another legitimate heir for the family name. After that, I don't think most people give a damn what someone does in the bedroom. A certain amount of experimentation is expected, especially in one's school years. Even for a while thereafter. Take Durmstrang, for instance,” Draco sat up a little, pursing his lips as he put words to something that had probably been understood and unspoken his entire life. “If a gent's gone to Durmstrang, you can assume he's had sex with a few blokes... and might be up for it again if you approach him right. We're all aware of it.”

“Didn't your father want you to go to Durmstrang?” Harry asked, recalling a conversation he'd overheard on the Hogwarts Express fourth year.

“You heard tha'?” Draco's smile spread, his eyes closing for a moment as he, too, remembered. He'd been such a shit then. It had been a difficult time. “Well, father was aware of my preferences at that point. I think Durmstrang was meant to get it out of my system. I think that's how it is for most other blokes packed off to Durmstrang. I can't say I would've minded.”

That certainly explained Krum spotting Draco's feelings a few weeks ago. Maybe Viktor had known a lot more than he let on.

“So it's all casual sex, then. That's what's normal?” Harry asked, praying Draco couldn't hear the apprehension in his voice. He'd already explained that a casual relationship wasn't on the menu but still, he wanted to know what Draco was used to—what most of the wizarding world would think of them if and when they went public with... whatever it was they had. He was still horribly unsure.

“I suppose,” the blonde shrugged. “When you're in your teens and twenties it's quite acceptable. As one gets older it should become more discreet, naturally, but it's still quite common.”

Harry examined the hem of Draco's trousers, waiting for him to go on. When he didn't, Harry was forced to look up and ask another question, his mouth dry.

“Is that why you wanted to go to Durmstrang?”

“Partly,” Draco conceded, not meeting Harry's eyes. He lowered his arms to his sides, sitting up fully to consider. “I'm sure you'd rather not hear this, but I showed some affinity and talent for the Dark Arts. Yes, I'd already been taught,” he spoke before Harry's mouth could open fully. “And I was quite good. I still am. It's the old way. I could have done very well at Durmstrang. Fourth year was one of the best years of my life.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked. He reached a hand to Draco's shin, resting on the fabric of his trousers, feeling the solid warmth of his leg just beneath the material. Just touching the man made him feel better; that Draco allowed it was still mildly amazing.

“I spent a lot of time out on the Durmstrang ship. Mostly getting tanked out of my mind,” he admitted with a reluctant half-laugh. His eyes were very far away. “We all got on famously. I think it was the groan heard 'round Scotland when I broke the news.”

“What news?” Harry asked, now running his hand absently up and down the side of Draco's calf. His legs were raw muscle and bone. They felt great. All of him felt great, really. Harry was sorely tempted to start rubbing the man's feet. He resisted the urge only by focusing on his words. And how great his legs felt. Harry may or may not have been groping.

Draco chuckled. “That I don't bottom. I think I broke quite a few hearts with tha'.”

Draco didn't.... Harry had to think about that one for a moment before it completely settled in. Draco was aggressive, sexually; dominating, even, but Harry liked that. Draco always met him head-on for intensity and that got his blood pumping like nothing else ever could. Maybe it could be a battle of wills. Maybe, with time, Draco would submit to him.

“Still, I practically had my pick o' the ship,” Draco continued, shrugging. “I never met Krum, though. Well, Viktor,” Draco rolled his eyes at his own inclination to worship the man. He _was_ an international Quidditch star. Draco had probably known about Viktor Krum long before the World Cup. “He was always up at the Hogwarts library or in his private quarters, undoubtedly with a more sophisticated bottle,” Draco almost snorted through his nose. It was quite the heavy exhale. “I drank ale with the plebes.”

“Wow,” Harry mocked, hand reaching Draco's knee before sliding back to his ankle. “I guess you were really desperate for a shag.”

“You have no idea,” Draco let his brows turn up playfully, his eyes going wide to emphasize his point. Those grey eyes were sharp, vivid. “Without the great Harry Potter to pummel on the pitch, I sought alternate means of... ventilation.”

“I know what you did,” Harry tapped his temple knowingly. “And your secrets are safe with me. And those Romanian guys, I guess.” He got himself to shrug and hoped it looked casual. A jealous rage clawed at his gut, like it had when he'd first seen Ginny snogging Dean Thomas. This time it was about a thousand times worse because it was Draco. Draco, who could have _anyone_ in a heartbeat. He was a fucking catch. People would line up just to see him take his clothes off—at least, if they had eyes in their heads. Draco was sex personified. His damaged flash just made him more beautiful in Harry's eyes.

“It bothers you. Yer obvious. I can see it in yer eyes,” Draco observed, leaning over his long legs and bracing just above his knees. He was flexible, as a Seeker ought to be. He stretched until his face was about six inches from Harry's. The dark haired man knew the limber blonde could close the distance if he wanted to. “Why? Because I've slept with other people? Because I talk about it? I'm not ashamed.”

“I wouldn't want you to be ashamed. It's because,” Harry worked to keep his voice even, worked to keep his eyes locked on Draco's, “you know what you're doing—with blokes—and I don't. I mean, we've done it a few times. And it's been really great. But I know there's... something else. A couple things we haven't done. And I don't even know if wizards do it the same way muggles do.” Harry watched Draco's eyes for any emotion, any change, like panning for silver. All he could pick out was mild amusement swirling amid green and grey. “I guess you would know, wouldn't you?”

Draco nodded slightly, not breaking their eye contact. “Yeh gonna ask me, Potter?”

Harry smiled at Draco's familiar teasing. It was just funny now, how Draco still riled him like no other. Now Draco excited him, too. That excitement gave him courage.

“How do wizards do it, Draco?” He asked, hoping his expression could be taken as flirtatious. He had no idea how two grown men were supposed to flirt with each other. Tightening his hand on Draco's calf seemed like a good idea. He ran that hand up his leg, past his knee to rest at the blonde's inner thigh. As if on cue, Draco's pupils dilated ever so slightly. And his inhale took vaguely longer than normal. That was a good sign. So Harry pushed it. He leaned, cutting the distance between their lips in half. He could feel Draco's breath on his face. He could count Draco's eyelashes. They were brown. And there was the long, narrow scar at his hairline and a tiny freckle in his right eyebrow that could only be seen from this close. These things were like the birthmark on his backside—yet another glorious detail to soak in, to memorize, to immortalize. And Draco was his... maybe. He would be, Harry decided. If it was the last thing he did, Draco Malfoy would give in to him.

“Draco,” he whispered, “tell me how we fuck.”

The side of that delicious, demanding pink mouth slithered up in a lazy smile and his eyes crinkled, lit up in a deep green. It was the prefect color on him.

“I put my cock in yer ass, Wonder Boy.”

Harry gulped. First of all... no. And second of all? He'd seen Draco and there was no way _that_ would fit. Anywhere. Ever. He'd barely gotten it in his mouth the last time and it felt like he'd unhinged something in his jaw that was not meant to unhinge so. That Romanian guy had to have a hole like the English Channel. That or he'd been hiding a vagina somewhere. There was absolutely no fucking way.

“Who says _I'm_ taking it up the bum?” The confidence in his own voice surprised him more than it did Draco. “I'm not really sure I'm gay. I just... like you, is all. And you happen to be a bloke.”

The blonde laughed silently, air exiting his nose in little puffs while he rested his forehead against Harry's. Dark hair tickled the skin around his silver eyes. “Bully for me, then. Liking it up the arse has nothin' ter do with being gay. There's no button up there tha', once pushed, turns a bloke gay; although it will send yer brain ter Belgium an' back, but I digress.”

“Now,” he postured, bringing a cool hand to cup Harry's unshaven cheek. “Wantin' a big, buff Beater ter ram yer ass like his own personal Bludger— _tha'_ makes ya gay. I've shagged a few blokes; enough ta know wha' I'm doin'. We don't want injuries,” he laughs. He simply breathed a moment as his laughter stilled, his fingers wandering back to take Harry's hair in a firm grip. He honed in on Harry's eyes, gazing deeply, letting the other man know how serious he was. “Hopefully I can give ya a few ideas 'bout what yeh wanta do ter me.”

“Cor, don't talk like that...” Harry mumbled. He was hard again. Draco's lips met his in a wild, panting rush.

 

 

 

 


	19. The First Great Relationship Row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wasting no time, Draco manages to pick a fight with Harry over the stupidest thing—on their very first night together, no less! Thankfully, they find the ideal way to work through their mutual aggression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** a couple of Draco's very pervy fantasies, multiple instances of implied oral sex, sadomasochism, biting fetish, D/s, T &D, topped off with a brief moment of near-suicidal angst (apologies)

 

 

 

“I don't think I can come anymore,” Harry groaned. He and Draco, in varying stages of undress, were collapsed on top of one another in the second floor hallway. They'd been on their way to the kitchen to knock up some lunch: they'd made it as far as the hall. Now there was a stain on the old rug and Draco couldn't wipe that very smug smile off his face. They'd only done it for the first time that very morning.

“Really? Six is yer max?” The blonde teased, using Harry's upper arm as a pillow. They were going to be stuck together until one of them managed a wandless Cleaning Charm or performed the miracle of actually sitting up to fetch a wand from discarded trousers.

“I guess so. Why?” Harry half-shrugged, not wanting to dislodge Draco from his comfortable and charmingly intimate position, nestled in the crook of Harry's arm. “What's yours?”

“'Bout twelve.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yes, I am a god. Your God. Thanks fer noticin'.”

Harry bit back a laugh. He couldn't laugh. His stomach hurt too damn much. He was developing a cramp from having so many orgasms so close together. Maybe all this exercise would give him six pack abs. He was just as toned as Draco. It would drive the blonde mental thinking Harry was in better shape than him. The thought alone was enough to make Harry want to start doing sit ups right then and there. He had so much energy when he was with Draco! Every time the blonde came it was like someone cast an _Enervate_ on him and pumped several cups of coffee directly into his blood stream just to be sure. Harry's body was already recovering. He was able to sit up, hoisting Draco with him. While his stomach muscles shook a little at the strain, his arms held fast. He pulled Draco into a quick hug before reaching for his trousers with his free hand.

The sound of wings beating the air distracted him once he'd gotten his boxers on. He glanced down the staircase to find a very attractive tawny owl sweeping the entryway, unable to locate the occupants of Grimmauld Place. The brown and white spotted creature bore a large scroll pouch. Unable to summon the strength to actually stand up, Harry brought two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply. The owl shot up the stairs, landing gracefully on a nearby sideboard and offering its leg for Harry's inspection.

“Formal invitation,” Draco identified in a mutter before flopping back to the floor, bunching up his shirt and stuffing it under his disheveled head. He closed his eyes. If Harry didn't know any better he'd say Draco was ignoring him. But then the blonde's hand found the small of his back and began tracing slow, gentle circles with his cooling fingers, drawing little patterns in drying sweat. Harry couldn't hold back a groan of pleasure. He'd been supporting Draco in a weird position towards the end, there, and his lower back had taken most of the strain. His fingers fumbled to open the scroll. It finally gave way and he laid back with Draco to read it.

“Bill and Fleur's wedding,” he mumbled, scanning through the fluff to get to the useful information. “Myself and guest, next week, somewhere in France?”

“The castle at Chauvigny,” Draco nodded. “I haven't been but I hear it's breathtaking.”

“I guess we'll find out,” Harry shrugged, setting the elaborate scroll aside. Draco didn't say anything. “What's an appropriate wedding gift? I've never been to a wedding before, let alone a magical one.”

“Large bag a' galleons oughta do it.”

“Is that proper, though?” Harry asked, looking over at the unusually surly blonde on the floor beside him.

“Of course,” he sniffed, looking away.

“Draco,” he said bracingly, catching the man's chin and turning his head around. Draco hadn't had time to collect himself and his emotions spilled over—confusion and insecurity chief among them. “Do you not want to go? Because I can write Bill and Fleur, say it's too much of a security risk....”

“Tha's stupid, _poilu_ ,” Draco shook his head, pulling his chin from Harry's grasp. “Yeh want ta go. They're yer friends. Yeh should go.”

“Do you not want to come with me? Is that it?” Harry chased him, rolling on top of the man and supporting himself on all fours, suspended over him. Draco was not sneaking away from the question. Or from Harry.

“Didn't know I was invited,” he murmured lamely, head still turned petulantly away.

“Of course you are,” Harry sighed wearily, nuzzling the exposed side of Draco's neck, nipping at the tendons before venturing to the nape of him, trailing tongue and teeth along with lavish kisses. He held himself upright by one arm, freeing a hand to glide to Draco's narrow hip. Their bodies came together in a blend of rightness, soft skin and hard bones aligning in a balance that was beyond comprehension. Draco just fit beneath him and that was all there was to it. Soon the blonde was gasping under his careful ministrations, his lips chasing Harry's across the perfect expanse of their joined forms. Harry wouldn't let Draco find his lips, always moving to a new place and kissing it raw. He withheld nothing. His treatment was harsh, unforgiving. He waited for Draco's unrestrained moan, that delicious arch of his spine that meant he was giving into the pain and pleasure of it all. Teeth grazing nipple, an especially rough squeeze of the hip... and Draco was there, writhing, that unbridled sound escaping him. The power of his passion was almost frightening. Almost. Finally, Harry met his lips with a tender kiss, their bodies still hard and straining.

Harry whispered against those wanting lips. “You are my date, my non-friend. Get over it.”

“Sounds like I don't have much of a choice,” the blonde breathed. He was surprisingly coherent for being so far gone. “It's formal. I don't have dress robes.”

“Then order whatever you like, dearest,” Harry offered, nibbling the shell of Draco's ear. The man was sensitive, so much fun to overexcite, overload until he just shook and screamed with it. Like Harry, he liked being tantalizingly close, hovering on the edge as long as possible before tipping over into release. Harry bit and tasted, taking his sweet time, speaking between shocks of stinging teeth, damp lips and cooling breath. “Pick something out... for me... would you? You know... what I like... nothing... fancy.”

“Simple,” Draco muttered. “Direct.” He twitched violently, from the gut and radiating outward, hands burying themselves in Harry's sweaty hair.

“ _Yessss_ ,” he hissed, sliding down Draco's body. “You know, Draco. Clothes later,” he rolled a hard pink nipple in his mouth on his journey southward. He didn't stop for long. “I'm hungry,” he growled against Draco's smooth stomach.

“Kitchen is...” the blonde was momentarily speechless as Harry's tongue made a wet streak across his abdomen, tracing scars. “Far. Too far.”

Harry hummed his agreement. “I'm hungry,” he insisted. “You'll do.”

Draco's head thunked to the stained carpet as he screamed.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Lunch taught them that Kreacher could not be trusted with any food-related task beyond boiling water for tea. Harry had always considered himself to possess a strong stomach after the crap the Dursley's fed him; somehow, a few bites of Kreacher's so-called stew made his stomach churn. He sipped tonic for the afternoon and seemed recovered by evening, listening to Draco play piano in the front parlor. The blonde had allowed Harry to taste the stew first and so hadn't had his constitution resorted as well. He played a few tunes Harry was known to like and charmed his tonic water to taste of lemons.

Draco prepared their dinner with magic. Harry sat in awe as ingredients zoomed about the kitchen, dicing and seasoning themselves, sauteing and brazing, flying in and out of the oven. In less than two hours time, a lovely meal sat before them—French in origin and no less than four courses.

  
“Since we've lost the entourage,” the blonde said pleasantly, blowing on his    
  
_boeuf à la bourguignonne_   
, “I thought I might take one of the larger bedrooms.”

Harry glanced up from his buttery potatoes, confused. “I sort of thought... you'd want to sleep with me, now.”

“Wha', every night?” Draco's head tipped to the side, disbelieving.

“Well, sure,” Harry shrugged, a sly smile turning his lips. “How else am I supposed to get you into double digits every day?”

Harry never knew he was such a pervert. Or a sex fiend. You learn something new every day. Draco speared a little pearl onion, careful to let the excess sauce drip back to his plate. The way he rotated the fork in his hand reminded Harry of the way the blonde handled his hawthorn wand, which in turn reminded him of other, very pleasing things.

Draco actually winked at him. “I'll move a few of my things tonight.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Draco walked from the bathroom to the bedroom wearing pajama bottoms and a borrowed dressing gown. Face washed and teeth brushed, he was ready for bed. He let himself into the room as quietly as possible. His dark haired lover sat in what would be _their_ bed, pouring over his old Potions textbook. He squinted through the lenses of his thick glasses, studying intently. Draco had never considered the man to be particularly studious but his opinion was rapidly changing. Wonder Boy read quite a bit when Granger wasn't about to badger him.

Draco removed the dressing gown, tossing it over the battered school trunk at the end of their bed. He renewed the room's Cooling Charm before ducking under the sheets, carefully keeping to his designated side of the bed. He heard his bedmate close his book and set it aside. He heard the unfamiliar, metallic _clinks_ of a pair of glasses being folded and deposited on the nightstand. A moment later, Wonder Boy extinguished the magical lamp non-verbally. His wand clattered to the nightstand a second later, followed by a sigh.

A warm hand reached across the bed, caressing his spine.

“What are you doing?” the man whispered, voice husky. “Get over here.”

Draco felt a gentle tug at his shoulder. He ignored it. The bed was just the right combination of firm mattress and feather light pillows. He could feel himself drifting off already.

Rough hands grabbed him round the middle and dragged him across the bed. To _spoon_.

“Um... wha' the hell is this?” Draco asked tersely. He'd been seconds away from sleep but was fully awake now.

“Relationship stuff.”

“I see. 'Bout how long does it last?”

“All night, Draco.” Wonder Boy hugged him tighter. Draco focused his reception from chilly to downright icy. How was he supposed to sleep with the man's constant boner pressed between his cheeks? “You don't like it?”

“I'll get used to it,” Draco couldn't help but snap; snotty, petulant, implying, “I'll get used to it but I'll never fancy a cuddle with _you_ , muggle-loving Gryffindor twat.”

“You're a real pisser, Draco.” Mercifully, the man released him and rolled away onto his back. He also let out a tight, angry breath that insisted, in no uncertain terms, neither of them would be allowed to rest until the God forsaken “lack of cuddling” had been addressed.

“Fine,” Draco scooted over, placing a hand on his broad chest, that heart beneath hammering into his hand. “Against my own better judgment, I like it. Happy?”

“No,” sitting up, The Chosen One fixed him with a severe look, green eyes blazing. “When you fancy someone, you _want_ to spend time with them, you _want_ to be with them. Do you understand? You don't curl up with them against your better judgment. There should be no thinking involved! You just do it because it feels right.” He got up and headed for the door, a hand carding through his eternally messy hair. “Yesterday I realized that nothing has ever felt this right in my entire life. I thought you felt remotely the same.”

Wonder Boy threw open the door, preparing to tromp off down the hall.

“Where are you going?” Draco demanded, forced to crawl out of the warm bed to chase after the bloody git.

“To sleep in one of the other eight bedrooms,” he shot back, angry.

“Why? Because it's against my nature to fucking 'cuddle' with you?”

“No,” his manners are cold and defeated, like he was sick of fighting. That was new. “Because it's against your nature to care about anyone more than your precious fucking self.”

With that, he stormed out.

 _Okay_ , Draco thought bitterly, _I bloody well deserved that. Now what?_

Draco followed. When he was young and dealing with the frazzled, overemotional nannies mother employed, whining had been his go-to; most regrettably, it got results more reliably than reason. He cleared his throat, screwed up his face and prepared himself to sound all of a petulant two and a half years old.

“ _Harry!_ ”

Wonder Boy froze mid-stomp, his inky black hair blending into the darkness of the hallway. Only his light skin in the moonlight distinguished him. He turned to face his sort-of boyfriend, hands fisted at his sides.

“Harry, I'm sorry,” Draco kept his voice low and even, betraying as little emotion as possible. This could turn out very badly. He needed to keep the man happy or he'd be out on the street. There was a little more to it than the need for proper housing, but he wasn't ready to admit that just yet. At least not aloud. “I don't do relationships. Not well, anyway. Especially muggle ones like this.”

“Why are you using my first name?”

“Because—at least I've been told—that's what you do when you snog someone.” Coy smile. That should have gotten him. Draco's face fell when it didn't. The Chosen One was quite hopping mad.

“We've done a lot more than snog,” he snorted, stuffing his hands in his pajama pockets so he wouldn't fold them across his chest in anger, apparently.

“I'm making an effort,” Draco offered, hands splayed at his sides in a hopeless gesture.

“And, what?!” he growled, voice emanating from somewhere deep, deep down in his chest. “I let you put your amazing cock up my ass and maybe you'll say you like me back?” Draco had to admit, that sounded _very_ nice. “No way. I don't wanna fuck you, Draco; I want to have an actual relationship with you. A relationship where you're affectionate or vulnerable or anything else you need to be. A relationship where we tell each other everything _outside_ of when we're a second away from coming our brains out. I can't fight to hug you the rest of my life.”

“'The rest of your life?!' You're whinging worse than a girl! V.A.S. much?” That may have been uncalled for but he didn't care at the moment. His reaction was complete emotion—a knee jerk—and it was probably the meanest, pettiest, wrongest thing he could have said in that moment. He knew it, too. He was being a defensive prat when all Harry had wanted was a little human contact at the end of an admittedly monumental day. Draco felt his teeth clench and lips draw back in genuine remorse, brow furrowing. He might have royally fucked himself beyond redemption. Only Harry's reaction would tell him if they could scrape things up and start over again.

“Draco, I'm going to sleep in the other room.” Gods, the man _shook_ trying to keep his voice even. Draco began to protest but Harry cut him off with an imperial wave of his strong, calloused hand. “You take my bed—I know you prefer it.”

“No, I'll go—”

“No!” Harry was at his wit's end. He squinted without his glasses but Draco could see his eyes watering from twenty kilometers. “I have _feelings_ for you, you stupid, stupid fucking cunt! And they're not going anywhere—even when you act like a prick and piss me the fuck off, like you're doing right now. You're sleeping in my bed. I'm going down the hall.” His voice threatens to break. His hand shakes as he points to an empty bedroom. Draco felt frozen to the spot. Could Harry cast a Full Body Bind wandlessly and non-verbally? It very much felt like it at that moment. “Come find me when you're ready to be honest with yourself.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Lying alone in Harry Potter's big, comfortable, perfect fucking bed, Draco was forced to wonder what—if anything—he could possibly do to fix this mess. Much to his fear and general dislike, he'd gone and developed a soft spot for Wonder Boyfriend. And he was highly, highly attracted. Getting blown by him was akin to a religious experience, if Draco were the religious sort, and not because Harry was The Chosen One. Draco thought he'd heard angels singing—or maybe that had just been the voice in his head screaming for it to never end, to just come and come forever. To his eternal embarrassment, he got hard that instant, just thinking about it. What in the name of Salazar Slytherin was he going to do?

Harry was everything he never knew he wanted; loyal, honest, reliable, companionable, compassionate, and endlessly kind. And possibly as kinky as he was, which bordered on true clinical perversion. He'd really worked himself into a pickle jar; he was stuck in this ruddy situation. Nowhere to go, no friends aside from Harry— _who is astronomically angry with me,_ Draco thought with a shudder—and the Ministry's joke money, barely enough for a decent pair of muggle trousers each month.

He was about to get out of bed and use Avada Kedavra on himself. Did it work for suicides? If not, he had that Dark cutting curse Harry had thrown at him that spring. If he cast it hard enough, he could probably lop his head clean off in one go. Or perhaps there was some rat poison lying around the old house. That would be fitting. He felt like vermin at that moment.

Draco heard the sound of the old trunk piano drifting up from the parlor. It had to be Harry. By the sound of it, he was trying to figure out the melody of that song—the song he played when he needed to think, to be alone and away from the world. The song his mother used to play when she thought _she_ was alone. The song she played to drown out the sound of her son being tortured.

“Damn it,” Draco growled, throwing the covers aside. “Why do you have to be so....” Kind. Good. Perfect.

He snatched up Harry's dressing gown and bolted down the stairs before his conviction gave out.

 

 

Harry sat at the piano bench, trying over and over again to replicate the tune. His tshirt rode up at his back, exposing smooth skin. Watching from the doorway, Draco licked his lips. He knew the man's taste, salty and exotic, vibrating with spice and the tang of his magic as though it leaked from his pores with his sweat. Draco couldn't help a sigh as he entered the room, still belting the dressing gown. It smelled like Harry. He was engulfed, consumed by Harry it would seem.

“Here, let me teach you,” Draco said softly. He went to sit beside Harry on the bench, wrapping an arm around him and placing his chilly hands over both of Harry's warm ones. He guided Harry's unskilled fingers over the keys until he'd managed the first few bars.

“I'm sorry,” Draco whispered. “I guess it's still in my nature to be an asshole. Especially to you.”

Harry just nodded, enjoying Draco's chin resting on his shoulder, Draco's arms around him. “Maybe... you could try being nice ta me some more? I might come 'round with a bit a' coddling.”

“Oh, 'maybe' you 'might' come around?” Harry's whisper was hollow, his face not looking up from the stark black and white of the keys. “That's not much to reassure myself with.”

“That's all I can give,” Draco sighed. “Look, I'm rubbish with this 'feelings' business—absolute rubbish. Worse than Weaselby! Honestly, a part of me still can't believe I'm having this conversation.”

“Then why are we?” Harry's voice is dejected. He's slouching against Draco's arm around his waist, needing the contact even if their words are heated.

“I didn't mean that as an insult. It's not about you. You're great. I'm the problem.”

“I've been in your head, Draco. You're really not that bad, you know.” Harry turned to face him. Draco let his hand trail to Harry's lower back where his shirt rode up, leaving that patch of his lower back exposed. He's silky beneath the spray of body hair, and even his hair is downy and soft. “You don't really want to do or say anything truly bad, Draco. Like Dumbledore said. You try and skirt around the edges and come out with all the worst appearances, but deep down you're actually a good person.”

“Oh, really?” Draco cooed, rubbing his fingers against Harry's skin, sneaking his hand farther up the man's back. “What if I said I wanted to shag your brains out right now? Wouldn't that be bad?”

“That's not the kind of 'bad' we're talking about and you know it,” Harry warned, removing Draco's hand from his back. Comprehension dawned on Draco.

“How do you know what Dumbledore said to me? Did you see tha' in my head, too?”

“I was there that night, under my Invisibility Cloak. I saw everything.”

“You and tha' cloak do an awful lot of sneaking,” muttered Draco darkly.

“Too bad I can't crawl back in your head, do some more sneaking,” Harry answered Draco's melancholy tone. “Might answer a lot of questions.”

“Go 'head. I don't have anything left to hide.”

“I think I've cast enough Unforgiveables on you,” Harry said firmly.

“Legillimens, then.”

“Are you sure?”

“Honestly?” Draco heaved a sigh, fighting the heavy, anxious knot in the pit of his stomach. “I don't know what I think. Maybe you'll make some sense of it for me.”

“Alright.” Harry went to fetch Sirius Black's wand from a display case. He gave it a few experimental flicks before aiming it at Draco, who sat calmly at the piano bench. He cast the spell without preamble, for which Draco was thankful. He'd had enough dramatics in his miserable life. He appreciated a man who got right to the point.

“ _Legillimens_.”

Harry was struck dumb by Draco's overpowering lust for him. He saw every last freaky, perverted fantasy the man had racked up featuring himself and a very... uninhibited Harry. Draco thought about their sweat-covered bodies pressing together again, as they had done for the first time only that morning. Draco thought about tying Harry up again and doing even more wicked and humiliating things to him with that very talented, deviant tongue of his. Draco thought about brewing a potion so he could stay hard after he came, like Harry did. Draco thought of pleasing Harry a thousand different ways; kissing him, touching him, casting spells so every second of their sex would be seared into both their memories.

And then Harry found a thread that was different, gentle. Draco thought about teaching Harry to play the song without a name, to play duets with him on sunny afternoons in the front sitting room. Draco thought about kissing Harry across the breakfast table, kissing him over a game of chess, kissing him goodnight and actually curling up in his arms. Draco thought about closing his eyes and just running his hands through Harry's dark hair. Draco imagined being on the Hogwarts Express and resting his head on Harry's shoulder. He mooned over Harry's boyish smile and his shining green eyes, the way he smelled and the way he tasted. Draco thought about how kind Harry was, not how sexy—how gentle, how brave, how patient, how strong, how good.

With a great effort, Draco pushed Harry's spell from his mind.

“How'd yeh get in there?” he said quietly, his voice shaking.

“In where?”

“Those... were dreams I had,” he mumbled, his words soft, simple. “I didn't even remember 'til yeh brought 'em back.”

“I dunno,” Harry sighed. “But I found something out.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled with his little victory. “You fancy me. A lot.” _And you're so very, cripplingly afraid of being alone. It just makes me want to hold you more._ But he kept that last bit to himself.

“Ya think?”

“Yes,” he nodded emphatically. “That, and you're the biggest, freakiest pervert I've ever met.” And it's kinda hot.

Draco stood up, suddenly nervously. “Was it the thing 'bout the broom shed? Anywhere firsties can walk in on yeh just... really stirs my cauldron. I guess ya figured tha' out, though.”

Harry closed his eyes for a minute. There was something inherently wrong about wanting to be caught doing the nasty by eleven year olds; probably the fact that the mere mention of it stirred his cauldron, too. He pushed it aside.

“You think about sex... all the time!” Harry blurted. “How do you function?”

“Same way every bloke does,” the blonde shrugged hastily. “Four or five times a day, jus' naff off to the loo.”

“Five times a day?” Harry choked. He leaned against the nearest wall for support.

“Sure. More so this las' year. Doing the Dark Lord's bidding didn't leave much time fer casual sex.” Draco gave him a warm, winning smile, eyes catching the light. “How often do you?”

“What does that matter?” Harry spluttered, unable to stop a blush from heating his face.

“Oh, I think this is 'relationship stuff.' I think people in your sodding little Gryffindor relationships are supposed ta talk 'bout these things.” Draco neared, putting one hand against the wall just above Harry's shoulder, leaning, pinning him. The way Draco looked at him....

“You're one of those sodding Gryffindors now,” Harry chuckled.

“So answer the question, fellow Gryffindor,” Draco quipped. “How often do ya polish it?”

“Um, a few days a week?” Harry shrugged. “Maybe three or four. But I've never thought the kind of dirty stuff you do.”

“Maybe tha's yer problem, baby.” They were cheek to cheek now, bodies a fraction of an inch from touching as Draco whispered in his ear. “Wha' do ya think 'bout?”

Harry had to concentrate on swallowing. Draco was so damn close. Harry could smell his skin.

“Girls, mostly.”

“Tha' could be the problem.” Harry could feel Draco's breath against his neck. “Never thought of a bloke? Bein' shoved 'gainst a wall in the Quidditch locker rooms an' taken advantage of?”

“Well, no,” Harry gulped. Pinned as he was now, the idea certainly had some merit.

Draco's soft, warm lips traced down his neck in a cloying slide of dampness and heat.

“How 'bout na?” Draco's free hand glided up Harry's thigh with painstaking patience.

“Now?” Harry's brain was quickly losing function as other urges took over. Draco's hand cupped him and he knew he wouldn't be able to get another word out if his life depended on it.

“Yeh know,” Draco whispered breathlessly, “I've never done this before.”

“Ghhm?” Harry actually managed a grunt. He tightened and pulsed under Draco's expert touch.

“Make-up sex.”

Then Draco smiled and dropped to his knees, a hand trailing behind to touch Harry's cheek, his neck, his chest. Draco's fingers snuck under his tshirt, found his nipple and began their ministrations. Harry moaned. He couldn't help it. Draco was kissing his stomach and then... lower. He knew what was coming, how good it would feel. “I hear it's fantastic, though. Care ta find out?”

Harry could only bite his lip and nod. That was all Draco needed.

Apparently seven was Harry's max.

 

 

 

 

 


	20. And It's Serious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco continues to be sexually aggressive and emotionally withholding. His feelings for Harry grow; yet he can't shake his standoff-ish nature. A frustrated Harry Potter is finally allowed to join the Order of the Phoenix and attends his first meeting. When the Ministry schedules a press conference to make Draco's story public, the boys accept the need to keep their relationship secret to protect Draco from becoming any more of a target—but also so that the “Wonder Boyfriend” factor won't draw attention away from Draco's case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** relationship  & political drama, sexual content: Parseltongue fetish, mild breath play, aggressive oral sex, first time anal penetration, fingering, Bottom!Draco, Masochist!Draco, Dominant!Harry

 

 

Harry woke up with Draco in his arms. It was the best feeling in the world. Draco's warm, messy head resting against his chest, holding his sleep-stilled hand, their legs intertwined... life didn't get any better. He lost track of time just lying there, stroking up and down Draco's back, feeling the bumps of his spine and the detailed expanse of old cuts and burns healed over. He couldn't get enough of the feel of this man. He was almost sad when Draco woke, his silvery eyes opening reluctantly. Harry watched as those eyes took a moment to focus; Draco blinked slowly, his pupils contracting, vision becoming clear for the day ahead.

“'Mornin',” he whispered roughly.

“Good morning,” Harry replied, placing a kiss on his sweaty forehead. Draco quickly squirmed out of their intimate embrace, sitting up and reaching for Harry's dressing gown. Disappointed, Harry sat up, too. “Where are you going?”

Draco's mouth hung open, incredulous, as he stared at Harry.

“Bathroom. Ya mind?”

“Oh,” Harry looked away. Draco made him feel like a sentimental prat sometimes. He got out of bed as well, pulling on pajama trousers and a tshirt. There was something to be said for sleeping naked—especially with a certain blonde-haired Gryffindor convert. “I'll go make us some breakfast. You want coffee?”

“Please,” Draco nodded, belting the Gryffindor robe. Wordlessly, he set out for the bathroom, Harry still tugging his shirt over his head.

He was starting to get frustrated. Draco only touched him when they were having sex or sleeping. The blonde never reached out to hold his hand or touch his face, adjust his clothing or fix his hair. Isn't that what one felt compelled to do in a relationship? When Draco played the piano yesterday, Harry had spent a good hour fighting the urge to go over and run hands through his silky blonde hair, touch his cheek, kiss his talented hands. That was normal—they were in a relationship. At least, Harry was. He wanted to be; but Draco's coldness was difficult to counter. Draco didn't touch him, didn't reach out with words or actions, which made Harry hesitant. He'd seen what Draco really wanted—what he deeply, fiercely desired—in the man's head last night. Draco wanted this relationship just as much as Harry did; he'd even dreamed of putting his head on Harry's shoulder on the Hogwarts Express. They wouldn't get to do that because Harry wasn't going back. But Draco didn't know that. Harry felt the need to fit as much “couple time” as he could into these next two weeks. A part of him knew that would only make it harder to let Draco go when the time came but he couldn't help himself. If he died fighting Voldemort, he at least wanted to die with happy memories of him and Draco. _That_ was the real reason. 

Hearing Draco in the shower already, Harry wandered downstairs. A glance in the mirror showed him that he was getting pale; after all, he'd been locked indoors for the better part of two months. Even the tan he'd gotten from a week's worth of forced yard labor at the Dursley's had faded, leaving him as pale and drawn as Draco. The paleness he could get used to... but locked in his own house? Maybe he and Draco could sneak out again. He went into the unused parlor, parting the curtains to check the weather.

It was pouring rain, of course. He and Draco would sneak out another day. He'd bring the idea up over breakfast, see what Draco thought. He turned toward the kitchen to start some pancakes when something odd caught his eye. Why would someone have moved an armchair clear across the room? As far as Harry knew, no one even came in here now that the Order held meetings elsewhere. He walked over to the Black family tree and seized the heavy, high-backed chair, preparing to drag it back where it belonged.

His hands lost their strength, the chair falling to the floor. He jumped back so it wouldn't land on his foot. He gaped at the wall, mouth gone utterly dry.

No wonder they'd tried to hide it from him. No wonder they'd been so angry. The family tree said he was marrying Draco Malfoy.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco was surly as he chewed his pancakes and drank his sweetened coffee. He didn't make eye contact and only spoke to inquire if the paper had arrived. It was like the last two days hadn't happened. It was like they hadn't woken up mostly naked in the same bed, like they weren't even “together,” whatever that meant. And Harry hated it. Desperate to get something out of Draco other than detachment, Harry dove for the bluntest conversational instrument he could think of.

“So,” he laid his fork down on his plate and looked right at Draco. “T   
  
he family tree says we're getting married. Anything to say about that?”    


“Hmm,” Draco pondered into his coffee, expression utterly unchanged. “Maybe it'll go away?” And he sipped his ruddy coffee as though they were talking about the fucking miserable weather instead of their lives... together, potentially.

“That's your answer?” Harry scoffed, not amused at all. “Just ignore it?”

Draco made a noise of agreement in his throat, still pointedly drinking coffee. Harry figured the blonde was using the beverage as an excuse not to speak. Harry didn't know what to think of the news either but he'd thought Draco would have _something_ to say about it; an opinion, a series of lewd words, outrage! Just... something more than nonchalance, coffee drinking and throw-away sounds of ascent.

“You're not... worried?” Harry suggested, brows raised.

Draco shook his head, his mouth full.

“Nervous?” Harry pressed, leaning forward. “Excited, maybe?”

Draco gave him a pained look before swallowing. His voice was suffused with that old, aristocratic speech of his. It made Harry want to wrap hands around the man's delicate throat and not in a good way.

  
“Don't read into it,    
  
_  
poilu   
_   
  
.    
  
_  
Q   
_   
_uello che sarà, sarà_   
: what will be will be. Can we talk about something else now?” He wouldn't meet Harry's eyes. “Please?”

The way he said that last word—devoid of emotion, as though he were talking to a business associate instead of the man he performed sexual favors on last night—made Harry even angrier. Harry never thought a whole lot of himself but he deserved to be treated as though he were the tiniest smidgen of special to this man. He deserved the smallest modicum of lenience, of sentiment. He didn't deserve the Malfoy mask; yet that was exactly what he got.

“Alright, then,” Harry replied sternly. “Let's talk about that stunt you pulled last night. Because, as fun as that was, you can't just... get on your knees and do that to me every time we have an argument.” He flipped his hand at Draco, as though dismissing the man's skill with the back of his hand—slapping it away like it didn't matter, a taste of his own bitter medicine. Draco didn't react.

“Why the hell not?” Draco finally looked at him, face blank. “It was great fer me, too.” Draco offered him a devious, sexy wink. It was so incongruous to his otherwise unmoving face, Harry almost missed it. As it was, the gesture almost melted him. It certainly melted a bit of his frustration.

“Because we have to be able to actually talk to each other. I can't curse you and read all your snarly, twisted-up thoughts every time I want a decent answer.”

“Again, why not?” Draco was being conciliatory. Perhaps he needed more coffee.

“Because that's really fucked up, that's why!” Harry leaned back, exasperated.

“Can't our silly Gryffindor relationship be a little fucked up? It'll match our lives.”

Harry really hated to admit that Draco had a point. “Well, I can't curse you in front of other people,” he pointed out.

“Sure ya can,” Draco smiled devilishly. He meant the Imperius Curse.

“No, I can't,” Harry steadfastly protested. “And do you really want me in your head all the time?”

Draco took a moment to ponder that, fork in hand, using it to cut up the last of his pancakes with currant jam.

“Giving me head all the time? Definitely. _In_ my head all the time? Maybe not.” Draco sighed heavily, pushing his food around his plate, still pensive and sullen. “Wha's the other reason? I think there's a selfish one hidin' behind all tha' noble an' righteous shite.”

“Okay,” Harry offered plainly. “I like listening to you. Sometimes it would be easier to wade through your thoughts and pull out what I need to know,” he conceded with an unhappy shrug. “But I fancy the way you put things, the way you express yourself. And I just want to hear your voice sometimes. I want you to talk to me. Besides, it'll give us something to do when another orgasm could legitimately kill me.”

“I like tha' answer.” Draco's smile lit the room. He fed Harry a bite of pancake from across the table.

It really wasn't all that great—too chewy? Did he use enough milk or too much? Harry vowed that someday he would to learn to cook worth a damn. He deserved full and complete answers: Draco deserved perfect morning afters.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The morning's owls contained a request marked urgent from Headmistress McGonagall, so Harry soon found himself on his knees before the fireplace in the windowless library room. He'd brought a pillow from the sitting room to kneel on. The Professor's stern face soon emerged in the flames, her lips pursed.

“Mr. Potter?”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry leaned closer to the magical green fire.

“You have been accepted into the Order of the Phoenix,” she announced without preamble. “We are scheduled to meet this Wednesday evening, nine o'clock. A portkey is en route by owl.”

“Professor, I can Apparate,” Harry pointed out.

“I'll not hear of you Apparating without a license,” she spoke over him. “We'll have someone to guard Mr. Malfoy whilst you are away. And _that_ is the true subject of my calling.”

“You mean Draco?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter,” she nodded once, curtly. Harry's stomach tensed. “I understand that you and Mr. Malfoy are now the only residents of Grimmauld Place. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Do you think that wise?” Her eyes were sharp, calculating. “While the wards on the house are certainly sufficient and I could spare an extra guard... I can't have the two of you killing one another like a pair of terriers in the night, now, can I?”

Harry had to laugh. “It's okay, Professor. It's great, actually.”

“Still getting along, then?”

“Yep,” Harry grinned.

“You're quite sure?” She's still quite dubious.

“Yes, Professor. I... well,we're together.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Harry swallowed soundly. “As in, we're seeing each other, Professor. Draco and I are a couple.”

McGonagall balked. Her mouth worked silently for a moment, brows lowering. She managed to speak in a very strained voice. “You needn't inform me of your conqu—dalliances, Potter.” She gave him a very funny look, as though she just couldn't picture him and Draco doing anything but strangling one another in their sleep.

“Professor, I'm quite serious,” Harry said, polite but firm. “This isn't a 'dalliance' or a 'conquest;' we're in a relationship. And it's rather serious. He's an amazing wizard and I have very strong feelings for him. I actually wanted to talk to you about his rooming arrangements for the school year. What kind of security do you have in place?”

Harry thought he heard a muttered, “Jesus, Potter,” but he chose to ignore it. This “dating Draco Malfoy” business seemed to call upon him to behave as an adult while the people in his life fell apart.

 

 

Harry had a lot to tell Draco. Security would be tight at Hogwarts. If they thought things were constricting now, it would be stifling once the Ministry held their press conference and announced Draco's drastic, life-altering political turn. With the Order's renewed Fidelus Charm on Grimmauld Place, they were quite safe from any Death Eaters who might be after them. They would have to take advantage of the leniency they currently enjoyed. There would be very little sneaking Draco out of Hogwarts if the wards were anything like what McGonagall described.

On the bright side, the new Head of Gryffindor house was Firenze the centaur; a being sure to be sympathetic to Draco's situation, considered a traitor by the other centaurs for associating so closely with the humans of Hogwarts. Firenze would not be able to use the Head's suite adjacent to Gryffindor Tower—hooves made the six flights of stairs rather a challenge—so the space was being converted into a more private suite for the Head Boy and Head Girl. It had the advantage of multiple exits, one leading into the Gryffindor common room through a hidden staircase and the other accessed by way of a bust of Paracelsus down the corridor from the Fat Lady. There was also a large terrace. In case of emergency, Draco could grab Harry's Firebolt and simply fly out.

When had he decided to give Draco his racing broom? The blonde had been a shit that morning. Harry only hoped he would warm up soon. They didn't have much time. He didn't want to waste any more of his young life on fighting than he already had to. Fighting Voldemort was fine. Fighting Draco? Unacceptable.

He stepped into his room with every intention of telling Draco about the unusual steps undergone for his school housing but was stopped short by the scene before him. Draco sat on the bed, shoes and socks off and his long legs folded under him, his few possessions scattered across the bed with him. He used his wand to direct a tshirt into the air. The garment folded itself and then zoomed to the bottom drawer of Harry's dresser which slid open to admit it, softly closing again. Draco had already started on a pair of trousers, which draped themselves over a wooden hanger and zoomed to hang themselves the closet with Harry's meager things.

Draco was a wizard. The things Draco used magic for amazed Harry daily. And that he did it without thinking? Bloody brilliant, that was. Harry tugged off his trainers and socks and crawled up onto the bed, joining Draco at the center of it. He wrapped his arms around the man's waist, settling his chin on a lean shoulder as the blonde sent his suits to hang in the closet beside Harry's old dress robes. Being from his fourth year, Harry doubted they would fit anymore. Good thing Draco was picking out a new set for the wedding. Draco would select something subdued rather than try to truss him up like Mrs. Weasley had done. He wondered if Draco would get another set of those vicar-like robes he'd worn to the Yule Ball. That made Harry smile. He squeezed Draco tighter to him.

“I like that you do everything with magic,” Harry said quietly, speaking to the boy's supple neck, taking in his warmth and smell. “Would you mind saying the spells out loud? I'd fancy a go at learning them.”

Draco gave a little shrug. “Want me ta make a proper wizard out a' ya, Harry?”

“Please.” It was so good to hear his name on Draco's lips, even if he was being teased.

When Harry tried the Unpacking Spell, Draco's shoes tumbled gracelessly through the air, hitting the closet door with a solid _thump_ and _thunk_. The blonde burst out laughing, leaning back against Harry as he cackled, mouth wide and head thrown back.

“Don't laugh at me!” Harry pouted, enjoying the voluntary contact more than he would like to admit. “Tell me what I'm doing wrong, ya cunt!”

Draco's head fell against Harry's shoulder. The blonde let his laughter die of its own accord. Harry fought the temptation to lick that bobbing Adam's apple mere inches from his lips. He wasn't quite sure how he resisted. He truly wanted to learn, but Draco was... well, he was Draco. And he looked good enough to eat.

“It's easier non-verbally,” Draco suggested. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, letting Harry support him. “Ya have ta create a picture of what ya want in yer mind. Then let tha' picture go out of ya, through yer magic, when ya think the incantation. Kinda... roll the picture up an' push it out of yer wand. Tha's the only way I can describe it. Try again.”

“Okay.”

This time, Harry really focused. He pictured the closet door opening to reveal his and Draco's shoes lined up together in two neat rows, casual shoes in front and less used ones in back. When he opened his eyes, everything happened exactly as it had in his head. Draco turned to smile at him broadly.

“I'm not hopeless, you know,” Harry said with an answering smile.

“I've realized tha',” admitted Draco. “Ya just need a bit more encouragement than most. It's probably 'cause yeh didn't grow up with magic. Ya don't have any reference, so yeh doubt yer abilities. I think, if yer committed ter practicing every day, ya should be up ta snuff by the time school starts.” Draco actually snuggled down in Harry's arms, wrapping his lanky arm around Harry's at his ribs. “Won't Gryffindor House be surprised? The great Harry Potter acting like a real wizard fer a change.”

“Gryffindor doesn't revolve around me,” Harry protested.

“It most certainly does!” Draco scoffed. “It's the headquarters a' The Harry Potter Fan Club. Will I be expected ter attend the meetin's? Or will Dumbledore's Army come after me?”

“Shit, I forgot about the old gang,” Harry rested his cheek on top of Draco's head. Smelling Draco kept him calm. “Think they'll react like Ron?”

“If they find out,” Draco said slowly.

“Ron and Hermione know,” Harry listed. “And Ginny knows. She's sure to have vented her displeasure to a few people by now.”

“Can't we shut her up?”

Harry pulled away enough to look down at Draco's face—unreadable, as always.

“Do you not want people to know about us?” Harry asked slowly. “Talk to me, Draco.”

The blonde propped himself up to sit across from Harry, sending the last of his things away with a flick of his wand. Harry helped him by removing the blonde's shirt, too. Nice to know the spell worked on clothes a person was wearing. Draco's shirt unbuttoned, slid down his arms and folded up, flying neatly into the dresser. Now shirtless and lightly blushing, Draco gave Harry a half-smile, half-scowl, like he couldn't make up his mind how he felt about it. In the end, he folded his arms across his chest. Harry met those storm cloud eyes with a certifiable smirk.

“I think we should keep quiet,” Draco said cautiously.

“Okay,” Harry replied evenly. “Tell me why. What's your reasoning?”

“Retaliation from the Death Eaters, fer one thing,” Draco's features schooled themselves into a gravely serious expression. “I wasn't much more than a whippin' boy ter them. Rookwood is a particular friend a' my father's, which would explain his comin' after me—most likely without orders. If the Department of Magical Law Enforcement goes through with this press junket of theirs, I'm goin' ter have a target painted on my arse tha'll glow in the bloody dark. Leaving my father's house while he's in prison is considered very dishonorable, ya see. Things would only be worse if they thought I left ter....” Draco loosed one hand to gesture furtively between them.

“To be with me,” Harry supplied.

“Yes. Ter be stuffed by Dumbledore's Chosen One.” Draco's language was absolutely priceless even at a time like this.

“So we'll stay a secret,” Harry agreed, taking Draco's hand in his before the blonde could retract it. “Do you want me to tell the Order or no? Because they accepted me as a member. I have to go to a meeting Wednesday night.”

“I'd rather yeh didn't tell 'em,” Draco spoke to their clasped hands, not looking up. Harry couldn't make out the emotion in his eyes and the man's pale face was a blank. “There could be a spy in the ranks. The smaller the chance a' this getting back ta the Dark Lord—an' my father—the better.”

“I guess I understand that,” Harry gave Draco's hand a comforting squeeze. “I'd like to tell... well, everyone! If it weren't for the danger to you, I'd tell everything at that stupid press conference. I want people to know. I don't like hiding this.” He tugged on Draco's hand, trying to get the blonde to look up with no success. Draco continued to examine their joined hands, biting his lip.

“And all yer friends who wouldn't approve?” Draco inquired thoughtfully.

“Fuck 'em,” Harry shrugged. “You should know I don't look for approval. Remember when I started the D.A.? I didn't need ruddy Umbridge's approval then and I don't need anyone's approval now. I've got a job to do an' I'll do it how I see fit. With whoever I see fit.”

“Jus'... fuck everyone, yer Harry Potter?” Draco exhaled fast and hard through his nose—it was almost a snort. Finally, he looked up at Harry through his fringe of platinum hair, grey eyes shining despite the darkness of the day. Harry's vision reduced down, encompassing only those brilliant eyes, that ghost of a smile on perfect pink lips.

“Well, I wouldn't fuck just anyone,” Harry shrugged playfully. “I do have standards. And they're pretty high; they've gotta be blonde, for starters,” Harry joked. “Fit. And smart—I really won't budge on that one. And you know... I think I like 'em a little haughty, too. Suppose I like the chase.”

“So yer down ta me an' Fleur Delacour, then,” Draco's smile lit up his face. “Unless Lovegood develops some airs over the summer, then I've got competition!”

Harry's eyes slid helplessly shut as he laughed. Draco's squirrely chuckle mingled in a moment later, making him laugh harder. Draco's laugh was just plain silly, childish and free. It made Harry's heart beat out of his chest.

Draco's lips were a surprise. One moment they were laughing together and the next Draco was on his knees before Harry, devouring his mouth with unrestrained passion. Harry tilted his head back to receive his boyfriend's tongue. Draco would throw a wobbly and possibly die a little if he knew that was how Harry thought of him but he really couldn't help it. It was just one of those things. When another man kissed you like this, made your heart flutter like this, made you dizzy with his presence like this... he was your boyfriend.

Harry rose up, meeting Draco on every level. He wanted to embrace that wildness, the way their lips, chests and thighs plied one another's with growing familiarity and rising desire. Every time he kissed Draco he realized he would always be excited by the man's lips, the subtle nuances that made up his flavor, his scent, the wetness of his mouth and strong firmness of his tongue. Harry sucked hard when that muscle invaded his mouth, eliciting a heavy groan that further parted Draco's lips and made both their hips buck. They just fit together. It was pleasure beyond words when Draco moaned. Harry wanted this man to pant his name, scream it, covered in sweat, begging for release. His excitement escalated and soon he was growling from the depths of his gut, forcing Draco backwards onto the bed.

“Wait!” the blonde panted, a hand to Harry's chest. The other was still firmly in Harry's grip and pressed to the smalls of his back, Harry's fingertips caressing his bare skin.

“Hmm,” Harry grunted, biting at Draco's jaw. He tasted crisp and clean everywhere. The urge to get him sweaty and dirty was maddening. Before he knew what he was doing, he was pressing harder, urging the man to bend backwards, to give in.

“No, no,” Draco mumbled distractedly. Harry was glad to be a distraction, biting his way down that succulent neck, inhaling the first beads of tension and desire budding along mind-altering skin.

 

 

“Stop.”

Harry Potter was single-minded in his quest to get Draco to come from kissing. He hadn't come in his pants since he was a boy of ten rutting against his mattress, thinking of the Falmouth Falcons opening line-up. Harry reduced him to that level of bone-searing lust. His arms shook as he pushed his raven-haired lover away with all his strength.

Harry sat back on his heels, giving Draco a confused and almost hurt look. Before he realized what he was doing, Draco reached out to smooth the wrinkles from the man's brow, caressing his lightning-shaped scar. His fingers trailed down to caress two days worth of stubble and then impossibly soft, pouty, wanting lips. Harry allowed the slow, gentle touch—and when Draco least expected, sucked his ring finger suddenly and powerfully into his mouth. Where, _where_ had this near-virgin learned to do that with his tongue? The slick pulling of lips and inner cheeks was perfect and nearly too much, the way Harry suckled and then released his finger, swirling his tongue only to suck the length back to the hilt.

“ _Putain, laisse toi_ ,” he muttered, approaching breaking point with disturbing speed. He'd had a good long toss in the shower this morning—he should be fine; and yet here he was, seconds away from pitching over into premature oblivion without so much as a hand to his bits. He pulled his finger away and gripped Harry's rough chin in his hand, angling that beautiful face up to his. Draco straightened his back and stretched up as far as he could on his knees, seeking to gain any advantage. He stared down at his waiting lover. Harry's green eyes were deep with desire, his red lips parted and waiting, breath hot on Draco's face and still smelling vaguely of morning coffee. Coffee that Harry had made, knowing Draco preferred it. Gods, that made him horny, too. Did he never cease to be turned on by this perfect fucking man? Even the little beige and caramel freckles below his eyes were sexy. You had to get so close to see them. They set off his eyes. And his skin—it practically glowed.

“You stop that,” Draco pronounced insistently, giving Harry's face the tiniest of shakes. “Lie on yer back. I wanna blow you.”

Harry settled back immediately, his head nestled in white pillows. Draco seized his powerful legs, throwing them over his shoulders and hoisting the man's backside off the bed to remove his trousers and boxers in a rapid sweep. He dropped Harry's weight back to the bed with a bounce that made his cock flop deliciously against his toned stomach. Draco yanked the material until it came free of Harry's feet and tossed it across the room, hopefully in the direction of the clothes hamper but it didn't rightly matter. They had a house elf, after all. He gazed down at Harry's body, letting his eyes rove the path his hands would soon take up, schooling his breathing.

His wand was on the bed by his knee. He had a split second to decide. He picked up the hawthorn instrument in what he hoped was a casual way and made to toss it from the bed. He only had time for a single non-verbal spell before it was out of his hands. That was the difficult decision. He could spell his jaw to stretch or temporarily charm away his gag reflex. Either would make it very difficult to speak; somehow, he didn't think there'd be much chit-chat once he got started. Harry had a filthy mouth, snake or otherwise, and Draco intended to listen with rapt attention. He did away with his gag reflex in the end, knowing Harry enjoyed the teeth and tension that came from a tight jaw.

He slid the man's shirt up just to revel in the musculature of his stomach and chest. He was perfect, the smattering of coarse black hair offsetting the gentle give of his skin, the hardness of his body beneath. He was a powerful mix of strength and stasis, power and timidity. One moment he was on top, ferocious and demanding, the next on his back, doe-eyed and innocent, his untouched cock ready and weeping. Draco wanted to lavish every inch of him with his mouth, tongue every crevice and kiss every hair, every freckle, every pore, every drop of sweat. One ran down the center of his chest and Draco had to bend his head, licking it away. He rolled that drop around his mouth, absorbing its essence, breathing Harry's scent through his nose, intensifying it in every way he knew how. He kissed a wet path, lower and lower, to what he considered his afternoon treat.

First he sucked just the head into his mouth, cleaning it of sticky precome. He sucked firmly but shallow, using his tongue to probe that dark pink slit, looking for more. Shaking, Harry obliged with another spurt. Draco sucked it up through his teeth. He used a hand to gently draw back the last of foreskin, working the now exposed head with the edges of his teeth. Harry shivered, arching into the pressure. His hands were clenched into fists at his hips, inching closer to Draco's face. He sucked harder still, rolling his head on his neck to move Harry's cock in slow circles around his mouth.

“Draco,” Harry managed between wracking breaths. His voice was so deep it was nearly unrecognizable—a predator's warning growl. Draco reveled in it, the way his spoken name vibrated in his chest and lingered in his ears. It was more of Harry, more to catalog, more to savor. “Please, can I touch you?”

Draco opened his eyes to meet Harry's, his lips not leaving his prize for an instant. He descended further down Harry's shaft before nodding, a small sound of acquiescence escaping his numbed throat. Harry gasped, a noise like sandpaper, throwing his head back as his hands flew to fist tight and snug in Draco's now disheveled hair. Draco watched that dark head fall once again to the pillows, throat deliciously exposed as his head thrashed from side to side in a tantalizing, desperate plea for more.

Draco knew Harry wouldn't last much longer if he got his way. The man was already stone hard and choking him even with the spell. Draco pulled back a few inches, catching his breath.

Harry, with a solid grip on his head, forced him down again. Draco's eyes watered when Harry thrust into his mouth, scraping the very back of his throat. He focused on breathing through his nose as Harry reared back only to slam forward again, harder than before. It was animal, carnal and merciless. Draco panted and held on tight, relaxing his jaw as much as he could as his mouth was pounded.

 _That's it, Harry_ , he though. _Fuck my face. I can take it this time. Your pleasure is my pleasure._

The more Harry gave, the more Draco realized he wanted, needed, _longed_ to receive. He found a way to close the back of his throat, squeezing and suckling the head of Harry's cock each time he was breached. Harry slid all the way out before slamming in to the hilt, fucking him raw. Harry seemed to like it when he coughed, when he struggled for composure, struggled for air. Draco didn't realize he'd been holding his breath, holding in the air filled with Harry's musk, the heady spice and tang of him, the tripping, pungent odor of magic on his skin. He held his breath, a breath filled with Harry, as long as he could before gasping, choking as Harry filled him over and over again, never letting up for a second. Draco waited until he was legitimately light headed and dizzy before drawing back, closing his teeth to barricade entry. Harry thrust against his lips, cock slapping his face.

He seized Harry roughly by the base, squeezing to prevent his orgasm while bringing sensation to a peak. Harry released a feral grunt, pulsing in Draco's grip. _Just a second, baby,_ Draco told him with an extra tight squeeze. He slipped a finger into his mouth, coating it liberally with saliva, knowing he couldn't manage a wandless and non-verbal Lubrication Charm under the best of conditions, let alone gasping for breath and about to come from the visual stimulation alone! He practically spit on his hand just to be sure.

To be fair, he lowered his mouth back to his very patient lover's aching cock. He worked the head with the flat of his tongue, letting the man know the best experience of his sexual existence was well on the way. Keeping his hand tight at the base of Harry's flushed cock, he trailed his damp hand down tightening balls, stroking with the back of his hand so as not to sacrifice any moisture. He stroked lower, down and then up Harry's perineum with the knuckle of his forefinger. The way Harry jumped and then screamed wildly, he knew the spot had never been touched before. He backed off, bobbing on Harry's cock in a regular rhythm until his strong, compact body began to relax. Harry actually sighed in pleasure, one hand leaving Draco's hair to trail a single finger down his long nose in a silly, affectionate expression of delight. Harry smiled like a little boy, his beautiful bright green eyes closing in abject, serviced bliss.

Draco nearly smiled around a mouthful of Chosen cock. This missish, tender moment was exactly the distraction he needed. Quickly, while Harry was happily unhinged, Draco brought his spit-slicked finger to Harry's entrance—circled once, twice and, feeling him relaxed, slipped a finger in.

Harry's Seeker body clamped down immediately at the intrusion; a wordless, Parseltongue hiss of surprise escaping his exquisite mouth. Before the sting of first entry could catch up with him, Draco swiveled his finger, searching frantically for that little knot of tissue that would make everything worthwhile. It was like finding the Snitch—it happened when it did no matter how hard you tried. He and Harry were just lucky together. He found it almost immediately. He curled his long finger and pressed, massaging the bundle of nerves as his mouth sucked for everything he was worth.

“ _Draco!_ ” Harry screamed in a hiss of mingled pain and pleasure. The sound caught in Draco's chest, daring the wetness in his eyes to become something more, to actually spill down his cheeks.

Draco loosened his hand at the base of Harry's cock. One good pump and the man was coming, spilling into Draco. He sucked as hard as he could but some still escaped his wanton mouth, dripping down his chin. He retracted his teeth as much as possible as Harry spasmed, clenching unbelievably tight around his finger—so tight he forced all but the tip of Draco's finger from his body.

Seeking one last scream, Draco pushed that finger right back in to be enveloped by hot, slick, pulsing muscle.

“FUUUUUCK!” Harry screamed at the top of his lungs. The man was probably seeing stars. Draco couldn't blame him.

“Yes,” he whispered around Harry's softening cock. Either he'd found a way to dissipate all the man's sexual energy in one fell swoop or he'd momentarily knocked the sex drive out of him. Still, it was nice to see he'd finally satisfied Wonder Boyfriend in a single go. He removed his finger as gently as possibly before sitting back. He ogled the man as he wiped come from his chin, idly licking it off the back of his hand.

“You... are,” Harry gasped, looking up at him with intensely green eyes, “so... _incredibly_ sexy.” He held his arm out for Draco to collapse into. It was an unspoken rule, now; they always laid together after someone came, preferably face to face so they could kiss until their brains decided to come back from holiday. Draco fell into Harry's waiting arms, turning on his side so their sweaty foreheads met. Harry's tongue shot out, licking the last of his mess from Draco's chin before kissing him, lips thick and sighs hopelessly sated.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry spent the better part of two hours explaining things to Draco as they sat in front of a good fire in the disused parlor. With the tapestry the way it was, Harry found he wanted to be in this room more and more. Initially, Draco cast the tree a few cautious glances and then ignored it all together when Harry produced a quality bottle of chilled Lambrusco he'd brought up from the cellar. The air was cool from the last two days' rain and the warmth from the fire was comforting as they sat in each other's arms, Harry speaking more than normal and Draco asking lots of questions.

Harry ended up telling Draco absolutely everything about Voldemort, the Horcruxes and the prophecy linking him and the Dark Lord together. He told Draco about Snape's involvement in his parents' deaths, how Dumbledore and Professor Trelawney were a part of it, the many memories Dumbledore had revealed to Harry and what his part would be in the final battle. Needless to say Draco was _not_ pleased at the thought of his boyfriend running full-pelt into unimaginable danger but there wasn't much he could do to stop Harry once he'd set his mule mind to something.

Now it was a few minutes to nine on Wednesday evening and Harry stood in their bedroom in an old trench raincoat he'd discovered amongst Sirius' things, holding the silver figurine of a rabbit McGonagall had configured as a portkey to bring him to his first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. He'd briefly asked Draco if he was interested in joining; at least as a member, he wouldn't be alone in the house for a few evening hours, waiting for Harry to return. And Harry would tell him everything that went on, anyway. Draco had rolled his eyes and then reached out to take Harry's stubble-covered cheeks in both hands, saying, “Why would I waste a few perfectly good hours listening to those people when I could be here, practicing the piano or getting lashed? It will be better to have you give me the highlights in your own words and we can analyze. Pillow-talk.”

Looking at Draco as he waited for the portkey to activate, he couldn't help the smile that came to his lips. Draco had stopped him shaving the last two days, insisting he heeded to see what he was dealing with. That afternoon, the blonde had finally dragged Harry into the bathroom and conjured a straight razor, shaving cream and bristled brush. Draco had given him a very sad, loving look with the blade in his hand.

“I could kill ya,” the blonde had warned, his eyes very far away.

“I know,” Harry replied steadily. “I trust you.”

“Really,” Draco insisted. “One slip a' the hand an' yer dead, Chosen One.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

And he'd offered his throat.

Now, in Sirius' raincoat and absently tossing the silver rabbit in the air—catching it with Seeker reflexes—he had the best shave of his life, complete with fashionably long, stylized sideburns for the first time in his life. He couldn't help smiling at Draco.

“It's almost time, na,” the blonde said absently, checking the battery-operated digital clock at their bedside table.

“I know,” Harry replied. Draco couldn't be touching the little portkey when it activated but there wasn't any guideline saying he couldn't touch Draco. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the agitated man's cheek. “I should be back in a few hours. McGonagall posted an extra guard. Just remember—any problems, shoot red sparks in front of a window and they'll come charging in, Gryffindor style. Yeah?”

Draco just nodded solemnly, wringing his bony hands in that heart wrenching manner of his. Harry took one pale hand in his, squeezing. He brought that hand to his lips, delivering a kiss that made Draco blush. That was so adorable he did it again and the color on the man's cheeks deepened. He placed a third kiss to the palm of his hand and a subsequent fourth and fifth to the fluttering pulse at his narrow wrist. By the sixth kiss, he was gone.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Landing with bone-jarring force, Harry barely managed to keep his balance. Upon opening his eyes, he knew exactly where he was: Viktor Krum's flat. There was quite a group assembled and Harry moved into the generous main room, un-belting his trench as he went. Viktor had set out an assortment of port wine, breads, nuts, cheeses and chocolates. Harry helped himself to a healthy glass and a square of dark chocolate as he watched the room fill. He was impressed with the number of unfamiliar faces. The Order's recruitment efforts were apparently going well.

Harry watched two familiar heads of red hair wend their way through the crowd in his direction.

“Harry!” called Fred Weasley amiably, extending a hand which Harry shook.

“It's been ages!” George asserted, offering his own hand for the same treatment.

“Gryffindor's Gout,” Harry snorted. “I suppose the Order'll take anybody these days!”

The twins' laughter rolled out in waves. Several people nearby smiled appreciatively, not having heard Harry's comment but thinking it appropriate to look pleased whenever The Chosen One opened his chosen fucking mouth. Harry thought he might be sick. Draco was right—these clueless people worshiped him. He'd have to set the record straight. He was just as good as everyone else, not meant to be put up on some kind of pedestal. If they wanted a savior they'd best look elsewhere. Harry was just another soldier in the fight. His eyes fell to Ron and Hermione, sitting together on a love seat at the other end of the room. Hermione was conversing with Ginny; none of them even acknowledged his presence. He'd figured as much. They could continue to be petty. Harry had a job to do whether they joined him or not.

George's voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Is it true, Harry? What Gin said about you and Malfoy hooking up?”

The twins certainly didn't beat around the bush. Harry turned his back to the crowd. “For fuck's sake, keep your voices down,” he muttered darkly. “We have to lay low. No one can find out or the Death Eaters will kill us both.”

“So it's true, then?” Fred whispered, incredulous. George blushed from the roots of his hair, the color quickly suffusing his face.

“How exactly does that... work? I mean, sexua—” Fred's elbow met George's gut, effectively silencing the remainder of a very awkward question.

“We're seventeen,” Harry shrugged. “Maybe you haven't noticed, but he's bloody good looking, yeah? We don't exactly sit around playing Exploding Snap.”

“So... he's at home, then?” Fred posed. “Not joining the Order?”

“We just started dating,” Harry rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his port. It had a hint of blackberries that only served to remind him more acutely of the handsome blonde he'd left back home. “What am I supposed to do, conversion by blow job?”

“Whoa!” Fred gasped.

“I like this new Harry!” George exclaimed, clapping the dark haired man on the back. “We should've gotten you two together ages ago!”

“Shut up!” Harry said congenially enough. He didn't need his friends interfering in his life, trying to get him laid, even if the efforts were well-meant. At least he was happy now. And being with Draco had been entirely his decision. He'd fought for it and won. “Your mum's coming over. Remember; not a fucking word.”

Fred and George nodded, busying themselves with the bread and cheese as their mother approached.

“Harry, dear!” she engulfed him in a hug. She smelled like Ginny, flowery, with the addition of pastries and sherry. “How have you been?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry shrugged when she released him.

“And... Draco?” she posed the question offhandedly enough. Harry got the impression that Mrs. Weasley had been the first person Ginny cried to and that the woman had probably heard the very worst of it. He decided to ignore that possibility for now and gave the most generic answer available. It was up to her to press the matter.

“He's doing fine,” Harry offered. “Excited to go back to school. Looking forward to being Head Boy—it's always been a big dream of his.”

“Oh, good for him!” Mrs. Weasley chortled good naturedly. Harry recognized the pitch of her voice as uncomfortable and steadfastly ignored it.

“Yeah. He's optimistic,” Harry agreed. “He's doing a lot better than I would be in his situation.”

“Harry, I'm sorry,” Mrs. Weasley did as Harry had done with Fred and George, angling her body away from the crowded room to converse more privately. “I must ask. I heard some rather disturbing things from Ginny and then Ron. Arthur and I are a little confused. Is it true, what we've heard?”

There it was—the honest question. Harry sighed and took a fortifying sip of his wine. Just to be sure, he put a hand in his trouser pocket, only needing contact with his wand to cast the Muffliato spell. Draco had been working with him enough that he could cast some basic spells without having to actually draw his wand. It was coming in handy.

“I'm not sure what you've heard, Mrs. Weasley, but Draco and I are together. I'm sorry things didn't work out with me and Ginny. I'm even more sorry she had to find out the way she did,” Harry purposefully left that statement open-ended. “Draco and I had only just realized our own feelings and were still sorting things out. I'm not ashamed, though—we're really happy and I wish we could tell people, but he's still a target for the Death Eaters and would be in even more danger if word got out. We have to stay quiet for now.” He looked around the room meaningfully, letting her know that it wasn't safe to clue in other members of the Order yet, the information was that sensitive. “I'd appreciate it if you could help us keep our relationship a secret.” That was also the most polite way of asking Mrs. Weasley to control her daughter's run-away mouth. Mrs. Weasley understood the gravity of the boys' situation and her face reflected her fear for Harry's safety if not Draco's per-say.

“Of course, dear,” she said warmly, placing a motherly hand on Harry's shoulder. “You know I think of you as one of my own. I'm glad you're happy. And there's no need to worry about Ginny—she's strong and stubborn. She'll bounce back before you know it. She always does.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley. That's really good to know.” He took a moment to compose his face before turning back to face the room. He spoke in a slightly louder voice, touching his pocket to release the privacy spell. “You should try the chocolate! I have no idea where Viktor got it but it's wonderful.” That got Mrs. Weasley moving to the refreshment table where Fred and George saw to amusing her until the meeting got underway. Harry found himself a plain chair toward the back of the room and sat stiffly, working on his wine and meeting the eyes of anyone who stared at him with a frank glare. Why people thought a seventeen year old kid would be able to fix an international problem the government couldn't was beyond him. Did they seriously think Harry Potter would stand up one meeting and declare he had a solution, run off and kill Voldemort so the rest of them could live happily ever after?

Okay, maybe living with Draco was making him the slightest bit cynical and bitter. He couldn't help it, though. He missed his little prat.

The first ninety minutes was of little import to Harry. He ended up refilling his wine glass and grabbing a few more chocolates to combat the sedative powers of the wine as well as the meeting. Logistics, introductions of new members—and McGonagall conveniently skipped over Harry, assuming everyone knew who The Chosen One was—reports on the status of their cause amongst various countries and groups of magical beings. Bill reported little success with the Gringotts goblins and Hagrid, Madame Maxime in tow, were off on another giant mission, Grawp acting as their enforcer. A french witch gave a rather upsetting account of rising Death Eater activity in the country, including several abductions and a kidnapping. A Greek wizard reported on a skirmish that had taken place in sight of muggles. Quick thinking Aurors had been able to pass it off as rival football clubs getting out of hand after an afternoon in the pubs.

The only part of the meeting which peaked Harry's attention was a message from their “unnamed spy” in the enemy camp, Severus Snape. With the influx of new members, McGonagall was keeping Snape's identity under wraps. The message said that the Dementors were completely out of Ministry control and that a mass break from Azkaban was imminent. Considered most dangerous was Lucius Malfoy, his home a Death Eater stronghold frequented by Voldemort and the man himself still holding significant funds and some remaining political leverage. Snape didn't say what that leverage was or McGonagall was censoring that part of his report as well. Snape warned that when Lucius Malfoy broke loose, he would be out for blood—most likely his son's first on that list. Voldemort himself couldn't be bothered with the young man's dissent and sudden transfer of loyalties. Voldemort was spending more and more time with his higher-ups, leading Snape to believe that a major attack was being orchestrated. He would make contact when he had more information.

Harry was called upon to speak about the situation with Draco and the Ministry. He explained in brief terms that the Ministry was pushing for a poster boy and, because he wouldn't take the job, Draco had been second choice. Tomorrow he would be put on display in a big press conference with all the magical media. The whole time he spoke people gaped. They waited, open mouthed, hoping that at any moment he'd have the great epiphany that would end the war. It made Harry so mad he could spit.

Someone had the nerve to ask him if Draco would be joining the Order soon. Harry had to swallow the angry hiss in his throat.

“The man was tortured within an inch of his life and sanity. You think he's going to be choosing sides and taking up arms again?” Harry waggled his eyebrows at the Belgian wizard whose name he didn't know and didn't bother to ask. “We're lucky he was in any shape to provide us with intelligence. Now give him some peace. It's the least he deserves.”

Whispers were silenced when Harry sat back down. McGonagall called the meeting to a close and was soon engulfed by people with questions, opinions and points not yet made. Harry did not envy her responsibilities one bit. He found Viktor and offered his and Draco's best before picking up one last chocolate and heading for the floo. He caught Hermione's attention and gave her the muggle signal for “call me.” She was due to floo him regarding the Horcruxes. If there really was one in him, he wanted it out as soon as possible.

When he stepped into the green flames, there were only two things on his mind: holding Draco and falling asleep in their big warm bed. The fact that he not only received a welcome home kiss but the bonus offer of a neck rub? Un-fucking-believable. He was the luckiest man alive.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

It had stopped raining in time for Draco's Department of Magical Law Enforcement press conference the following morning. The boys sat in the kitchen, quietly drinking coffee. Draco had made these wonderful little scones—at least Harry thought they were scones. They were dense like scones but sort of flat and round like sugar biscuits. And they tasted like sugar biscuits. Draco put a bit of jam on top of his, so Harry assumed it was a scone. Whatever they were, they were delicious.

Draco glanced up at the clock. He stood and adjusted his dark suit, making sure his tie was straight and his lapels free of crumbs or sugar granules. He met Harry's gaze with an unnecessarily wide smile.

“Anything in my teeth?” he asked, joking to hide his nervousness.

“Nothing in your teeth,” Harry confirmed, standing up and putting a comforting hand to the side of Draco's blonde head. He'd agonized over his hair for the better part of a half hour, twice asking Harry if he thought Draco should cut it. Only Harry's insistence that he liked it long had dissuaded the man. Running his hand back through silky blonde tresses, Harry was especially glad he'd spoken his opinion. “And you look perfect.”

Harry rested his forehead against Draco's, just breathing his scent and knowing the man was doing the same. He stroked calming circles along Draco's scalp, probably mussing his perfect hair. Draco didn't seem to mind.

“You're sure you don't want me to come?” Harry offered. “I'd understand if you changed your mind since last night.”

“No,” Draco patted Harry's elbow before letting his hand rest against Harry's shoulder blade, gently massaging the place where the Snitch knot still made guest appearances. “It's a good thing ya won't be there. I can't have ya lookin' at me with those goopy eyes while I'm trying ter speak. Everyone would know we're boning—yeh can keep a secret, Boy, but yer face can't lie worth a damn. We're droppin' 'nough of a bombshell without everyone thinkin' I'm yer gaggin' come dumpster. Or vice versa. So it's really much better this way. We'll keep 'us' quiet.”

Harry loved Draco's dirty mouth. Somehow when the man called him a gagging come dumpster it got him all hot n' bothered. Harry pulled him in for one last kiss before the blonde's Ministry escorts arrived at the front door to steal him away from his raven-haired lover. Harry performed the Disillusionment Charm on Draco himself, wanting to savor every last second of looking at his face, looking deeply into his stormy grey eyes.

Draco was a Malfoy, Harry told himself. He was trained for this sort of thing and would do brilliantly. That didn't stop him from sitting at the piano bench for the better part of three hours, biting his God damned fingernails to nubs.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco returned from his press conference confident and nonchalant. He didn't say a word about it; instead, he dragged Harry upstairs for an hour's worth of hot, sweaty, half-clothed rolling around in bed. He'd slapped Harry's hand away each time he reached for the blonde's straining erection, declaring it “wasn't about that.” After a while Harry gave up and just enjoyed kissing, touching, being in Draco's arms and Draco in his. He only found out about the press conference by reading about it in the next morning's paper. Draco made sugar scones again.

“'Malfoy and Potter have developed a relationship bordering on civil,'” Harry read from _The Daily Prophet_. “Whatever gave them that idea?” Harry joked. He moved a section of the paper aside to look at Draco across the table. The blonde's face was pensive, distant.

 

 

 _The cameras wouldn't stop flashing. He was going to have a migraine when he returned to Wonder Boyfriend's bed and that made him irrationally angry. He put on his best Malfoy smile and waited until the screaming died down. He'd finished his prepared statement ages ago but the questions just kept coming. Most of the time that Auror Shackelbolt would lean over and inform the reporter in an unmistakable tone of voice that the subject matter was still under Ministry review and therefore confidential. Draco had been vague enough about his time in the cellar of Malfoy Manor that he couldn't blame the reporters for their questions. His scars told the whole story. So he'd purposefully worn a muggle suit to hide the damage done to his person. All that was visible was the tiny white scar that blended into his hairline—and even that was covered by his hair. His hair that smelled like Harry. His suit smelled like Harry, too. He licked his lips, imagining he still tasted Harry there._

 _“But you and Potter hate each other!” one reporter shouted over all the others. Draco couldn't hide his laugh._

 _Shackelbolt signaled that the accusation was acceptable to address and the pushing, shoving crowd quieted down but did not stop their incessant seething, as though moving so many centimeters to the right or left might yield the perfect shot of a Malfoy in disgrace._

 _“True enough,” Draco conceded. “Our school rows are quite the stuff of legend, actually—truancy, several duels and severe cosmetic damage to a men's lavatory being the least of it,” he laughed and the cameras flashed to capture it. “But we're both adults now, able to put such things aside in favor of the larger picture. As fate would have it, we happen to get on rather famously these days. We have a lot in common.”_

 _“Such as?” A nosy reporter shouted. Draco smiled graciously._

 _“Well, it's not widely known that Potter possesses a particularly sharp wit—much as it pains me to admit I was in the wrong about him all these years!” That got him an appreciative chuckle from his audience. Draco continued to smile as more pictures were taken. “He keeps me in stitches. We share similar tastes in food and music, preferences for books and entertainment, though we always disagree over Quidditch. Neither of us are shy of a debate and he argues his point well; despite his being completely barmy and outright wrong, anyway. But I suppose our strongest commonality is sheer stubbornness, a certain refusal to lie down and die which I understand leaves The Dark Lord chuffed to bits.”_

 

 

“'One is left to wonder that Mr. Draco Malfoy can be so cheeky with Death Eaters, his former compatriots, banging at his door. Apparently it is that zest and zeal, that will to live, which helps him challenge the Dark Forces mounting against him. Harry Potter has indeed gained a friend and ally in his great fight.'” Harry finished reading the front page article and set the paper aside, facing Draco with a flippant smile that gave him dimples.

“Would you look at that, Draco,” he pointed out, pushing his luck. “They called us friends.”

“Shut it, Golden Boy,” Draco said over his coffee cup. “We're fuck-mates.”

“Serious fuck-mates,” Harry corrected.

“Sure,” Draco muttered, biting into a sugar scone loaded with currant jam. “If 'serious' makes yeh happy, then by all means. The head is certainly intense 'nough ta qualify the appellation. How 'bout some 'serious' fuckin' action in the bath, say ten minutes?”

Harry cocked a curious eyebrow. “Why wait?”

“I'd like ta finish my tea first, if yeh don't mind.”

Harry dragged him to the bath immediately, just to prove how “serious” they really were. Coffee and sugar scones could wait; his “zest and zeal” for Draco would not.

 

 

 

 


	21. Dating Draco Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Harry Potter is an utter sap, he decides that he's going to date Draco Malfoy. Draco doesn't know how to respond to these muggle advances. The following are two dates both taking place in the days leading up to the Delacour-Weasley wedding. I make no excuses for myself: an entire chapter of fluff, sap, pap, vague smut, and more fluff. On the plus side, some interesting information about Draco's past, familial and sexual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** relationship drivel, EmotionallyWithholding!Draco, Aggressive!Harry, Dominant!Harry, mild R.A.C.K., D/s, sexual content, fellatio, hand job, Bottom!Draco, mild breath play, Parselsmut  
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This chapter is needlessly, senselessly long because sometimes we need the drivel, the sentiment, the goopy bullshit that doesn't improve anything but our perception of the world around us. Take it as a trip down Billy Faulkner Lane—with a grain of salt and a pint of bourbon, everything arrives as it should be.

 

 

 

After an entire sunny August day trapped indoors, Harry had had just about enough. He and Draco practiced magic all morning. They spent the afternoon searching both library rooms for anything that might be even remotely useful in Harry's quest to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes. Draco played piano into the evening while Harry read, sprawled out on the sofa. He glanced out the window and noticed the sun was nearly set. His stomach gave a loud rumble. He hadn't eaten since tea.

Draco's fingers paused on the keys and he looked up at Harry.

“Hungry?” the blonde inquired. “Should I start supper?”

Harry dropped his boring old book on the coffee table and stood up, stretching his limbs. He was going stir crazy.

“Draco, do you like Thai?”

“Beg yer pardon?”

“Oriental food,” Harry clarified. “Spicy. Have you tried it?”

“No, have you?”

“Once,” Harry shrugged. “The Dursleys went out to eat and I had the leftovers. It was excellent. I always imagined that, if I ever got out of there and dated someone, I'd take them to a Thai restaurant.” He didn't mention that in his little boyhood fantasies, he'd always pictured himself seeing a woman. It really wasn't the time to bring that sort of thing up, anyway. Hadn't he decided he didn't care Draco wasn't a girl? Did gender even matter at this point? It was Draco. And he fancied Draco, was dating Draco.

“Harry, are you asking me out?” the blonde snorted, smiling in a soft, amused way with his head tilted to one side and his downy platinum hair hanging slightly in his face. Harry couldn't resist walking over to the piano bench and running a calloused hand through those blonde tresses. Draco allowed this, looking passively up at Harry.

“I'm begging,” the dark haired man replied, planting a chaste kiss on Draco's forehead. “Please, Draco. Sneak out with me? Let me buy you dinner. It's only a date if you want it to be.”

 

 

After ducking out under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry led Draco due south to Soho. The weather was warm but lovely and so they decided to walk. Surprisingly, Draco didn't complain that he'd already seen that part of London. He seemed just as pleased as Harry to be out of the house—which was very pleased, indeed! Once they passed George Street, Harry kept an eye out for a nice looking Thai restaurant. There were probably dozens if not a hundred of them around London, but Harry wanted to take Draco to a part of the city where they wouldn't be looked at funny. Two blokes on a date was normal in Soho. Happy same-sex couples streamed past them, several giving Draco the once over.

Harry couldn't get enough of Draco, either. The man had disguised himself with a bit of magic, darkening his hair to a mousy brown and conjuring a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses that reminded Harry of Percy Weasley—except Draco's were square instead of horn rimmed. And Draco's stirred something in his groin while the thought of that git Percy gave him decidedly un-sexy shivers. Draco had gone so far as to darken his eyebrows, too, and the light dusting of hair on his arms. He wore denims and the white cotton shirt he'd loaned to Harry when they had gone dancing. It felt like years ago but was only about a week. He and Draco had been together less than a week. Harry couldn't believe it. He felt so close to Draco now. They understood each other more than he was ready to admit.

Eventually Harry picked a busy-looking restaurant and they waited outside for a table. He offered to buy Draco a pack of cigarettes while they waited but the newly made brunet just shrugged, one hand in his pocket and watching the muggles go by. Harry got nervous; he'd never been on an actual date, he realized suddenly. Did he get Draco's chair for him? Was Harry supposed to order for him or was that just with girls? When they'd gone for gelati Draco had allowed Harry to get the door for him, so maybe that meant holding doors and chairs was acceptable. He watched the other couples for clues. They were mostly older, in their thirties or forties, chatting and holding hands. For a few minutes, Harry watched a pair of blonde women at a table near the open window. He could hear them speaking French as they held hands across the table. They both wore silver wedding rings with little diamonds set in the bands. A very new part of Harry hoped that could be him and Draco some day. He could learn French and finally understand all those presumably dirty things Draco said in bed. And they would have quiet dinners together, holding hands and talking about nothing of consequence. _Destroy Voldemort_ , the voice at the back of his head reminded him. _Kill the bastard and this will be your reward._

The hostess called Harry's name. He decided to get the door for Draco, earning himself an odd, unreadable sideways glance. When he got the man's chair, he was treated to a pair of stormy eyes boring into him over thick-rimmed glasses. Draco didn't actually say anything but he didn't need to. His eyes said it all. _What are you up to, Wonder Boy? What do you want? Trying to butter me up for something unusually freaky in the sack? It's going to take more than getting my fucking chair for me, you bloody pervert._

Maybe Harry knew Draco a little too well: he smirked back, enjoying the man's smoldering gaze until their waitress arrived. The question of who orders for who was solved then their waitress described the evening's special as an entree intended for two. The meal passed quickly, sampling noodles and rices of increasing increments of spice. Draco's tolerance for heat was much higher than Harry's—he ate the spiciest of the beef and nibbled on these peppers that Harry wouldn't touch.

Afterwords, the brunet finally confessed that his lips were on fire. Harry laughed, saying he'd remember not to kiss Draco for an hour or two and all would be well. Draco shot him a dirty look for that but it was worth it. He liked Draco's dirty looks; after all, they were harmless. Harry ordered some chai tea for the both of them—with a bit of sweetened coconut milk, no sugar.

“But you like sugar in your tea,” Draco pointed out.

“And you don't,” Harry said back, smiling. “Tonight is about you, love.”

Draco blushed and wouldn't meet Harry's eyes even after the tea arrived. Draco sipped from the large yellow mug, smiling behind the rim and doing something under the table. Harry could only describe it as playing footsie... but Malfoys would never play footsie. Maybe Dracos did. The tip of Draco's shoe traced gently up and down the back of Harry's calf, lifting his trouser leg and ruffling the dark hair beneath. It brought a blush and a smile to Harry's face as he drank his tea. It was fine without sugar.

 

\- - -

 

When out on the street once more, Draco turned northward with a sigh.

“Back to prison, I suppose?”

“Oh, to hell with it!” Harry threw an arm around Draco's shoulders, turning his svelte frame until they were face to face. “We're already out. Do you wanna go for a walk or something? Catch a movie?”

“Catch a wha'?” Draco's magically darkened eyebrow quirked, their faces not far apart.

“A movie,” Harry repeated slowly. “Don't tell me you've never seen a film?”

Draco shook his head, nonplussed, as though admitting he'd never seen an Erumpent, either, and never particularly cared to.

“Well, you've seen television, right?” When Draco nodded, Harry continued. “Well, a movie is like a television program except longer—usually two hours or so—and the screen is much bigger. They have lots of music in them. Some sex, too.” Harry knew exactly how to entice the man.

“Alright,” he shrugged, nearly dislodging Harry's arm from his shoulder. “Is there one nearby?”

“I'm sure there is,” Harry offered, steering Draco toward Covent Garden. “Why don't we just walk, see what we find?”

Harry kept his arm tightly around Draco as they set out. He wasn't sure how he expected Draco to respond to his advances. Did he honestly think Draco fucking Malfoy, ex-Slytherin Ice Prince, would put an arm around his waist, cuddle up and kiss him on a muggle street like a lovesick girl of twelve? No. Did he want Draco to? More than anything.

Draco seemed on edge, his eyes scanning the street. Harry realized the brunet's hand was in his right pocket, ready to draw his wand at a moment's notice. He probably had a point, too.

Eventually Harry spotted an art house that was running old movies from the 1970's. Several of them were in French. He led Draco up to the illuminated posters, telling the man to pick whatever he liked.

“Are these any good?” Draco asked, stepping out from Harry's arm to examine the posters closely. His glasses slid down his nose a bit. Harry struggled not to invade the man's personal space and push the spectacles back up again.

“They're all older. I'm guessing they're pretty famous,” Harry offered. “I haven't seen a ton of muggle films, so I can't say for sure. Did you want to see one of the French ones?”

“You don't speak French.” Draco stood, fixing his glasses with a prim hand to the side of the frames. Harry pushed his own glasses up his nose, though without such grace.

“I'm sure they'll have subtitles. That's an English translation at the bottom of the screen whenever the actors are speaking,” Harry explained.

“Hmm,” Draco hummed, looking over the movie adverts again and chewing his plump bottom lip quite thoughtfully. “How about this one?” Of all things, Draco pointed to what appeared to be a mobster movie, called “Mean Streets.”

“Sounds good,” Harry agreed, prepared to give Draco whatever he wanted. It was good to see him happy. “There's a showing in five minutes. Let's get tickets.”

 

 

The theatre was unlike any Harry had been in in Surrey. He'd only gotten to go twice, once when Dudley was invited to a birthday party and the other when his corpulent cousin couldn't wait to see a film about some boxer he'd idolized at the time. Both instances Harry had been deemed too young or too dangerous to be left at home alone and so was dragged along. Dudley had been treated to a heaping bag of popcorn, an overlarge box of candy and a syrupy soda as large as his head. Harry sat squashed between his cousin and Uncle Vernon. He'd only enjoyed his times at the movies because it was a whole two hours in which he was not insulted, screamed at, threatened or beaten with a belt. He couldn't even remember what movies he'd seen; his only memory was being in that dark room, like his cupboard, where no one was going to hurt him. Now he'd be in that dark room with Draco beside him.

The brunet excused himself to visit the W.C. before the film, leaving Harry in the lobby to look around—to gape, really. The theatre had a bar along with the regular options of popcorn, candies and sugary sodas. They had an elaborate chocolates counter next to the bar. The whole place was done in darkly stained woods and deep, rich fabrics like an old fashioned smoking lounge instead of a movie theatre—no wonder the tickets had been bloody outrageous! He watched patrons stroll back to the viewing rooms, cocktails in hand.

He went over to the chocolate counter, thinking to get something for Draco. A few fruit and liquor flavored truffles sounded just right. He placed his order and reached for his wallet.

“Trying to impress?” asked the woman behind the counter while counting out the chocolates into a box. Like Heather Lightley, she had piercings up and down both ears with the addition of a swirly flower tattoo on the side of her neck.

“Er, yeah,” Harry scratched the back of his neck as he felt a blush coming on. “First date.”

She gave him a knowing smile. “You might try some champagne, then. Nothing says romantic first date like champagne and a dark theatre. Might do your nerves some good, too!”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded as the girl handed him the fancy truffles in a little box lined with tissue paper. “Kind of fitting, actually. We got together over champagne and half a bottle of tequila.”

She laughed, reaching under the bar for champagne flutes. Harry took a seat. “Known each other long?”

“Six years. We went to school together—boarding school in Scotland, very posh. I never really fit in,” Harry babbled, keeping an eye on the alcove that lead to the washrooms. It was only a minute or two until the film started. He watched a beautiful woman come out of the alcove and head for the bar, smiling at someone. With her long limbs and athletic grace, she reminded Harry of his old Quidditch team mate, Angelina Johnson.

“Is that her?” the girl inquired from behind the bar, filling two glasses to the brim.

Harry shook his head “no,” drumming impatient fingers on the bar.

A second later, Draco emerged; a hand in his pocket, standing regal as any proud, privileged Malfoy ought. Even with his hair darkened and glasses covering his magnificent eyes, he was still Draco Malfoy. Harry had to shut his gaping mouth before the drool spilled out. “Him.”

“I'm switching to tequila,” the gal behind the bar muttered, taking the fifty pound note Harry handed across the bar and preparing his change. “He is fucking gorgeous,” she added appreciatively. Harry nodded his sincere agreement. He picked up his glass and sipped the sour, bubbly wine just to have something to do with his mouth. The urge to meet Draco half-way, scoop him up and kiss him senseless was making Harry a little mad. It only got worse as the man drew nearer.

“What's this?” Draco asked with a drawl, standing beside Harry's stool with an odd smirk on his face. “Chocolates? Champagne? Potter, are you trying to get me in bed?”

Harry took another drag on his champagne and didn't say a word. Draco always had to belittle every affectionate gesture. Each time he went out on a limb, the man had a snarky comment or irreverent remark. He couldn't acknowledge kindness, attraction, or any other positive, binding emotion. Harry resolved—not for the first time—that he would break Draco fucking Malfoy if it killed him.

“Well!” Draco prattled, ignoring Harry's silence. “I can certainly see why you and the ginger chit didn't make it. Such ovations,” he gestured to the wine and box of bloody expensive truffles, “would have been entirely wasted. Who knew Harry Potter was such a romantic sap?”

Harry set down his champagne flute. He'd drained the glass without realizing. He signaled the woman behind the bar for another round. She met his gaze with the slightest wince. Draco was being Malfoy The Ponce of Slytherin. He was very good it it—it was irritating how easily the man slipped back into that role. It bothered Harry even more than before because he understood how much of an act it was.

“I'm not dating Ginny, am I, darling?” Harry said evenly, watching the sparkling wine swirl in his glass. The woman behind the bar waved off his offer to pay for the additional round. He couldn't bear to send her a smile, his attention focused on speaking to Draco. He couldn't manage to look at the man, but his entire being was concentrated on that lithe body beside his own. Harry felt his own magic crackling in his hair, creeping along his skin, mixing with the sound of his voice. He half expected to hear the hiss of Parseltongue when he spoke. “I'm here with you. I'm _with_ you. And if you like it that way you'll not open your perfect mouth again unless it's to kiss me. Passionately. Do I make myself clear?”

 

 

Draco's mouth worked soundlessly, open and closed, open and closed again, but he had sense enough not to argue with a risingly unstable Harry Potter. The dark haired man commanded his gaze, eyes blazing an eerier green than any floo. Draco swallowed as Harry's hand came up to wrap around his throat. There was no pressure, only implied threat.

Harry leaned forward to kiss him, wine-flavored lips meeting his in a cool, damp, almost gentle press that sent shivers and thrills down his spine. Harry's lips were weighty and chilled against his own, yielding, tender and still insistent, emphatic, forceful. He had no choice but to return the kiss in kind. Harry's hand sent sparks dancing up and down his skin. He found himself holding his breath as Harry's lips plied his own into rapid submission, tongue entering his mouth to spread the mingled treats of champagne and Harry. Both tasted familiar. He held both in his lungs, savoring the heat of Harry's hand, the texture of his mouth, the tingling dread of magic he felt in his gut, lingering in the soles of his feet and the tips of his fingers. He decided it would be best not to bait Wonder Boyfriend anymore. He was already painfully hard in a public place thanks to some Chosen magic and Chosen tongue. He closed the distance between them, looking for a little more Chosen contact to conceal his deplorable condition.

Harry's strong, rough hand tightened slightly at his throat, forcing him back. Green eyes opened to meet his, possessing undeniable and complete control.

“Now what do you say, dearest?” Harry murmured, lips adorably thickened.

“I'm... sorry fer,” Draco stuttered dumbly. Speaking frankly while unbearably, thought-destroying-ly hard was not his forte. Neither was admitting he was in the wrong, yet he'd been doing an awful lot of both lately. He fought for composure. Composure eluded him. “Fer being an arse. I'm always such an asshole to ya,” he swallowed, blushing. “An' I'm sorry. Thanks fer... everythin', Wonder Boy. Yer really perfect. Weasel chit didn't deserve ya. Neither do I.”

“Shh,” Harry soothed with a noise and then with his lips. He kissed chastely, caressing Draco's neck with calloused fingertips. “I don't get off to fighting with you. But I hate that two fucking minutes apart turns you back into Malfoy—turns you back into the enemy. I can't have you doubting this. Can you work on that? For me?”

Unable to summon words past the lump in his throat, Draco nodded.

“Okay,” Harry smiled, his nose brushing Draco's in a silly, childish gesture. Draco stoutly refused to admit that he liked it. Harry did it in his sleep, too, hissing Parseltongue and grinding, heady and indecent against Draco's thigh. “I'm sure the movie's already started. Shall we go?”

Harry jumped from his bar stool without a thought and actually offered his arm, glass of champagne in one hand and the open box of chocolates in the other, that Perfect Potter grin on his angelic, loveable face. Draco picked up his untouched glass and took Harry's arm like a sodding girl.

“Yes,” he whispered. The muggle woman behind the bar stared avidly, undisguisedly at his crotch. Between him and Harry, the bitch practically drooled. “Let's.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“I still say photographs aren't as much fun if they don't move!” Draco insisted. They'd been snogging in the photo booth at the movie theatre when Harry put a pound in the machine. The flash of the first picture had caught Draco off guard. After rapidly fixing his hair and smiling for the next shot, Harry mussed his mousy hair again and dragged him back for more lazy kissing. Now they each had a string of pictures—physical evidence that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy snogged... well and proficiently, the photos professed despite the fact that they didn't move. _If_ they moved, they might as well be pornography: he'd nearly gotten a hand down Draco's tight denims right there in the booth! He was enjoying his evening, enjoying Draco—in no rush to get home, collapse in bed and suck and fuck each other's bloody brains out. It would happen as sure as the sun would rise. For now, he just basked in strolling half-hard through Green Park with his handsome boyfriend. They'd walked around for nearly an hour, stumbling across an ice cream shop still open despite the hour. Harry had insisted; ice cream, champagne and tequila becoming just a few of their shared little secrets.

Draco brandished his empty plastic spoon as he spoke. Harry laughed. Draco had a bit of ice cream at the side of his mouth. The chocolate matched his hair. Harry leaned forward suddenly, kissing and then licking it away. Draco's voice fairly hummed in his chest.

“Don't muggles have decency laws?”

“'Course,” Harry shrugged. He'd already finished his ice cream; so, hands free, he worked one into Draco's back pocket and squeezed. “So?”

“So yeh'd betta stop tha',” Draco yanked on Harry's forearm, drawing the misbehaving hand away from his rear. “Otherwise I'm gonna fuck ya right 'ere in this dirty muggle park.” To illustrate his lewd point, Draco drew Harry's hand over the bulge in his denims. Harry had to step back to stop himself from jumping Draco then and there, his breath sounding embarrassingly like a gasp as it got stuck in his chest. He strove for a deep, solid breath.

“Okay, point taken.” He stretched his hand between them, taking the spoon and empty dish from Draco. “Let me have this. There's a rubbish bin right over there.”

He took twelve or so paces at a jog before tossing the plastic into the receptacle. He was impressed when it actually went in. He'd been lazy, not wanting to walk the rest of the way over. The stiffness in his jeans made anything more than a brisk walk unpleasant.

“Good shot,” Draco observed, approaching Harry from behind. “Maybe yeh should've been a Chaser.”

“Who says I'm not?” Harry asked. He threw his head up to look at the night sky. The blinking lights of airplanes twinkled back at him instead of stars but it was still a nice sight. “I'm always chasing after you.”

“But I'm no Keeper,” Draco said quietly, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist from behind. This was his first voluntary demonstration of affection all night and it hit Harry like a double edged sword. The man was implying so many things—that he didn't like being left behind, out of the action, exactly what Harry had planned for him. That he wasn't a reliable defender, someone Harry could count on. That he wasn't worth having in a relationship. And, of course, wizard slang for his not bottoming for anal sex. All things Harry didn't want to hear, didn't want to think about. He both loved and hated Draco's ability to say so much with so few words. He loved that intelligence, that spark: he hated how the man pushed him to really think in more than one direction. His chin fell to his chest.

“I don't really want to talk about it, Draco,” he said lamely. He was only being childish by avoiding the issue—all of them—but he couldn't help it. They were on their first real date. He just wanted to be normal for a tiny bit longer... before life came crashing down around them.

“Okay, Wonder Boy,” Draco nodded against the back of his neck, squeezing Harry tightly to him. He'd never in a millions years have expected this of Draco; the automatic, gracious understanding or the blatant cuddling, but both were a welcome relief. He leaned into the lissome frame nestled at his back, savoring the smell of him, the intimate curvature of his body.

“You never said what you thought of the film,” Harry offered.

“Aside from all the muggle stuff ya had ta explain ter me?” Draco shrugged. Harry felt it, shrugging with him to reiterate that it was no big deal. He'd actually enjoyed Draco whispering in his ear every few minutes, that seeking of nearness in the dark. Draco had at one point put a hand to the inside of his thigh. It got his pulse racing, just thinking about it. “It was interesting. It... reminded me a' my father. Especially after the Dark Lord came back. The lot of 'em aren't like tha'. But father is. Was. I don't know.”

Harry shook his head, nuzzling against Draco in the process. Lucius Malfoy was little more than a gangster, intimidating people with his money and political power. “It's only a matter of time before he breaks out,” Harry sighed. “You know that, right? Snape said as much. The Dementors are all with Him now. And most of the Ministry's got their heads up their asses, refusing to acknowledge the problem. You're prepared for it?”

“Yes,” Draco didn't move except to hold Harry closer in his arms. It wasn't a cold night; quite the opposite, but it still felt good to be that close together, as though it would make the truth easier to swallow. “There was... talk, back when I was at the Manor. Father is influential. Mother was doing her best but she just isn't him. She couldn't handle them like father could. He has always had a certain way about him, a discretion that is appreciated and much rewarded.”

“Draco, what are you saying?” Harry asked, twisting his torso to look back at his boyfriend. Even darkened, his hair still shimmered in the light from a nearby street light. Harry stretched an arm around to cup Draco's face but the man wouldn't meet his eyes.

“Oi! You there!” called an unfamiliar voice. Harry started. He looked to the sound to see a uniformed police constable striding purposefully toward them, a hand resting less than casually on his truncheon as he puffed. The officer was in his fifties and out of shape, the face under his cap as round and soft as the body beneath his straining uniform. Still, he was a good head taller than Harry or Draco.

Draco let his arms drop to his sides as Harry stepped slightly in front of him, a hand ghosting over the wand in his front pocket. He could probably stun the muggle if he concentrated. He truly hoped it wouldn't come to that. The last thing he wanted was trouble... but the set of the constable's shoulders suggested otherwise.

“Let me handle this, m'kay?” Harry whispered. Thin, cool fingers to the small of his back was the only response he received, Draco's face shutting down to register only a practiced Malfoy mask.

“Exac'ly wha' are yeh lot doin' out 'ere in the middle o' the night?” the man asked bruskly, red-faced from his exertion. The man's expression showed he thought the two of them were fags and hoodlums beyond a doubt. He'd probably seen them talking, kissing. The man's beady eyes reminded Harry of his Uncle Vernon. Those eyes flashed repeatedly to the tattoo on Draco's pale arm, probably wracking his brain, comparing it to every gang marking he saw on his beat.

“I'm sorry,” Harry said slowly. “We weren't aware the park was closed.”

“Park ain't closed,” the man growled. “But this 'ere ain't Hampstead Heath, yeh know.”

At any other time, such an old-fashioned West Country dialect would have reminded him of Hagrid; now, it only served as a reminder that they were not safe. They were in foreign, muggle territory.

“We weren't doing anything wrong, sir,” Harry offered in his most amiable, Uncle-Vernon-pacifying voice. His free hand automatically went out to shield Draco, inviting the temporarily dark haired man to step further behind him, to use him as a shield.

“Lemme see yer identification, then,” the constable demanded gruffly. The embroidery on his left breast proclaimed his surname as Burton but Harry didn't want to think of the man as having a name, an identity beyond “muggle.” The flabby man held out a hand and stared Harry down, a muscle in his jaw flexing. Harry slowly went for his wallet, pulling out the required bit of laminated plastic and handing it over.

“Eighteen, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“From Surrey? Yer a long ways from home, boy,” the constable observed. Harry stayed silent, now realizing what this was about. He'd read in the newspaper in his week at the Dursley's. The age restriction on consent to homosexual acts had just been lowered to be in line with that for heterosexuals. It had been all over the papers and the tele, so was sure to be fresh in people's minds.

The constable handed back Harry's muggle identification only to shoot Draco a pointed look that lingered on his left arm. Draco twitched, shuffling a little further behind Harry and obscuring his arm. Draco had a tattoo; the law said you had to be eighteen to get one regardless of parental permission. But he could have easily gone to the Netherlands or somewhere else where the laws were more lenient. The Mark alone could testify to his age, as it had at The Gladstone Arms; somehow, Harry didn't think Constable Burton was buying it.

“Where's yers?”

Harry looked over his shoulder to see the confusion behind Draco's spectacles. With Seeker quickness, he snaked an arm around the man's thin waist, drawing him close.

“Did you leave your wallet at home, sweetheart?” Harry joked, thinking on his feet. “Good thing I always pay.”

“Must've left it in my trousers after the conference yesterday,” Draco shrugged, cottoning on. He gave the officer a helpless smile.

“Oh, off with you!” Burton scoffed, waving the hand that wasn't atop his weapon's handle.

Harry made to usher Draco away, tightening the hand on his hip, preparing to drag his boyfriend away.

Angry, the constable dropped a hand on Harry's shoulder, yanking the small man around with a good bit of force.

Harry stepped immediately and instinctively in front of Draco—stilling a cool, twitching hand before it could draw that concealed hawthorn instrument. If the officer thought either of them were drawing a weapon, things would get ugly very fast. Harry kept his face emotionless.

“Separate die-rections, kid. Yer both goin' home, yeh hear me?” The constable spoke in a warning tone.

Harry was fuming but couldn't let it show. Draco made a small, high-register sound at the back of his throat. It wasn't quite a nervous whine but it was too damn close to anxious for Harry's liking.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, squaring his shoulders. “C'mon, honey. Let's go.”

Constable Burton stared right at Harry, taking him in fully. Harry was a little bigger than Draco; more broad up top, probably stronger and posed more of a physical threat. Draco wasn't exactly a nancy, either, come to think of it. They were both fast and brutal as proven more than a few times on the Quidditch pitch. Burton's doughy hand clenched around his weapon. The muggle wouldn't stand a chance against two trained wizards—one of them a fully trained Dark Wizard who held no qualms when it came to using magic in front of or directly on or against muggles. Harry prayed this wouldn't come to violence. A very miniscule and twisted, disingenuous part of him wanted to see Draco in action, wanted to see his lover wield the Dark Arts and demonstrate his prowess, his power. It would be unbelievably sexy. Harry ignored that sick instinct and focused on deflating the situation. He started by unclenching his fists.

“I said separate directions, boy.” Burton slid his truncheon a few inches from its holster, the menace that laced his voice superfluous by comparison.

“Wha' purpose would tha' serve?” Draco snapped suddenly.

“Yeah! We live together!” Harry added. “Not like it's any of your business.”

“Yer jus' children!” the officer bellowed, thoughtlessly moving forward to separate them.

Harry threw both arms out, bodily pushing Draco back a few paces. Burton advanced on them, hand on his half-drawn weapon. The boys weren't posing any immediate threat. The man was just angry and on edge because of what he thought they were.

“I'm an orphan! And he's been disowned!” Harry yelled in the man's face, completely losing his control. “What would you have us do? Get married?! Fucking let us!” He was leaning forward now, on the balls of his feet. He felt his face heating with his temper but couldn't help it. Draco's thin, cool hand held him tightly by the wrist, preventing him from rocketing forward at this idiot mountain of a muggle.

Burton backed down, dropping his truncheon back to his hip and holding up his empty hand to show Harry and Draco he meant no harm. Draco pulled insistently at Harry's arm: he felt the uncontrolled magic crackling, radiating off his boyfriend and it was frightening. There was an unexpected tinge of Dark Magic to Harry's anger and it made the Dark Mark awaken most unpleasantly. Draco's skin crawled like he was covered in spiders, the Mark prickling painfully.

“Baby, can we get a taxi?” Draco asked plaintively, trying to bring Harry back down to Earth. He couldn't help the uneasy note that snuck into his voice, try as he might. “I really don't feel like walking anymore.” Harry looked over his shoulder then. At the sight of Draco, pale and panicked, his rage reduced to a hot simmer laced with heavy pangs of worry and guilt.

“Of course, love. Let's get out of here,” Harry turned his back on Burton, pulling Draco to him, a protective hand rubbing up and down the brunet's back as he led his boyfriend toward the nearest street. “Good night, constable,” he blandly called over his shoulder.

They walked to the corner in silence. Harry stopped their progress so they could wait for a taxi to drive by. Headlights were few in this darkened part of the city.

“Is it really tha' bad fer muggles ta be queer?” Draco asked quietly, still allowing Harry's hand to trace slow circles over his shoulders and back. The night seemed a bit colder now and he was silently glad for the warmth of Harry's body tucked close to his own.

“Sometimes,” Harry answered quietly, considering. “London's not as bad as some places. I think it's worse in the country, more teasing and that sort of thing. My cousin Dudley and his gang used to call me a poofter all the time. My Uncle Vernon, too. I never really thought about it, though.”

“So why did tha' muggle policeman wanta see yer identification?”

“Age of consent,” Harry explained. “Muggles have a law that you have to be a certain age to agree to sex. It's sixteen. It used to be twenty one for gay blokes but they just changed the law this year. Now it's the same for everyone, which I think is fair. Don't wizards have laws about how old a person has to be?”

“Jus' tha' yeh have ter be at least twelve ta marry,” Draco shrugged, inching his torso closer to Harry's. “The laws are all so old in tha' area. No one really pays attention ta tha' sort a' thing, anyway. Sex certainly isn't regulated—except fer public decency restrictions, o' course. An' even those are mostly aimed at keepin' us a secret from the muggles.”

“So anyone can bugger anyone, then? There aren't different rules for gay witches and wizards?

“Gods, no! Everyone's the same. Well, unless yer considered a part-human—a werewolf or a Veela or somethin'. Then there are regulations.”

Harry finally spotted a taxi and signaled, his arm high in the air to attract the driver's attention in the dark.

“Can we talk more about this when we get home?” Harry asked as the cab slowed, pulling up to the curb.

“'Course, love,” Draco said softly, unthinking, as Harry got the door for him.

They rode home in quiet, holding tight to their secrets.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry ran a hand over the top of his head, trying for the millionth time to coax his hair into lying flat. It just wasn't cooperating tonight. He let out a long puff of a sigh. At least everything else about his appearance was perfect. He wanted to be perfect for Draco.

He'd used a pay phone to make Friday night reservations at a very expensive French restaurant in Mayfair. He'd never been to a restaurant with a dress code—jackets required—but it seemed like the sort of thing that would please Draco, putting him in his element. Harry reserved a private room and asked the host to have a bottle of their best champagne chilled and waiting. After making the reservation, he'd wandered London in search of what Draco would consider a decent suit. He tried to remember everything Draco had told him about how to dress himself. He shouldn't wear black because it blended with his hair, making him look monochromatic and washed out. Navy was better. His new dress robes were navy. They'd arrived by owl post that morning. Draco had been most satisfied with the fit of the shoulder, saying a garment wasn't suitable if it didn't sit correctly at the shoulder.

With Draco's muttered musings in mind, Harry found himself a wildly expensive shop named after an Italian man, Ermenegildo Zegna, and a handsome suit with a devastating price tag—about two thousand pounds, when one included the belt and couple of shirts he'd bought to match. The salesman at the shop had been extremely helpful when Harry explained he needed something to impress a very fashion-forward date. Whistling low when Harry named the restaurant, the man asked if he meant to propose. Harry shrugged it off, saying the relationship was too young to tell. But the man's comment brought back a memory of the Black family tree, which made Harry smile. He'd carefully neglected to tell the salesman that his intended was another man, not wanting the “gay” thing to affect the clothes he was shown. As it was, several pink-hued shirts were presented to “bring out his eyes.”

He examined himself in the bathroom mirror. Everything had to be perfection tonight. He had to admit, he looked pretty damn good. Draco had shaved him on Wednesday and here he was on Friday evening with only the smallest of shadows, his long side burns still immaculate. His hair was rubbish but that couldn't be helped. The dark navy suit fit him like a glove, falling lean and tailored from the shoulder to his flat-front trousers. He'd settled on a pale purple dress shirt just to be interesting. He unbuttoned his jacket to view his “showpiece,” as his salesman called it. With such an understated suit and short stature, he needed something to make himself stand out, apparently. Being The Boy Who Lived wasn't enough. Still, he liked the white cotton belt with its oblong, brushed silver buckle. The finish caught the light even in the bathroom. He hoped Draco would approve.

He gave up on his hair and called his boyfriend's name in a voice that would carry down the hall. “Are you ready?”

As Harry peeked around into the hall, Draco emerged from their bedroom still buttoning the jacket of his grey suit as he walked. While out yesterday, Harry had passed a posh shop with a vivid blue dress shirt in the window and the first thing he'd though of was how Draco's eyes would reflect that kind of intense color. Draco wore the shirt now, the stiff silk treated with something that made it swish audibly as Draco moved. The shirt suited him. It would probably look even better when his hair was back to platinum blonde. His disguise glasses were tucked into the handkerchief pocket of his jacket along with a little white square of fabric.

“I'm ready,” Draco whined, striding down the hall. “Will ya tell me where we're goin' in this downpour?”

“It's a surprise,” Harry chuckled, ducking his head back into the washroom before Draco caught sight of him in his new suit. He made one last move to fix his unruly hair before Draco entered the small room. “I can't just tell you and spoil the fun, now, can I?”

“Fuck the surprise,” Draco whispered, staring frankly as he leaned against the washroom wall. He loosed the buttons of his blazer, taking Harry in. His silver gaze did not linger on his boyfriend's face but rather on his shoulders, chest, waist, and legs. A mischievous grin overtook his pointed face when he saw the white belt with its flat faced military buckle polished to a mirror shine. His eyes fixated lower, zeroing in on Harry's sex.

“This is wha' ya bought yesterday?” he said, sounding slightly choked.

Harry gave him a slow smile of confirmation. “I didn't want to shame you with my humble wardrobe.”

Draco's eyes didn't leave Harry's nether-region, even as he slowly licked his lips. “Oh, you wont. Not now.”

“Are you saying I look nice?” Harry teased, pushing his jacket aside to rest a hand on his hip. Draco just nodded, staring at a certain part of Harry's anatomy with the intensity of a cat stalking a mouse. His gaze was determined, predatory.

“Yeh dressed yerself,” Draco commented almost idly, still inappropriately fixated. He pushed off from the wall, drawing close enough to run a hand over Harry's single-notched navy lapel, smoothing away a nonexistent wrinkle.

“You can tell?” Harry put his hand over Draco's, stilling it, pressing it to his chest.

“'Course,” Draco said absently, eyes roving Harry like a prized thoroughbred at auction. “Quality but not too fussy. Classic, understated. And then the unpredictable,” Draco's free hand traced along the chic white belt before venturing lower, stroking Harry to hardness through the fabric. “Tha' wild, independent streak. An abject refusal ta do as yer told.”

“So I'm a rebel?” Harry's voice dropped significantly in register. He wished Draco would stop looking at him like a piece of meat in a suit. He enjoyed the sexual attention—loved it, reveled in it, couldn't get enough—but if they didn't get going they'd be late for their reservation. And it was pouring rain. They probably should've left early.

“You are,” Draco articulated slowly and clearly. “And _the_ most stubborn, single-minded son of a bitch I've ever known.”

“Right back at ya,” Harry simpered, new trousers getting awful tight under Draco's continued ministration. “Does that make you a rebel, too?”

“No,” the man shook his head almost sadly. With his hands to Harry's chest and groin, he easily backed the dark haired man against the counter. “Jus' spoiled. I'm accustomed ta gettin' wha' I want.”

“And what do you want?” asked Harry. Their faces were only an inch apart, Draco's breath hot on his cheek.

“You.”

Their lips met in a rush, Draco's tongue skilled and demanding, quickly gaining entrance to Harry's mouth and sweeping the cavity to lap up every molecule of him. Harry felt himself overwhelmed by Draco's desire, trying his best to meet the press of his tongue and lazy thrusting of his narrow hips. He could scarcely draw a breath under the siege of Draco's lips, teeth and tongue. Teeth clacked together as their mouths moved hotly, opening over and over again, seeking out more to taste, savor and feel. He pulled Draco flush against him, holding his ass to grind against one another, eliciting a feckless, desiring groan.

“We're gonna be late,” Harry muttered into that sound. Draco's mouth closed over his words, drawing out his tongue and sucking hard, pressing it with his own. It was Harry's turn to groan, bass and deep in his throat.

  
“Fuck it,” was Draco's reply. He left one last bruising kiss on Harry's lips before pulling away to work at the unfamiliar clasp of Harry's new belt. “ _ J _ _e te voux,_ ” he whispered, fingers flying. “ _ Je veux lécher ton foutre! J'ai envie de toi! _ ”   
  
At last the clasp sprang loose. Draco made quick work of the button and fly, dropping to his knees. They both gave an audible sigh when Harry's length was freed. 

“Tell me,” Harry insisted, a firm hand to the side of Draco's pale face, holding him off what had quickly become the man's favorite activity.

Silver eyes gazed up at him, glassed over with burning lust. He stroked Harry's shaft, cupping his bollocks by feel. He worked Harry blind, completely focused on the face above him, the man he was about to please. “I want you.”

“ _Gods, Draco,_ ” Harry hissed, pushing into that slick, waiting mouth. “ _I'm yours._ ”

He felt Draco almost gag around him. He hadn't had time to prepare himself with magic. Harry wanted to go slow but he couldn't help it. Draco took him deeper even as his throat spasmed in protest. Harry went fast and hard and Draco let him, wet sucking sounds mingling with Harry's feral grunting and the strained puffs of sniffling little breaths flaring Draco's nostrils. His cheeks flushed as Harry bore down, holding tightly to the back of that bobbing head, practically forcing. But you can't force the willing. Harry left one hand on Draco's cheek, liking the heat of his flushed skin, the activation of every muscle in his jaw as he valiantly fought imminent choking. Harry used his grip on Draco's darkened hair to pull him back to half-way, feeling the man beneath him swallow and draw a full breath.

That was Harry's signal to let loose. He yanked Draco's hair, thrusting fast and shallow, violating like he never knew he could. He screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip, trembling.

“ _You're so good at this, baby,_ ” he hissed, head thrown back as he bucked and fucked without a care. “ _You feel so fucking good. Yes, yes!_ ” Draco battled Harry's restraining grip, taking Harry deeper into his mouth and doing his best to hold his teeth back. Harry wrapped his hand under Draco's chin, puckering those stretched lips and asking for the slight graze of teeth. “ _Don't you worry, doll. You just take it._ ” 

Draco moaned, a garbled sound of abject pleasure. The vibration got him and he was coming, spilling into Draco's mouth as he continued to thrust. Draco sucked him dry, Harry's hand massaging his sultry, supple throat until he'd swallowed the last of it. Slumped forward, Harry opened his eyes to meet Draco's. He brushed brown hair from the man's eyes, his hard cock still lodged in suckling wetness.

“You are  _so_ good at that,” Harry managed, his throat not nearly as raw as Draco's had to be. Those silver eyes were proud and fierce staring back at him. Holding Harry's gaze, he slid down to the hilt, taking Harry's sensitive sex to the very back of his throat only to clamp down on the head, gagging himself magnificently. A deep wail escaped Harry, toes curling in his dress shoes. He ruffled Draco's hair as his once pale face went redder and redder by the second. Draco was holding his breath again. 

“You don't have to,” Harry croaked, absently rubbing Draco's scalp in an effort to calm him, his fingers shaking. “Really, I just came. I don't need—”

Draco pulled back to the head of Harry's cock, delivering a sensuous lick to the sensitive bundle of nerves on the underside of the still engorged head. He gave Harry another ferocious look before slamming Harry's length into his mouth, his ragged throat now relaxed by magic.

“You... want to,” Harry gasped the realization before the hot suction ripped a scream from his lungs. Taking the back of Draco's head once more, he pounded with abandon, already feeling his next orgasm awakening in the depths of his gut. Draco rocked into each thrust, braced by both hands on Harry's thighs. Harry pulled the man's hair until he moaned. The warm reverberations were nothing compared to the knowledge that Draco liked doing this, that this got him off, too.

“ _I love that dirty mouth of yours,_ ” Harry growled. “ _I love how you talk. I love your accent. I love every off-color, perverted thought that comes out of it. And I love coming in it. Fuck, you let me come in you,_ ” his stomach clenched tight, soon followed by his buttocks, thighs and chest. He tightened his fists in Draco's glossy hair, pushing through the resistance of jaw to that constricted, sodden bliss awaiting his every thrust. “ _You want this, Draco. You want me. This is us. Us._ ”

Draco shivered violently, from his toes to the top of his head and everywhere in between. He moaned around Harry's dick in his throat, fingers scrambling for purchase against the soft wool of expensive trousers. He sucked powerfully all the while looking up into Harry's eyes. The intensity of that gaze brought Harry over the edge more than anything else. He came with a violent tremor of his own, pitching over Draco in a boneless heap as he emptied himself for a second time in the man's eager mouth. Draco needed no help swallowing this time around, his throat assisted by magic. Draped over Draco's back, he felt the man end the spell so that his throat clenched Harry powerfully before he pulled away, coughing and spluttering. Harry did his best to lean his weight against the counter instead of his boyfriend beneath him but it was quite a task with all the strength gone from his limbs. Long fingers shaking, Draco slipped Harry's boxers back where they belonged followed by his trousers and finally refastening the innocent white belt that had started the whole thing.

When Draco braced against his knee to stand, Harry offered a supportive hand under the man's armpit. He couldn't do much to lift him but the hand acted as a balancing aid.

“We're gonna be late,” Harry croaked, voice spent for the moment.

Draco didn't sound much better when he spoke. “Why?” he rasped. Harry smiled.

“'Cause it's your turn now,” he smiled roguishly and reached for Draco's groin. But there was no straining, painfully untouched erection there. Harry looked at Draco, lips parted in a silent question.

“I—er,” Draco stuttered, still red-faced and flushed. “I came... when you did.” And beneath the pink pinch of exertion and red rouge of choking, Harry finally detected the sweetest blush of afterglow. Harry smiled so broadly he thought his face would surely crack in half. If he ever had dimples in the course of his life, he very well had them now.

“Really?”

Draco nodded sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“Come 'ere,” Harry slurred, reaching a hand to roughly grab his lover about the neck and tug him close. He wrapped his other arm around narrow hips, sneaking a hand under Draco's jacket to rub small, comforting circles at the lowest part of his back. After a second's uncertainty, Draco collapsed against him with a happy sigh. His head fell against Harry's, his warm breath trickling under Harry's open collar.

“I could stay like this forever,” Harry whispered under his breath, eyes closed and breathing Draco's familiar scent, the delicate brush of wool and silk nothing compared to the man's heavenly skin. He pulled Draco closer still, tightening his embrace until the man's ribs creaked. He felt Draco holding his breath, savoring the same joys.

“Me too, Harry,” he replied.

 _I want to taste me on you_ , Harry thought rashly, the need to claim Draco quickly overwhelming him. _Forever_.

Instead, he only said, “kiss me.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

They managed to catch a taxi on the corner, avoiding the worst of the rain. Even with London traffic, they were perhaps only five minutes late for their reservation. A uniformed muggle sprang from the restaurant's door the moment their car pulled up to the curb, popping a large umbrella and seeing the two men dry from door to door. Harry got the restaurant's heavy wooden door for Draco, earning neither a dirty look nor the slightest smile. And that was actually an improvement. He was chipping away at Draco's seemingly automatic public coldness.

They'd been silent most of the cab ride, Draco gazing out the window to collect himself and Harry content to let him. Draco hadn't asked where they were going. He hadn't expressed an ounce of curiosity since leaving Grimmauld Place. He probably deemed childlike enthusiasm beneath him—Harry really wished he wouldn't. The man was especially beautiful when excited. His eyes lit from deep inside and his skin just glowed like a _Lumos_ Spell had been cast beneath the surface. His combative, singular personality didn't stop him from looking like an angel. Harry's fallen angel.

Draco looked passively about the upscale restaurant now, searching out the empty table reserved for them. There wasn't an empty seat in sight and his darkened brows pinched. He turned to Harry, his mouth open in silent question.

“Ah! Mr. Potter, I presume?” asked the host, a very tall gentleman with bushy hair and a thin mustache. Harry stepped forward, remembering to stand up straight and keep his hands out of his pockets.

“I'm Potter,” Harry asserted, standing even with Draco. “We were a little delayed by the rain.”

“But of course!” the man nodded obligingly. “Please! This way, Messieurs.” He bent slightly before gesturing for Harry and Draco to follow. Harry felt like a kid, he and Draco barely clearing the tall man's elbows. The man's bushy head practically brushed the ceiling; then again, the restaurant was built around an old crypt which was responsible for the low stone ceilings. It was like a limestone Hogwarts, lit with sparkling candles and decorated in crisp white linens.

Their private dining room was the crypt itself, frescoes peeling from the walls and a glorious old chandelier set in the ceiling with dozens of tapered candles. Even the wall sconces held burning candles. In the center of the room sat their table, decorated with a few exotic white flowers Harry could hardly name. A silver champagne bucket sat on a pedestal beside the table, the bottle sweating as it waited for them. Harry glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch a boyish smile twitch Draco's lips before he schooled his expression to one of bored neutrality. That little smile was everything, though. Harry knew he'd done well.

The tall host inquired to be sure everything was to Harry's satisfaction before excusing himself. Harry watched him duck out a tiny door original to the crypt—it probably lead directly to the kitchens. Harry reached for the nearest chair, drawing it out for Draco. Not one for wasting time, Draco seated himself, allowing Harry to tuck his chair in for him. He bent, pressing a quick kiss to the top of that mousy brown head.

“I'm glad you approve,” Harry whispered, dropping one more kiss. His hand lingered on Draco's shoulder as long as possible before going to his own chair. He undid the bottom button of his jacket and sat, spreading his napkin over one knee. Draco silently poured the champagne. He lifted his glass and thought a moment. Harry picked up his own glass, waiting for the man's toast.

“ _Tu me rends fou,_ ” Draco said, not a hint on his face of what it could mean. Harry pursed his lips at the man's obstinacy.

“ _I'm sure_ ,” Harry hissed quietly, holding Draco's gaze. “ _Just remember—you end up married to me. So play nice, love._ Cheers!”

He clinked his glass against Draco's before taking a sizable drink, the bubbles lingering in his nose and making him squirmy. He watched Draco pale slightly before bringing his own glass to his lips. He drank slowly, an almost thoughtful eyebrow quirked in Harry's direction. Harry just set his glass down and smiled. There was a distinct lack of menus. So he struck up a conversation, instead.

“Do you speak any languages besides French?”

“A' course,” Draco's expression became more relaxed, some color returning to his high cheeks. “I was schooled in French, German an' Latin from the age a' four. Father insisted I...” he trailed off, reaching for his champagne and downing a third. “I suppose tha' doesn't matter anymore.”

“You make me feel like an idiot,” Harry said quietly. Draco began to protest but Harry held up his hand in the classic “let me finish” gesture. “Because I actually know so little about you. I didn't know you speak German. And I have no idea what you would've been schooled in—I mean, did you go to a school before Hogwarts?”

Draco shook his head, a little smile on his face. “I had tutors at the Manor. An' I spent a few hours a week with father practicin'... well, _you know_.” Draco cut himself off with a conspiratorial wink. Harry turned to see a gentleman in a sharp black suit entering the crypt from the main door. He nodded politely before approaching their table.

“Good evening,” he said in a heavily accented voice Harry could barely understand. “I am Paul-Henri, ze 'ead Monsieur. I trust everyzing eez to your satisfaction zis evening?”

Harry smiled blandly, trying to make sense of what the man had just said. Draco jumped right in, speaking rapid French and gesturing over the table. The waitor's face lit up, presumably at Draco's perfect, native pronunciation. They went back and forth for many minutes, Draco asking questions here and there—Harry could tell only by his body language and the way his voice turned up at the end of a sentence. The waitor always answered with a smile and occasionally a polite laugh. He looked to Harry a few times but Draco always spoke on his behalf and he was thankful. Harry had the perfect excuse to watch Draco's face in profile, examine the way his lips moved, memorize the curve of his throat and the way that bright blue shirt set off his eyes. Draco seemed excited, whatever they were talking about. He cast a few glances to Harry as he spoke. Harry liked being caught staring. He made no pretense to hide what he was doing, his gaze riveted on his boyfriend's face, his glossy hair and soft skin, enjoying the sound of his voice, the way his features moved as he spoke, conveying slight and dignified emotions—so different from the intense passion he'd exhibited on his knees not half an hour ago. Gods, Draco was fucking amazing. Harry admired the man's self-control as much as he hated it.

Paul-Henri gave a short little bow before leaving them, backing away a few steps in mid-bow before turning his back as though they were royalty. With the price tag, Harry guessed that was what patrons expected. He was used to people treating him differently because he was Harry Potter but that didn't stop him from noticing.

“So,” Harry said, his voice sounding gruff and strange in his ears after a good ten minutes of Draco's clear, aristocratic tones. “What was that about?”

“Oh! I was ordering,” Draco leaned back in his chair, folding his crisp white napkin across his lap. “I hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” Harry shrugged a shoulder. The champagne was worth its weight in galleons—he was feeling it after his first glass. He went to top off Draco's glass before his own.

“There's no menu. They get all of their ingredients fresh from the market each day and make something new every night. Delightful, isn't it?” Draco shook his head in quiet wonder at the peculiar ways of muggles, reaching for his glass. His posh air was back again, Malfoy mask wedged firmly in place. Harry let out a long, frustrated breath.

“Fascinating,” Harry replied. He couldn't help sounding less than enthused. Draco's guard was back up. Was he crazy to think he could keep breaking through to the real part of Draco? Wouldn't this get old after a while? Would Draco ever give in to him?

“Something wrong?” Draco asked, his glass hovering inches from his perfect pink lips.

Harry slid his hand across the table, palm up, looking into Draco's eyes. The man's silver-blue gaze darted nervously from Harry's hand to his face, sipping champagne so he didn't have to react right away. He'd gulped about half the glass before Harry's expression became firm, insistent. Harry drew a steadying breath, expanding his chest against his shirt and suit coat.

“Draco,” he growled low through gritted teeth. “Hold my fucking hand.”

Petulant, Draco wouldn't meet his eyes. But he dropped his hand in Harry's. It was chilled from the champagne and... trembling. Harry offered a comforting squeeze, caressing the side of Draco's bony hand with the warm pad of a thumb. Draco stared unseeingly at his empty silver charger.

“There,” Harry said bracingly. “That wasn't so bad, was it?”

To his credit, Draco only rolled his eyes and sniffed a little.

“Tell me 'bout growin' up in Surrey?” Draco asked quietly.

“There isn't much to tell,” Harry shrugged, holding tight to Draco's hand so he wouldn't pull away. “My aunt and uncle hated me. My cousin Dudley beat me up until I had the means to defend myself—holly and phoenix-feather means.” Draco's brows rose knowingly. “After that he just teased and called me names. I spent eleven years in the cupboard under the stairs, doing all the housework and chores. Even my Hogwarts letter came addressed 'Harry Potter, The Cupboard Under The Stairs.'”

“So the rumors are true?” Draco spoke softly, still not meeting Harry's eyes. “I thought it was hogwash. Ya never acknowledged it. They really put The Boy Who Lived in a cupboard, treated yeh like a house elf?”

“Certainly explains my lack of social graces, doesn't it?” Harry quipped, squeezing Draco's hand. A smile tried to bloom but withered and died at the unmistakable emotion in his grey eyes.

“Don't muggles have laws 'gainst doin' tha' sort a' thing ter children?”

“Of course. I guess no one bothered to report the Dursleys; honestly, it could've been much worse. I didn't get hit all that often and they fed me pretty regular.”

“They starved you?” Draco's angry eyes shot across the table. Their intensity was incredible. Harry could only be glad that rage didn't direct itself at him anymore—much. He and Draco still fought but it was about stupid stuff. And they always made up. He didn't want to shrug off Draco's concern, his bare emotion, now it was at-long-last offered. It meant more than anything that Draco would be angry over the way he was treated what seemed like a very long time ago. He continued stroking the side of the man's thin, cool hand with his own natural heat.

“There are always good and bad apples in the barrel. Wizards or muggles. The Dursleys are not nice people. I saw them for a week this summer—had to collect my things and... well, my mother cast a spell before she died, a spell to protect me so long as I lived with blood relatives. That spell wore off on my birthday, apparently.”

“Explains findin' ya in the linen cupboard tha' mornin',” Draco muttered sullenly.

“Yes,” Harry grinned broadly at the memory of his birthday morning surprise, that first of many back rubs. That was the first time he and Draco really talked as friends. It was a very precious memory. “Grimmauld Place is my home now. And yours, as long as you want to stay. Just... don't worry about the Dursleys. They're the past. They have nothing to do with who I am now.”

“If you say so,” Draco said, quiet and tense, taking his hand from Harry's. He was almost upset before he realized why—their first course had arrived. Draco's plate boasted a pile of leafy greens and nuts with an herb-filled cream dressing while Harry's plate was more fruits than lettuce, drizzled over with what smelled like balsamic vinegar and honey. This might actually be fun, seeing what Draco had picked for him behind his back.

“So the Manor's in Wiltshire, right?” Harry kept conversation neutral while their waitor was within earshot.

“Yes. Outside Devizes.”

“I...” Harry paused with a bite of pear half-way to his mouth, mentally shaking himself. “I think I knew that.” But how? He tried to shrug it off as coincidence. “I suppose you had a nanny or something.” Harry resisted making any direct comments about the Malfoy's affluence; after all, Draco was pretty much disowned at this point.

“A few,” Draco shrugged. “Local witches, hence my casual speech. Mother always found somethin' wantin' an' sent 'em off. I never had much opportunity ta become attached.”

“And what about your parents?” Harry asked. “Were they around?”

“Mother visited the nursery sometimes. It was difficult fer her at first. Father wanted another child. There were miscarriages—many. I was young, I lost count. I remember when they stopped tryin' 'cause mother became withdrawn. She quit visitin' entirely. Had a wing o' the Manor ter myself after tha'. I suspect their marriage never quite recovered.”

“I had no idea,” Harry offered quietly.

“Well, tha's the idea, innit?” Draco quipped after swallowing a bite of green. “Malfoys, ya know. Anythin' emotional is a sign a' weakness. The whole thing was kept quiet.”

Harry nodded slowly, understanding Draco's double meaning. It wasn't entirely his fault he was so closed off as a human being; he'd been trained from an early age to be so. All things considered, Draco was probably making great progress just by offering Harry a small, pleasant smile.

Gods, his eyes glowed gold in the candle light. Harry had never so much enjoyed looking at a person, man or woman, in his entire life. He could stare all fucking day. Both their plates were soon empty and it was converse or get told off for staring like a goop.

“You said you had tutors. One for each subject?” Harry shot Draco a teasing grin. “Might explain why your marks were always so good.”

Draco gave an appreciative chuckle as their plates were cleared away. “Father took ta hiring them two at a time, actually. I always scared 'em away. I was a spirited child.”

“You mean a terror sent from hell,” Harry corrected.

Draco leaned over the bed of exotic flowers to speak very softly. Harry leaned forward as well, drawn by the proud, devious smirk adorning that beautiful face.

“I used 'em fer non-verbal target practice.”

“You mean the Dark—” Harry cut himself off when Draco nodded emphatically, his features overcome by happy memories. His cheeks were bright pink in the light, only enhancing his angelic appearance. Harry knew the man to be a devil in sheep's clothing but it didn't make him any less ravishing, any less fair.

“What about them running off, telling people what you were capable of?” he protested.

“Father had ter Obliviate 'em all!” Draco cackled softly, face split by his jovial, childlike smile.

“Weren't you punished for that?” Harry asked incredulously. “You couldn't have been more than nine or ten.”

“'Bout seven,” Draco looked at Harry sideways, roguish. “An' I was never punished. Only child,” he pressed a thin hand to his chest, just below his exposed neck. “I always get my way, remember?”

“Come off it, Draco,” Harry leaned back in his chair, disbelieving. He folded his arms over his chest while Draco smugly drank champagne. “You father must have had some way of controlling you.”

Draco's face fell suddenly, all joy leaving his features like a candle blown out. The hand holding his champagne flute trembled slightly as he set it down. The next course arrived, an assortment of dumplings with sauces, but Harry paid little attention. When Paul-Henri was out of earshot, Harry spoke tenderly.

“I've upset you.” He barely resisted tacking a “sweetheart” on the end.

Draco looked away, swallowing visibly. “It's nothin',” he insisted weakly.

Harry grabbed the bottle of champagne and refilled both their glasses. “Here, then. Have some more nothing.”

Draco downed the entire glass in one gulp, returning it roughly to the table.

“ _If_ I tell you,” he said shakily, “you have to promise—”

“Anything,” Harry said quickly, his hand shooting across the table in a silent plea for Draco's. The man rested his hand in Harry's, fingertips dipping under his jacket and shirt to brush his wrist. Harry could feel Draco's pulse racing, a combination of nerves and pounding good champagne. “I wouldn't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about.”

“No, that's not...” Draco shook his head of dark hair. The rich color made his skin look even more like ivory. “You'll... think differently of me.”

“I promise you,” Harry insisted, holding Draco's thin wrist. “I won't.”

“Father... knew 'bout my sexual preferences because, ter some extent, he shares them,” Draco wheezed, his throat clamping shut. He breathed slowly through his nose, staring at his untouched food. “I wasn't exactly hard ta spot. From the age a' six I had an unhealthy obsession with Quidditch players—worshiped them, kept posters an' clipped _Prophet_ articles, followed games o' the players I fancied. I cried myself ter sleep the night two a' my favorites played each other 'cause father wouldn't buy tickets.” That made Harry smile, thinking of a young Draco with his poor heart broken over buff, handsome blokes in Quidditch gear. He had no idea why the image was so endearing. It just was. “Father figured me out. So we struck a deal; I followed orders an' in exchange, he kept me in Quidditch tickets. An' when I was old enough, he made sure his business associates brought their daughters.”

“I've always liked both, so it worked well. Mothers envisioned their girl married ter the charming, dashingly good lookin' Draco Malfoy,” Draco raised a brow, as though to say his own charm wasn't much of a treat. “An' fathers pissed themselves at the thought o' a permanent connection ter the Malfoy fortune. Closed a lot a' deals, tha' did.” Draco's smile was almost smug. Slowly, it slid from his face to reveal a desolate sadness Harry had never seen on Draco's face before. It worried him more than anything he'd heard so far. He squeezed Draco's wrist, stroking the soft skin beneath his shirt cuffs.

“Tha' was how I met....”

“Who?”

Draco shook his head before taking a healthy sip of champagne with his free hand. “I dunno how ter tell ya this. I've never told anyone.”

“Just tell me whatever happened,” Harry offered softly. He hated seeing Draco upset more than anything.

“Alright,” Draco sighed. He actually rested his elbow on the table, putting his mousy head in his hand. “Have ya heard o' Arnett Didier?”

Harry shook his head, not wanting to interrupt now that Draco was speaking calmly.

“Well, he's probably the biggest financier in all a' France. One o' the top ten richest wizards in Europe. My father had a deal 'bout ta go under an' he needed a new backer ter save the project. The Didiers came out ter Malfoy Manor ta view the proposal. His son, Philippe, was... rather taken with me,” Draco blushed but no smile came to his face at the memory. If anything, he looked more distraught. “He was a' couple years older an' went ta Beaubattons. We spent every day together. We....”

When it became painfully, awkwardly obvious that Draco couldn't or wouldn't say it, Harry did. “You slept with him.”

“Yes an' no,” Draco whispered, tense.

“Draco, don't be coy with me,” Harry insisted, gentle but firm. “I can handle whatever you tell me.” Harry watched as his boyfriend closed his eyes and swallowed against the lump in his throat.

“He slept with me.”

Realization hit Harry harder than a regulation Bludger to the gut. He wasn't sure how he felt about that piece of information. He was glad Draco told him, at least. He'd deal with his own feelings later.

“I thought you didn't do that,” Harry said lamely to fill the silence. Anything to let Draco know he wasn't angered by the news.

“Tha's when I figured it out,” Draco pursed his lips, forehead wrinkling in thought. “No, I take tha' back. It took me a few months ter get my bearings. I was confused when it happened—'cause I didn't like it. Was kinda awful, actually. I knew I liked blokes as well as bints, maybe a bit more, but tha' first time made me question myself, doubt wha' I'd always felt. Tha' was worse than not enjoyin' it. We tried a couple a' times. I never liked it.”

“Um,” Harry attempted to keep Draco talking. “How old was he?”

“Sixteen.”

“And you were...?”

Draco winced. “I'd jus' turned fourteen.”

“That was your first time, then?”

“With a bloke,” Draco shrugged. “There were a few girls but not many.”

“So you'd already lost your virginity at fourteen?” Harry couldn't help but be... incredulous? Maybe a tad jealous. At fourteen he'd only just discovered dirty magazines and wanking in the shower. Draco had been leagues beyond him.

“Virginity is such a relative term,” Draco said, raising his head to rest his chin in his hand instead. He patted Harry's hand before picking up his fork to spear a bite-sized dumpling, dunking it in a buttery sauce before popping it in his mouth. “Ya really should try these while they're warm.”

Harry reached reluctantly for his own fork, brandishing it at Draco. “Only if you keep talking.”

“Alright,” Draco agreed amiably, “let's talk 'bout the idiocy o' using a term like 'virginity.'” Harry was so glad Draco was perking up he didn't care the man was talking like an insufferable prat. “Sex is entirely subjective. A hand job constitutes the loss o' virginity! There are so many layers o' contact—classifying one as 'virginity destroyin' an' another as 'not' is jus' silly. The loss o' virginity is nothin' compared ter the loss o' innocence. Tha's wha' undoes a person, turns 'em inta a permanent sexual bein'. I think yeh understand wha' I mean.”

Harry did. Most acutely. He'd lost his innocence the moment Draco's nude body touched his, the second their flesh made contact. The fact that they hadn't “gone all the way” in the conventional sense didn't make one lick of difference. He forked a tiny dumpling, giving Draco a significant look before he ate it plain.

“I was still broodin' 'bout that when the World Cup came 'round. Father got seats in the top box, tryin' ter cheer me up. All of Bulgarian National to stare at an' I was too angry an' confused ter be arsed.”

“I remember. You were a right pisser that day.”

Draco smiled at the memory of his own churlishness, finishing off another two dumplings and sampling the sauces. “I didn't put things together 'til the TriWizard.”

“He went to Beaubattons,” Harry said out loud, “so he was there. You saw him again?” Draco nodded, chewing. “Did you... I mean, did things pick up where they left off?”

Draco smiled sadly, putting down his fork. Harry ate his last dumpling and did the same. Draco waited until their plates were cleared away and a palate cleanser of lemon and mint ice was delivered before speaking.

“Philippe had moved on. I was a conquest,” Draco's eyes were sad but his words held no bitterness, as though the whole thing were just business. Harry had no idea how right that idea was. “I was heartbroken—as much as I'd let my feelings become involved, tha' is. I asked him ta the Yule Ball. Tha' was when he told me 'bout the deal.”

“What deal?” Harry had to flex his jaw to keep it from tightening up.

“My father realized Philippe's fixation an' approached Arnett Didier. He essentially bartered the last vestiges of my 'virginity,' as yeh so quaintly coined it, ter seal the deal. Philippe was in on it. He'd been given assurances I wouldn't refuse. Father knew I was a horny pervert—he knew I'd go along with it, no questions asked. No one bothered ter tell me until after. _Merde_ , I felt like a barmy twat after tha'.”

“Oh my God,” Harry mumbled. He took a fortifying swig of champagne. Draco had his heart broken all so Lucius Malfoy could close a business deal? He hated the man more than ever.

“Yeh know wha' the funny thing is?” Draco asked suddenly, his head snapping up as though he'd just realized. “I know exactly wha' I was worth. I helped finish the parchments fer the loan.”

“Do I want to know?” Harry sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. He watched their ices be cleared away, replaced by a fragrant bit of roasted bird on a bed of herbed potatoes. Once again, he and Draco had the same selection.

“You tell me,” Draco said pointedly, picking up his knife but not yet cutting into the meat. He eyed Harry through a fringe of mouse-brown hair. It was very pleasing but it didn't suit him. Draco was larger than life, vibrant, exciting—that shock of white blonde hair said a lot about him as a person. Harry looked forward to the day Draco could change it back. That was probably going to be the day he left for Hogwarts, which would be an awful day, indeed.

“We don't need secrets,” Harry said with a sigh. He took another sip of the strong, bubbly wine to steel his nerves. “Go ahead and tell me.”

Draco closed his eyes and screwed up his face before landing the blow. “'Bout two hundred ninety three thousand.”

“Pounds?” Harry spluttered, mouth falling open and brows becoming one with his hairline.

Draco scratched the side of his head nervously, his grey eyes focused on Harry with a kind of trepidation he'd not yet seen from Draco. “Galleons,” he flinched.

“Fuck!” Harry yelled before clamping a hand over his mouth. He couldn't give much thought to his language. That was... that was about one and a half _million_ pounds!

“I'm not cheap,” Draco said on a sigh, seeming pleased by Harry's reaction.

“I think that rotten bastard got one hell of a deal,” Harry muttered darkly. He roughly cut his poultry, deciding it was some type of game hen. It smelled delicious but his mouth was hopelessly dry.

“You're angry,” Draco observed delicately. “With me?”

“No,” Harry scoffed. “You didn't do anything wrong. I'm ready to kill him, though.” Draco shot him a confused look to which Harry replied, “He hurt you, Draco. He was with you and he hurt you, _used you_. I could kill him in his fucking sleep. Your father, too.”

“Harry Potter is not a killer,” Draco chided, eyes on his plate.

“Try me,” Harry growled.

“It was three years ago, Harry. I'm over it.”

“Are you?” Harry shot. He didn't believe that pile of rubbish for a second.

Draco had no response.

They finished the game and potatoes and were brought the next entree. Harry had a beautiful bone-in steak with seared sweet onion and a dark, sticky glaze. Draco had a very finicky-looking poached fish with red sauce. The silence dragged on as they ate. Harry poured the last of the champagne. One bottle had been quite enough. Two would be overkill. He was loopy and rash, jealous of Draco's former lover and ready to attempt a cross-channel Apparition just to wrap his hands around the sod's worthless froggy throat.

“Why are you so angry?” Draco sighed, throwing down his fork as though Harry's foul mood was ruining his meal. “It was ages ago. Can't you let it go?”

“Let it go?” Harry repeated, pressing his forehead with the fingers of both hands. “How about this: the day you forgive the Dursleys is the day I'll stop hating that creep. I wish him an early and unpleasant death. Really, I do.”

Draco opened his mouth to speak but Harry continued before he could get a word in. “I can out-stubborn you any day of the week, Draco, so just drop it. I know you're uncomfortable with people giving a shit about you and your feelings. You can get over that, too. I'm here and I'm not going away. Now tell me the rest of the story—yes, I know there's more. I know you. You went to the ball with Pansy. She was looking very smug that night. If I recall, you looked miserable. And now I can add heartbroken.”

“I was,” Draco admitted, “very astute a' yeh. Parkinson thought I was finally takin' her ta bed an' she was tickled pink. Seeing Didier with his date, I didn't think I could get it up—Gods, this is hardly proper dinner conversation!” he laughed with a little squeak.

“I like it,” Harry said, voice deep. “Keep going.”

“Well, I got doubly lucky in the end. Parkinson passed out drunk an' I got propositioned by those perky Romanians. Turned inta a great night fer me.”

“I remember that,” Harry said, tapping his temple. Draco had the decency to blush bright red.

“So yeh do. Tha' was the first time I pitched,” he admitted. “I was nervous, thinking it would be a repeat o' the last snarly failure an' sex with men would be completely out. I was so glad ta be wrong.” Harry tried not to snort the last of the champagne. “I'm gonna go out on a limb an' say I found my sexual callin' tha' night. I mean, sex with women is pretty good but nothing compares ta the power, the control, the depravity a' poundin' another man. I know I'm freaky, sexually. I suspect a lot a' it comes from the way I was trained not ta show emotion. Mother ignored me fer years, as did father; except when he was yellin' or occasionally beatin' the tar outta me fer my own stupidity or laziness. Suppose I associated the expression of strong emotion with violence; hence my own penchant fer it. Like when we were younger, how I needed ter demonstrate my anger by hexin' ya every chance I got? Na yeh practically have ter choke me fer a kiss. Merlin's beard am I messed up!”

“You finally see that?” Harry joked. He jostled Draco's foot with his own beneath the table so the man would know beyond a doubt that he was kidding.

“Patient Potter,” Draco rolled his eyes, “Patron Saint of reformed Death Eaters and bisexual school boys? Sounds 'bout right ta me.”

Harry kicked Draco under the table when Paul-Henri entered to clear their plates. Draco asked the man for something, probably tea or coffee to sober up a bit. Harry hoped the next course was dessert because he was feeling rather full. When the waitor was once again out of earshot, Harry leaned over the flower arrangement to whisper.

“You don't have to answer this if you don't want to,” he began, “but the whole... bisexual thing. You almost always talk about guys. But you fancy girls, too?”

Draco nodded. “I didn't want ya ter feel uncomfortable. If I only talked 'bout girls, well, tha' might make things awkward—ya not bein' a girl an' all.”

“I see your point,” Harry agreed. “But you like them?”

“Yes.”

“And,” Harry looked down at the table, “you've made it with a girl?”

“A few,” Draco shrugged one shoulder.

“How many is a few?”

Harry knew it was the wrong thing to say when Draco's mouth opened slightly, eyes rolling. He slumped back in his chair. Harry did his best to backpedal out of conversational quicksand.

“Look, it doesn't matter...” he began.

“I think it does,” Draco snapped. “Yeh wouldn't have asked if it didn't.”

“Okay, so I'm curious!” Harry admitted, trying to keep his voice even with marginal success. “I'm not gonna call you a slut or anything. I just....” His frustrated gesture floundered, hands falling to his lap.

“Ya wanta know how yeh stack up,” Draco supplied, which made Harry blush. That was the crux of it. He didn't really care how many people Draco had been with, only that he made one of the top slots. It was juvenile and petty when spoken aloud.

“Alright,” Draco said quietly, checking to make sure their dessert wasn't en route. “I pretty much saw it all las' summer. Someone had ta keep father's affairs in order once he got himself locked up. Mother lacked the necessary... predilections, shall we say?” Harry flinched internally, trying desperately not to think of how many of his father's—lovers? Business associates? Both?—Draco had had to sleep with to keep himself and his mother afloat. “So with absolute confidence, I can say: Harry Potter, yeh are the best fuck a' my life. Tha' sufficient?”

“Quite,” Harry mumbled. “Dessert's here.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Harry confirmed. “And I think they're gonna light it on fire.”

Indeed, Paul-Henri set the chocolate and Grand Marnier confection on fire—another waitor delivering two cups of coffee with cream and sugar. Harry looked at Draco over the flaming desert and laughed. It was so surreal to be on a romantic date with Draco Malfoy but here he was. There was no where in the world he'd rather be. And he was the best lay of Draco's life. That thought alone kept him laughing until Draco joined in. Paul-Henri probably thought they were batty.

When the alcohol had burned away, the smell of burnt oranges and chocolate lingering in the air, Draco served them each a piece. Harry loaded his coffee with cream and sugar, bringing it to his lips and blowing for much longer than necessary—the cup's rim afforded a perfect excuse to stare at Draco.

“Wha'?” Draco said at last, having caught Harry's frank stare multiple times. Apparently it was making him nervous. “Is there somethin' on my face?”

“No,” Harry said sullenly, setting down his cup and picking up his fork. “I was just... thinking.”

“Uh oh.”

Harry ignored the man's blithe irreverence. “You're smarter than me, so maybe you've already figured it out. Please don't take this the wrong way because it's just a thought I've been kicking around.”

“Out with it!” Draco drawled.

“Why are we attracted to each other?”

“Yeh honestly don't...” Draco shook his head. He spoke an unintelligible syllable before starting over. “Yeh have a type, Harry; exotic, dichotomous, cunning, an' slightly unpredictable. Sweet little Cho Chang played yeh an' Diggory like puppets. An' the Weaslette? She should've been named after a dragon, just ter warn blokes wha' was comin'. I'm yer type.”

In retrospect, that was very true. He'd liked Cho for her mystery, her aloof personality and ethereal good looks. Ginny he fancied for her fierceness but she was also impatient and fickle. Every one of those traits existed boundlessly in Draco—frighteningly so. Once they'd gotten over their school boy pranks and presumed political affiliations, attraction seemed inevitable.

“What about you?” Harry asked. “Do you have a type?”

Draco pondered over a bite of chocolate which he washed down with coffee. “I suppose so,” he shrugged. “I like eccentricity an' a bit a' mystery. Stubbornness counts fer a lot with me—the same fer an open mind. Someone like Fleur Delacour... or even Lovegood if she'd dress herself like a proper witch instead of a circus.”

“If you want eccentric,” Harry joked, “sometimes you have to take the crazy with the genius.”

“Yeh think Lovegood's a genius?”

“I think there's a lot going on beneath the surface of that girl,” Harry said pensively. “I see how she could get your attention. But what about blokes, then?”

“Fer me?” Draco scoffed. “I don't mix business with pleasure.”

“Women are business and men are pleasure?” Harry was shocked by the notion.

“In my situation, yes! It was better tha' way,” Draco explained, waving his fork. “Women are so emotional! I keep to men—they're less likely ter get involved, lessening the chances a' hard feelin's from angry lovers when I married.”

Harry bit his tongue rather than say, “bet you're glad not to be in that situation anymore!” That situation had been just a fraction of Draco's privileged, perfectly mapped-out life. And it was now in flames; unlike their dessert, it wasn't sweet when the fire burned out. Draco didn't need any reminders of his uncertain future so Harry shifted the subject to more comfortable territory.

“What about other blokes at Hogwarts?” He asked. “You said there aren't a whole lot of gay wizards. Who do we know about our age?”

Draco swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Let's see,” he mused. “Stephen Cornfoot in Ravenclaw goes both ways—he's not comin' back this year. Blaise, of course, but he's more opportunist than bisexual. He'll stuff anything with a pulse. He fucked that Hufflepuff Wayne Hopkins last year. Blaise is a notoriously good lay, so Hopkins was probably jus' experimentin'. He's anybody's guess. Did you hear about Corbin Warrington?”

Mouth loaded with orange liqueur-soaked chocolate, Harry shook his head. He hadn't had a clue about the burly Slytherin Chaser, making Draco's next statement all the more shocking.

“Warrington's goin' with Summerby, Hufflepuff's Seeker. Warrington's about a gay as they get—likes wispy, feminine blokes. He an' Summerby have been together... more 'n two years. It's all very under the table, 'course. They're the only couple I can think a'. Others? I heard tha' Creevy in Gryffindor, the one with the camera, but I'm not sure. There's a fifth year in Ravenclaw but I only know him by sight—he groped me on the Express last year. I gave Ravelclaw five points for bravery bordering on suicidal.”

“That was awfully generous of you,” Harry observed with a chuckle—Draco's sense of humor was really something. He found himself gathering the last crumbs of dessert. The chocolate was so good he had to hold himself back from licking the plate. He contented himself with sucking the gooey remnants from his fork. Draco eyed him quietly, licking his lips.

“Yeh'd best not eat like tha' in the Great Hall,” Draco chided, “or we'll be out ta the entire world!”

Harry returned his fork to his plate, slowly licking his lips as Draco had. A very deviant idea struck him and he went with it without thinking. He bunched up his napkin and dropped it on his plate, getting up only to kneel beside Draco's chair. Harry took up one fair, slender hand in his own, never losing contact with Draco's magnificent eyes.

“Know any Muggle-Repelling Charms?” Harry whispered.

“Is my name Draco Malfoy?” he smirked. Then he paled, a look of confusion marring his pointed features. “Wait, why?”

“I think there's one more course.”

And Harry grabbed the tablecloth, ripping it off the table and dragging Draco from his chair. They fell to the floor in a heap, lips meeting in a bone-jarring rush. They could spell the broken dishes when they were done.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 _This is Heaven_ , Draco thought while staring up at the stone ceiling dappled with flickering candle light. Heaven wasn't the crypt, with its peeling frescoes and ancient, dusty echo. It wasn't the flowers and tablecloth spread out on the cool floor, cushioning his head. It wasn't even the wonderful meal he'd just eaten or the very potent bottle of French champagne he'd downed like a manner-less, land-starved sailor. It was Harry's hot lips on his neck, Harry's whispered encouragements and dirty compliments, Harry's hand in his trousers bringing him to a very rapidly approaching conclusion. He never lasted long with Harry—he just couldn't help himself sometimes. A part of his brain registered he was on the receiving end of one very lazy wank from The Boy Who Lived. The rest of his brain was floating blissfully, luxuriating in the fact that this was Harry, _his_ Harry, touching him. Kissing him. Telling him he was beautiful, wanted, adored.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French**  
>  _Je te voux. Je veux sucer ton foutre. J'ai envie de toi!_ \- I want you. I want to suck your come. I want you!  
>  _Tu me rends fou_ \- You drive me fucking crazy.


	22. Erômenos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events surrounding the Delacour-Weasley wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** D/s, RACK BDSM, mild exhibitionism, sapiophilia, drama, sap, gratuitous sexual content as follows: a few blow jobs, fingering, rimming, first time anal-oral sex, a dash of erotic humiliation, first time anal, unprotected sex galore, service-top!Draco, submissive!Draco, Dominant!Harry, bottom!Harry, slutty!virgin-no-more!Harry
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Important shit goeth down this episode: attention must be paid. I challenge my finesse, romanticism, wizardry of words. Mediocrity will not be tolerated. Who cares if it's just a fracking porno? It's my porno. I'll make it Pulitzer-worthy if I want.

 

 

Leaving Draco alone in bed had been the hardest thing. He was just going downstairs to floo-call Hermione but that didn't really matter. It was the fact he had to drag his ass out of bed, put on pants and a shirt and force himself down an entire flight of stairs while Draco lay lonely and naked in their bed. He'd sat there at least ten minutes, holding the man in his arms, loving his warm breath and slow pulse as he dreamed. As if Harry could feel any worse, Draco's face had pulled into a pout the moment he rolled out of bed. Even Hermione yelling at him for floo-calling fifteen minutes late had no comparative effect. She was currently berating him for telling Draco about the Prophecy and he couldn't be arsed. It wasn't that he didn't care about his mission to defeat Voldemort—far from it! He just didn't need to be yelled at for his decisions. The last thing he needed was another lecture, more doubts thrown his way. He redoubled his efforts, tuning back in to Hermione's rant.

“...all I can say is thank God you didn't tell him any more than that!”

“Hermione,” Harry spoke up, “I told Draco everything. The prophecy, the Horcruxes, absolutely everything. We don't have secrets.”

 _Except for the tiny fact that you're shipping him off to Hogwarts—alone—for his own protection,_ shouted a voice at the back of his head. It was drowned out by a hundred other little voices reminding him that Draco was strong, a survivor, and could tolerate being alone. And he himself would have to head to Hogwarts at some point to consult with Professor McGonagall. Draco wouldn't really be alone. They'd always be together... somehow. He'd figure something out. Maybe he could arrange a floo into the Head Boy's chambers so they could at least sleep in the same bed each night. 

_Oops_ . Hermione was yelling at him again. He tried to focus but it just sounded like the same argument on a loop. Her points drifted in and out of focus, worn as thin as Harry's patience.

“You can't... Dumbledore said to only tell... He's not trustworthy... Why aren't you here with everyone else—your real friends? You see how he isolates you from us? That's not right, Harry, and you know it!”

“Hermione, just  _stop_ , okay?” Harry had a hand braced against the library fireplace as he leaned his face into the flames. His other hand fisted in his hair, yanking hard. He wasn't sure why—maybe to relieve pent-up stress? Or maybe because pulling his hair reminded him of Draco. 

“Wha's goin' on?” said a commanding voice from behind him.

Surprised, Harry jumped about a foot in the air, his knees leaving the hearth all together and his head cracking hard against the mantlepiece. He swore loudly, pain blooming at the back of his skull. Touching his head gingerly, his fingers came back bloody.

Draco rushed over clad in nothing but Harry's dressing gown, his hair returned to platinum blonde. He produced his hawthorn wand from the robe's pocket. He dropped to his knees beside Harry, one hand bracing his broad shoulder as he fussed over blood-matted black hair, examining the wound. He quickly cleaned and healed it with a series of nonverbal spells.

“Harry?” Hermione's voice wheezed from the fire as though from very far away. “What's going on?!”

“I hit my head,” Harry said loudly, aiming his voice toward the green flames. He turned immediately to Draco and caught him up in a lingering kiss. With Draco kneeling almost behind him it was awkward but neither boy minded. Harry pulled back a fraction of an inch, Draco sleep-thickened lips still brushing his own.

“I hope I didn't wake you when I came down here,” Harry whispered, practically rubbing his face against Draco's.

“No,” he replied just as soft, catching Harry's lips once more before pressing their foreheads. His hand still held the back of Harry's now healed head, carding fingers through his incessantly messy hair. “I just... you weren't there an' I figured yeh'd floo before we saw them tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. Tomorrow was Bill and Fleur's wedding. He'd spent all of dinner drilling Draco about protocol, asking how he was supposed to act and what, if anything, he might be expected to do. Draco called him a bloody muggle and explained all about wizarding wedding customs. Now Harry felt mildly prepared instead of walking utterly blind. More than anything, he didn't want to do or say anything to embarrass Draco. The hardest part would be not touching him. It seemed like they were always touching, now.

Hermione called his name from the hearth. “Are you alright?”

With a sigh, Harry pulled away to put his face in the fire. Draco's thin hand trailed to the center of his back, massaging gently to help him keep his cool.

“I'm fine,” he told Hermione. She was sitting by the fire at the Burrow and he could make out Mrs. Weasley's homey kitchen behind her. “I cracked my head on the mantle but Draco healed it.”

“Oh,” Hermione huffed. “He's there, is he?”

“Yes, Hermione. He's here. He's always here,” Harry rolled his eyes. “You're gonna have to get used to it, 'cause he'll be there tomorrow.”  _And every damned day after that_ , Harry thought with a grin. Draco tugged on the back of his shirt. “Just a sec, 'Mione.” 

Harry pulled his face from the fire, turning to Draco.

“What?”

“Wha's her problem?” Draco asked blandly. He'd tied the dressing gown very lazily, indeed. Most of his chest was exposed along with his legs all the way to his upper thighs, the sprinkling of scars and fine blonde hairs shimmering in the green fire light.

“Hermione and I are having an argument about the Horcruxes,” Harry said plainly, loud enough for Hermione to hear. There was a solid and disgruntled sniff from the fireplace. “She doesn't think you ought to know. Even though, if she was going to risk her life for something, I would have no problem with her informing Ron.”

“Tha's a very logical argument, sweetheart,” Draco replied, his comforting hand migrating to Harry's shoulder. “Ya seem ta have forgotten tha' yer friend is, in fact, a woman. Logic may not be applicable here. May I?” The blonde gestured to the fire. Hermione was undoubtedly livid on the other end but Harry scooted back so Draco could kneel in the hearth and address the irate woman.

“I acknowledge that yeh an' Harry 'ave been friends fer many years,” Draco said evenly, bending from the hip with his hands folded neatly in his lap despite the fact he wore nothing more than a dressing gown. “Years during which I was his enemy. I can very easily understand why ya would distrust me, as I harbor many similar sentiments toward ya, yer man, an' his family. An' yeh yerself are too smart not ter sell me out if it's in yer best interest. I respect tha' intelligence an' cunning. But this is not 'bout ya. It's not 'bout Weasley, myself or our colorful collective history. This is 'bout Harry. Ya trust him, or ya don't. Ya take him at his word, or ya don't. Ya believe in him with every fiber a' yer miserable bein', or ya don't. This is black or white. There is no middle ground; ya can't pick an' choose, only supportin' him when it is convenient ter ya. If tha's the kind a' friendship yeh offer in his time a' need, then I am glad he's learnin' a' this now an' not when it's too late.”

“Ya think on tha', Granger. Wonder Boy needs his rest. We'll see yeh at the ceremony.”

Draco ended the floo communication with a quick wave of his wand, not bothering with a proper goodbye. As it was, he barely had time to get his head out of the fire before it leaped back to orange, yellow and gold, the logs crackling with the sudden release of magic.

“Do you really think that?” Harry asked quietly, snaking an arm around Draco's waist, pulling the man back against his chest, heated from the fire. “You do realize you're expecting my friends to be bloody perfect?”

“Wonder Boy, I thought they were,” Draco said seriously. “I always thought ya had the most perfect little life; everythin' handed ter ya because a' who ya were. Yer perfect friends, yer perfect Quidditch game, yer perfect body an' even tha' perfect cock a' yers. But the truth a' the matter is—yer entitled ta perfection. Ya deserve nothin' less. An' ya know how upsettin' it is ta me when Gryffindor's Golden Boy doesn't get wha' he deserves.”

Harry snorted a laugh through his nose, holding Draco tight and nuzzling the back of his head.

“And do I deserve someone ballsy enough to stand up for me against Hermione Granger?”

“No, yeh don't,” Draco drawled quietly, mischief in his voice. “But consider tha' demonstration my petition ta chair the Potter Fan Club. I'll even sit beside tha' nasty little bloke with the camera. I suppose Weaslette has resigned as Secretary but I'm sure we'll find an eager replacement soon enough. But, as chairwizard, I do reserve certain rights ta yer person.”

“Such as?”

Draco's reply was to knock Harry onto his back, pulling his shirt off and yanking down his boxers in a series of swift, impatient motions. Shucking his dressing gown, he seized Harry between the legs, kissing powerful thighs even as the dark haired man attempted to clamp them shut in embarrassment. Draco cast two quick nonverbal spells, one lubricating the hand on Harry's equipment and the other... well, by the feel of it, Harry wouldn't need to visit the loo until morning. He squirmed at the upsetting sensation. Draco's mouth venturing closer and closer to a very unusual place didn't help his sudden case of the jitters.

“Draco, stop,” he complained, still trying to close his legs.

Draco did not stop. He set his wand aside to grip Harry's muscular legs, spreading them with a fearful combination of gravitational advantage and dead force.

“Why?” he asked playfully, his returned-to-blonde head delving lower. “Yeh like it.” He licked Harry very privately and green eyes slid closed in incapacitated, discomfited pleasure.

“If Hermione floo-calls back, she'll see us!” Harry groaned as his boyfriend's lips moved quite steadily, alarmingly southward.

“If Granger has the nerve ta floo-call after tha' epic tellin' off, she deserves whatever she gets.” Draco paused a moment, pensive eyes trained on Harry's pubic hair, his lips brushing Harry's perineum as he spoke. “Actually, no. She doesn't deserve ta see—tha's an honor quite beneath her.” He slid his hands to the backs of Harry's knees, pushing his legs up nearly to his chest. He urged Harry to hold his legs there, still licking and kissing brawny thighs, returning his lubed hand to stroke Harry's fast-growing erection.

“Yer so beautiful like this,” Draco whispered softly. “Exquisite... but strong, too. So strong,” he babbled, free hand exploring the musculature of Harry's back and hips. “From the inside out. No one else sees ya like I do, feels ya like I do. They don't have the right. No one else can do this ter ya. It's my right ta please ya. An' I take my right.”

He licked Harry's entrance and the man started to shake, grunting low and deep in his throat, dark head smacking hard against the wood floor. Harry was so tight. Draco could barely gain entrance, attempting to push his way in with a slick finger. He only made it in to the second knuckle before Harry's body clamped down hard and swift, spectacular muscles shaking, trying to force him out.

Harry wailed at the intrusion—still so unfamiliar, so invasive and wrong. It was humiliating to have another person's face down there, to be violated with lips, fingers and tongue. And yet he couldn't ignore that, on some level, it turned him on. He grunted, unable to ignore his conflicted feelings any more than his mounting arousal. Draco continued to palm his cock, massaging his thigh and then the side of his ass, encouraging him to relax into it. Harry _could not_ relax.

When he exhaled, Draco penetrated him more forcefully. He growled and hissed as Draco's long finger moved inside him, working the muscles there like he worked the fabled knots of Harry's neck and back. He wanted it to feel good but his body clearly had other ideas. That sharp, stinging sensation along with the whole unnatural factor kept him squirming.

“Breathe,” Draco whispered breathily, lips moving against Harry's skin, his hole.

“Can't,” Harry panted.

“Shh,” Draco shushed him. “Yeh gotta relax, jus' let it happen.”

He rotated his finger and Harry jerked violently. Gods, it burned! How could Draco tell him to fucking relax when it felt like he was on fire from the inside out? Would he bleed... down there? Draco knew what he was doing, but....

“Gaaaah!” Harry's tailbone lifted off the floor as he scrambled to get away. Draco had inserted a second finger and had the nerve to spread them. He withdrew his lips to kiss and bite Harry's thigh, rotating his fingers viciously. Harry felt a third finger ply him and that was fucking it. He was putting his foot down.

“No,” Harry said firmly. “Hands on my cock. Use your tongue.”

“Yesss,” Draco hissed in agreement, removing his wet fingers so they could fly to Harry's cock. He worked Harry with both hands, sliding one loose fist and then another down his shaft—a move he'd learned from Harry their first time together. Draco was hell-bent on making him come and that was fine by Harry. It meant he wouldn't be expected to... fuck. Physically, he wanted to right then. Anything having to do with Draco's bits sounded bloody fantastic. Just the thought made his dick throb in the blonde's expert hands. But there would be no sex of that nature. At least not tonight. Draco standing up to Hermione had really impressed him and this raunchy display was certainly something... but deep down he sensed Draco wasn't committed, emotionally. He wouldn't go all the way until Draco went with him. This newborn intimacy they shared would have to be enough.

“Do it!” he insisted. Draco was stalling.

Draco let out a long, lusty sound before closing his mouth over Harry, driving the slick muscle of his tongue with as much force as a finger, perhaps more. Draco's tongue felt different; better, somehow. More intimate. The probing fingers had made him feel like a dead frog or a science project. Now, it was like Draco was kissing him. He started to tingle where Draco's mouth met his body, tingling inside and out.

Harry wailed and panted as Draco roughly and thoroughly tongued him, Draco's little moans of pleasure making it that much better. He couldn't help the filthy, squelching and guttural sounds that escaped as Draco worked him harder, tongue sliding and probing wildly, trying to absorb the taste of him. Soon he began to move unconsciously, rocking his hips against Draco's mouth, gasping in great, needy pulls that sucked his pouty lower lip into his mouth. He slid his feet to the floor, taking some of the tension from his legs. Hands freed, he gathered fists full of Draco's silky hair, twining thick strands around his fingers and giving a series of rough tugs. The blonde was rock hard and leaking precome onto the floor, hips working furtively against the air as he fucked his lover with his tongue. _Okay_ , Harry thought. _I can get used to this_.

“Yes, Draco,” he growled. “Do it. Eat me. Fuckin' eat me!”

Draco sucked, pumping Harry's cock with a sharp articulation of the wrist that traveled the length of the shaft from base to tip, not neglecting an inch. The blonde lowered himself completely to his stomach, hissing into Harry when his own unattended cock met with cool, hard floor and his discarded dressing gown. He rutted helplessly against the fabric; short, nasal whines escaping him. Harry felt his entire body hum with Draco's noises, calling forth a gravel-like groan from his own throat.

He began to tense, first from his stomach but soon it shot through his groin all the way to his toes. He felt his body clench around Draco's tongue, trapping it. Draco let loose a choked wail, hips smacking the hard wood as he looked for friction anywhere he could get it. Harry pressed his feet onto Draco's smooth ass, pinning him to the floor even as he arched, pushing himself into that beautiful face that did such wicked, dirty things to him.

“You're gonna come with me,” Harry told him, not sure if the blonde was coherent enough to process speech but not particularly caring. He stroked Draco's ass with the arch of his foot. Relaxing as much as he could manage, he ground himself on Draco's tongue.

He grunted again and again from the very lowest part of his stomach, sounding like some kind of wild animal. He felt like a wild animal. He used his fists in Draco's silky hair to drag them flush together, twisting his hips and thighs to get as much contact as possible with Draco's sweet, unassailable tongue.

“Yes, Draco,” he mumbled. “Yesyesyesyesohyesssss....” He bellowed something unintelligible as he came fast and hard, spilling over Draco's hand and onto his chest. Draco rocked his tongue, working deep inside him, encouraging one last mighty shout before those moments ran out.

When he yelled a second time, Draco came. That sexy, choked-off grunting sound emanated from the man between his legs, vibrating every part of him from the inside out. Harry watched narrow hips buck against the floor, working for friction until Draco, too, was blissfully spent.

Harry used his hands in disarrayed blonde hair to invite his boyfriend up off the floor. Draco hauled himself on shaky arms, collapsing against Harry's chest with a trembling sigh.

“Wow,” he whispered weakly, a gentle hand idly stroking Harry's side. “I think I need a cigarette.”

“Er, me too,” Harry mumbled. He embedded both hands in Draco's disheveled, sweaty tresses, fingers locking together and pressing, cradling Draco against him.

“Yeh don't smoke,” Draco observed.

“I could,” Harry shrugged.

“Yer too perfect,” the blonde sighed after a moment.

“I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment.”

“Can't it be both?” Draco lifted his head to look at Harry, his eyes big and bright in the firelight. His hair and skin glowed gold, damp with sweat. The air smelled of him.

“May I kiss you?” Harry asked, not knowing why he was suddenly shy.

Draco rolled his eyes before removing his hand from Harry's side, sitting up between his legs.  Draco extended his Marked arm out in the air, silently summoning his wand. Harry had never seen Draco do that before. The blonde first cast a silent Cleaning Charm on his hands, then another for their bodies. He gave a quick wand flick toward his face, then another. His mouth opened, jaw working as though there were an uncomfortable sensation suffusing his mouth. He swallowed dryly before tossing his wand aside. Propped up on an arm, he gazed down at Harry.

“Cute,” Harry muttered, reaching to drag Draco back down for a kiss. The blonde backed away from him, an affronted scowl crossing his handsome face.

“I mos' certainly am not,” he protested.

“You are,” Harry insisted, sitting up like a shot to capture Draco in his arms. He pressed their foreheads together, arms pinning Draco's to his sides so he couldn't get away. “You're adorable—I promise I won't tell anyone. But I would've kissed you without the Cleaning Charm.” To prove his point, he took Draco's mouth in a passionate kiss, drawing out the man's fantastic tongue and plying it with his own. Draco moaned softly, melting into Harry's embrace. His arms snuck around the other man's waist.

Harry pulled back from the kiss, just to see Draco with his eyes shut, leaning wantingly toward him, seeking his mouth.

“Did you really mean what you said before?” Harry asked quietly. Draco's eyes stayed closed as he continued to search for Harry, following the sound of his voice and then the warmth of his breath. Harry lowered himself back, forcing Draco to follow until the blonde was on top of him. At last, Draco's lips found their mark.

“Every fuckin' word,” he said firmly. “Yeh gonna kiss me or what?”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

They'd woken up horribly late and the subsequent minutes had been a frenzied blur. Harry vaguely remembered standing mostly naked in the bathroom attempting to drink coffee and shave at the same time, Draco beside him with a straight razor to his own face. Infinitely more practiced, the blonde had finished first and downed the rest of Harry's coffee. Harry worked slowly and carefully, preserving the side burns Draco had created and not cutting himself once.

The next thing he knew, he and Draco stood in the bedroom, fully dressed and waiting for their portkey to activate. He needed to get his Apparition license, if only so people would stop treating him like a kid and sending portkeys every time he needed to travel. He was sure Draco could side-along him across the Channel. Draco could probably side-along him to China and back without breaking a sweat. Because Draco was amazing.

Harry looked the blonde over again. He'd seen a few old-fashioned wizards dressed this way—Ludo Bagman and Cornelius Fudge—but Draco really pulled it off. He wore his tailored black suit with a crisp white shirt and tie. The only thing decidedly wizard-like about his appearance was a long cape lined in pitch-black silk draped over his shoulders and secured with an ornate silver tie pin he'd found in the attic. The pin wasn't too fussy but at the same time the design was far too refined to have been Sirius' taste. The pin had probably belonged to Regulus or some other relative. With his glossy platinum hair and perfect, peaches-and-cream skin, Draco belonged on the pages of _Witch Weekly_ as an advertisement for wizard's cologne or something.

Harry examined his own apparel. For the first time he was actually comfortable in dress robes. No bow tie to choke him—not even a full collar! The light-weight navy material formed a mandarin collar with a large notch at the front, exposing part of his throat and the fitted shirt beneath that contoured the collar, crisp white poking out to separate the dark colored robes from his light skin. Draco had given Harry's cuffs a little tug, saying the shirt should poke through there as well. The robes were more fitted in the torso and sleeves, tapering to a series of fully functional buttons at his wrists. He was supposed to undo the buttons and magically fold up his sleeves at the meal. Proper wizarding table manners were a big mystery, filled with gestures and spells Draco had rattled off from memory. Draco's suit jacket had the same type of workable buttons and he assured Harry that he and every other male guest would roll their sleeves at the appropriate moment and Harry wouldn't miss the cue. A pair of dark linen trousers kept him cool beneath the layers of fabric. He figured it would be warm in France and the ceremony was taking place outdoors but the linen was also a matter of comfort. A suit with no tie was about as dressed up as he liked to get. Draco had nailed the dress robe situation with startling accuracy. Harry couldn't be more grateful.

“Any minute na,” Draco muttered, adjusting his tie with one hand, his other glued to the portkey between them.

“You look great,” Harry said, taking Draco's free hand so he would stop fussing with his immaculate black tie. “Relax. It'll be fine.”

Draco fixed him with a pointed look and a blustery sigh that puffed his pale cheeks, giving Harry a momentary whiff of coffee, sugar and Draco.

“It's a wedding, Draco. Bill and Fleur's wedding—none of their guests would be rude enough to say anything about your being there. You're my date. We'll just keep in back and stay quiet, like we planned.”

Draco nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. _No one will say anything to_ you, _anyway,_ Draco thought bitterly. _You're Harry Bleeding Potter. You can quack like a duck and they'll sing your praises. Me? I'll be stared at like a fucking freak show._

Harry sensed Draco's frustration. He closed the distance between them, linking their fingers and touching noses. “ _Baise-moi_ ,” he whispered.

Draco nuzzled back with chortling a sigh. “I _really_ don't think we have time, _mon lapin_.”

Harry caught Draco's lips in a chaste press. “No time for a kiss?”

Draco's eyes slid closed as he silently chuckled at his hopeless boyfriend. “Tha's not wha' yeh said.”

“I thought _basier_ was 'kiss,'” Harry pouted.

“It is,” Draco tried hard not to let his laugh escalate. “But the command 'kiss me' is _Embrasse-moi_. _Baise-moi_ means 'fuck me.'”

Harry blushed up to his ears. “That makes no sense, though,” he protested, face scrunched in embarrassment. The fact that they hadn't engaged in that particular act hung between them like a dangling holiday bauble—or like a crystal on a string, swinging to and fro, attempting to divine what would be. Draco had no idea how that particular act would work itself out. For the first time in his life, he was eager but not hedonistic, not clamoring for a sloppy finish line. Whatever he had with Harry Potter, it was good. And he wasn't about to fuck it up—metaphorically _or_ literally.

“It's a language, not Arithmancy,” Draco offered in a comforting tone. “If it made sense, it wouldn't be as interestin'. Yeh'll get it eventually.”

“M'kay.” Harry guided Draco's hand to the side of his freshly shaven face, enjoying the coolness in contrast to the man's warm, firm body pressed to his own. “ _Embrasse-moi_ now and _baise-moi_ later?”

“ _S'il te plaît_ ,” Draco said before relenting to Harry's demanding lips. They swiftly captured his own.

The kiss transformed from the meeting of lips to the twisting of tongues, mouths opening hotly again and again, the portkey crammed between their skipping hearts. Harry knew they had to stop when the portkey activated, not knowing if it would drop them in a room full of unsuspecting people but fearing as much. This was the last opportunity he would have to kiss Draco, to touch him freely like this, for several hours and he'd be damned if he didn't take full advantage. It was all-together too soon when the portkey pulled them away.

 

 

The portkey delivered them to a beautiful, sunny courtyard where most of the wedding party milled about. Harry and Draco landed with a spectacular thud. Harry lost his footing and it was Draco's quick, sinewy arm slipping around his waist that kept him from falling flat on his face. He straightened, adjusting his glasses and giving the blonde a fond smile. Maybe he could trip again? Anything to have Draco touch him in that warm, familiar way. Draco smiled back with his storm colored eyes lightened by the sunlight.

Harry was engulfed by a rose-scented swath of gold taffeta and blonde curls, thin arms tangling gayly around his neck. He recognized Fleur's twelve year old sister, Gabriella, and swung her around as she shouted happily in French, his name the only sound recognizable to his ears. Then again, the only French he knew was the undoubtedly nasty things Draco said in bed. He'd begun to parrot, his efforts to pick up the language failing rather spectacularly. Gabriella's laugh and shouts brought a smile to his face, knowing full well that the handsome man beside him understood every word.

“It's great to see you too,” he offered, setting her right on her slippered feet. He immediately turned and introduced her to Draco, calling the man his “good friend.”

“ _Enchantée!_ ” she offered brightly, extending her arm; instead of the traditional hand shake, Draco bowed, kissing her little gloved hand.

“ _Moi de même, Mademoiselle._ ” 

Gabriella appeared immediately enamored with Draco—because he was a handsome, French-fluent Englishman or because he was The Boy Who Lived's date, Harry couldn't discern through the language barrier. She and Draco conversed a few minutes, giving Harry a chance to look around.

The castle at Chauvigny was an amazing sight; nearly the size of Hogwarts, Harry guessed from his vantage point of the terrace courtyard. Past many ornamental gardens and a meandering lake sat a small town, all in the same red clay roofing tiles and light stone. The castle towered behind him and below, the main courtyard still held a few arriving guests making their way to the gardens where the ceremony would be held. From the other side of the terrace, Ginny shot dirty scowls his and Draco's way.

“Should we head in?” Harry asked Gabriella when the foreign conversation took a pause. “I wouldn't want to be late.”

“Oh, no!” Gabriella said quickly, stepping between the men and taking each of their arms. “Fleur insists upon seeing her fellow Champion!”

“Ya musn't refuse the bride,” Draco rebuked playfully over the girl's head, shooting Harry a delicately raised eyebrow.

“Of course not,” Harry agreed, allowing himself to be led down a covered walkway with stone columns supporting high archways carved with images of peacocks, flowers and winged horses. Little fleurs-de-lis in gold paint appeared everywhere—on arches and walls, even carved into some of the stone pavers that led from the courtyard to the castle doors. Once inside, Gabriella led them to a nearby room with a spectacular view of the courtyard. Fleur, already in her flowing wedding gown and lace veil, stood close by the window watching her guests arrive. Apolline Delacour sat a few feet away before an ornate gold-gilt mirror, instructing a witch who was re-pinning her elaborate hairstyle. Fleur's appearance was pleasantly simple and pure compared to her mother—her dress a plain, glowing white, her face and hair soft beneath the layer of fine lace. She looked calm.

When she heard Gabriella enter, she turned. When she saw Harry and Draco, her dazzling smile was visible beneath the veil. She pushed it aside, stepping forward to kiss Harry on both cheeks. Apolline said something in French but Fleur ignored her.

“'Arry,” she said warmly, a hand resting on his upper arm. “I am so 'appy zat you are 'ere. And you, Mr. Malfoy.” She gave Draco an equally radiant smile.

“ _Merci beaucoup, Madame_ ,” Draco said with a small bow, hand over his stomach. He followed with something in rapid French. It must have been a sincere compliment because Fleur reached out, touching his shoulder appreciatively. Madame Delacour turned in her chair, looking approvingly at Draco. Fleur signaled to Gabriella and the girl brought forward two white rose boutonnieres along with an overflowing bouquet. Fleur took the first flower and fixed it to Draco's lapel, giving him a kiss on the cheek. She took the second and turned to Harry, a bemused smile on her lips.

“I 'ad no idea you dressed so traditionally, 'Arry,” she said, her eyes taking in his new dress robes. Harry blushed, not sure if Fleur was calling him old fashioned or backwards. He thought these robes looked a great deal better than the silly things Mrs. Weasley had trussed him up in during fourth year. So what if he wasn't in vogue? He was himself—plain and comfortable.

“If I may?” Draco cut in, brows raised. When Fleur nodded, Draco drew his wand from his breast pocket. He held the flower to the right place on Harry's chest before shooting a quick Sticking Charm to hold it in place. Knowing Draco's Sticking Charms, the boutonniere would hold just fine. Fleur beamed her approval at them both, Gabriella trying to stuff the large rose bouquet into her sister's hands.

Madame Delacour rose from her chair, shooing the helping witch away. She picked up a pair of lace gloves before stepping to her daughter's side. Mr. Delacour arrived, smiling a bit sadly at his daughter. It was almost time.

“I really am 'appy you're 'ere,” Fleur said in a slightly choked voice, giving in and throwing her arms around Harry's neck. “It means so much... to all of us.” Harry patted her tiny corseted waist, fingers sliding over the satiny material.

She released him with a contented sigh, submitting to her mother and sister's ministrations. Harry and Draco backed out the door, both feeling keenly out of place.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

They decided to sit on the groom's side only because Harry had known Bill longer. Rows and rows of white wooden chairs with white satin pads faced an arch woven entirely of white rosebuds and undoubtedly held together by magic. The guests sat beneath a gently sloping dome, supporting columns painted in mysterious pink and grey designs. The many chairs faced the rose arch and had a full view of the lovely manicured gardens beyond. Most of the guests had been seated already, chatting with friends nearby. Harry couldn't tear his eyes away from the detailed carvings where grand, gold-encrusted arches joined each column. There was one of a griffin consuming the body of a seemingly dead child. There was another of a huge bird with a long beak, carrying off a child clutched in its talons. The details were morbid but also carried an air of the prophetic, ancient and mystical. Harry thought they must hold a deeper meaning.

Harry was so preoccupied with these strange details that he didn't notice the glances shot his companion's way. When the usher saw the white roses affixed to their robes, he'd escorted the men to the very front of the covered terrace. Empty seats were few and far between. These chairs near the front were the only open pair. With a tiny shrug, Draco gestured for Harry to go first. They had to climb over a half a dozen people, all of whom moved out of the way when they saw exactly who they were moving for. A few flinched when they laid eyes on the blonde trailing dutifully behind The Boy Who Lived.

It wasn't long before the Weasley boys appeared from the garden, all wearing matching black dress robes with white shirts and white silk bow ties. Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, Ron—and even Percy—took their places to the right of the rosebud arch. An official from the French Ministry stepped forward from behind a pillar, a red satin sash over one shoulder. His long white hair, beard and silver spectacles reminded Harry of Albus Dumbledore. Harry watched Bill receive a hug and a handshake from each of his beaming brothers. In the front row, Mrs. Weasley cried softly on her husband's shoulder. Bill smiled fondly at her. Harry read on his lips an “I love you, mum.”

Fleur's Veela grandmother was escorted down the aisle by a very tall wizard with dark brown hair and a trimmed beard. He wore the same style suit as Draco but with a short cape lined in red that ended just above his knees. His tie pin was hopelessly elaborate and held several sparkling jewels. Fleur's grandmother wore a dazzling necklace that must have weighed down her neck with the quantity of gems, let alone the quality. Harry could make out the vivid green emeralds and sparkling blue sapphires from across the room. Next came Apolline Delacour on the arm of a young man who could only be the bearded gentleman's son. The son was fairer than his father but just as tall, his appearance equally crisp and manicured. His handsome face looked pompous, almost bored. He offered Madame Delacour the smallest and most formal of smiles before taking up a seat beside his father.

Music started up from a little knot of witches and wizards stationed out in the garden, all seated in similar white chairs before a trickling fountain. The sound of their strings joined birdsong and the guests went quiet.

Gabriella was first down the aisle. Her smile lingered on Draco as she flounced by. Ginny was next and she paid no attention to either of the men. When she reached her place at the rose arch, she stared stoically forward. Gabriella nudged her, reminding her to smile. The next three witches Harry didn't recognize. They had probably been Fleur's classmates at Beaubatons. Everyone stood as Fleur and her father came down the aisle. Many in the crowd smiled or tried to get her attention but she had eyes only for Bill. Mr. Delacour kissed his daughter's lace-gloved hand before handing her off to her soon-to-be-husband.

The French official made a very nice speech about love triumphing over adversity. Harry thought it was a little on the long side but all the women in the audience were weepy as well as a few of the men. Harry watched Mr. Delacour dab at his eyes with a handkerchief, tears flowing freely down his wife's cheeks as she clutched her husband's free hand with both of hers. Draco sat, passive and patient, observing. His gaze seemed focused on the fountain. Harry realized Draco was watching the musicians with the violins, violas, cellos and bass. Harry reminded himself not to reach for Draco's hand, not to kiss his cheek, not to brush away the lock of pale blonde hair that had strayed into his eyes. Harry leaned the slightest bit, bumping his shoulder against Draco's.

“Do they kiss at the end of the ceremony?” he whispered.

“Why?” Draco's voice was so quiet, Harry barely heard him.

“I dunno... muggles do it,” Harry shrugged.

“Wizard marriages are 'bout joinin' blood lines an' producin' heirs,” Draco explained in a whisper, his head turned to Harry's ear so as not to disturb those sitting near them. “Affection isn't always a consideration. So I doubt they'll kiss.”

“Even though they love each other?”

Draco shrugged, his breath ghosting over Harry's neck. He wished they could stay that way, so close he could smell Draco's skin and practically taste him. But Draco leaned back against his chair a moment later, returning his attention to the ceremony.

Soon it came time for the vows. It was the first time Bill and Fleur would actually speak. Harry didn't fancy the cold formality of the ceremony. With a tradition based on the joining of blood lines rather than the joining of hearts, he didn't expect much less.

Bill spoke his vows first. Holding Fleur's gloved hands in his own, he recited.

“I will walk ahead, knowing you walk behind in my steps; for where I go you will follow, and where I stay you and our descendants shall stay. My people will be your people, my house your house, my word your law. I will know no other woman, no other bride and no other bond. Where you die, I will die and there we will be buried. For I am the body and you are my hand, ever at my side.”

Harry leaned to Draco's ear, long blonde strands tickling his lips as he whispered. He'd always love the feel of Draco's hair against his lips. “These vows are odd.”

Draco turned his head so that their cheeks pressed. It was the closest they'd been in perhaps forty five minutes. “They're the most traditional form. Na be quiet.” Draco's face pulled away but his leg pressed Harry's from hip to knee, a warm comfort. Harry mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key, making Draco roll his eyes and smile, mouthing, “yeah right.”

Fleur looked up at Bill, her hands nestled in his.

“Your word is my law; therefore, entreat me not to leave you, so that where you go I will go and where you stay, I and all our descendants shall stay. Your people will be my people, your house my house. I will know no other house, no other man and no other bond. Where you die, I will die and there we will be buried. For you are the body and I am your hand, ever at your side.”

Rings were produced and slipped onto fingers, Fleur removing her lace glove with a quivering hand. Bill smiled down at her all the while. Mrs. Weasley bawled happily from Mr. Weasley's shoulder.

“Witches and Wizards,” the official pronounced, “if you will please stand and raise your wands.” There was a shuffling as everyone dried their eyes, noses, and reached for their wands. Harry pulled his holly and phoenix feather from his sleeve, Draco his hawthorn and unicorn hair from the breast pocket of his muggle suit. The crowd stood, raising their wands into the air. Harry felt the air begin to hum like a string drawn taught to breaking point.

“By the authority invested in me by the Ministry of Magic of France and by the oath of these witnesses gathered, you are now wed.”

A great cheer went up. Everyone clapped and shouted. Smiling broadly, Bill drew back his wife's veil to reveal her own smiling face, tears still on her cheeks. And when they kissed, Harry found Draco's hand in his.

 

 

“Why is this taking so long?” Harry couldn't help but whine. Gabriella had asked them to stay behind when the rest of the guests proceeded to the reception hall, saying Fleur would like to have Harry and Draco in a few of the pictures. Harry could see many of the wedding party out in the garden, posing as several photographers worked to make the process as quick and painless as possible.

“No fuckin' idea,” Draco shrugged. They were the only ones left on the shady terrace where the ceremony had taken place. It was a pleasant day with a good breeze and—if he had eaten a single thing for breakfast, he would be happy to sit alone with Draco for the rest of the afternoon. As it was, his stomach was rumbling and they were both getting cranky.

Harry saw a blur of black at the corner of his vision. As soon as he turned his head, the spot disappeared. He twisted in his seat, draping a hand over the back and facing Draco. The blonde did the same, except facing him. Harry gazed over Draco's shoulder; a moment later, he spotted the fair and haughty well-dressed man who had escorted Fleur's mother down the aisle. The young man leaned against one of the columns, lanky arms folded across his chest, eyes trained on Draco.

Harry let his gaze slide to Draco as well. The blonde looked fixedly at him, his stormy eyes unguarded, reflecting the emerald green of Harry's own mixed with clouds and flecks of silver. Harry sighed.

“Think he's a Death Eater?” Harry asked.

“Not sure,” Draco replied, aware of the man staring at them from across the room and choosing not to acknowledge his presence. “I'm fairly sure his uncle is. I dunno about his father. Either way, he's certainly not sympathetic ta yer cause, Chosen One.”

“I wish he would bugger off,” Harry said harshly. His voice softened in an instant, going deep. “I want to kiss you so badly right now.”

“I know,” Draco said softly, his tender gaze unwavering. “Me, too.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Once he and Draco made it to the lavish, wood-paneled reception hall, Fred and George immediately cornered him wanting to talk about new developments for the joke shop. After a few minutes of shop talk Draco excused himself to get a glass of wine. His offer to bring Harry something earned his backside two sets of raised ginger eyebrows.

“I take it things are going well?” Fred said, still staring after Draco, eyes lingering on the blonde's pert rear.

“Stop checking him out,” Harry snorted under his breath.

Fred shrugged. “Sorry, mate.”

“So have you talked our little brother outta skipping his last year at Hogwarts?” George asked, a change of subject for which Harry was grateful. He and Draco were private, off limits.

“I dunno,” Harry conceded. “I keep telling Hermione that the two of them should go back. Hogwarts would be a good base of operations. But neither of them are keen to listen to me at the moment. For obvious reasons.” He gestured after Draco with his chin, shooting the twins a pointed expression.

“Yeah, Ron's a prat,” Fred offered.

“He's just being pig-headed, s'all,” George agreed. “Nobody really cares about that kinda stuff these days. I mean, he doesn't mind about Charlie, now, does he?”

Charlie being gay, or bisexual or whatever was news to Harry. He didn't let it show.

“I think he's mad because of the whole 'Malfoy, former Death Eater, son of a Death Eater' issue,” Harry said. “Let's face it, Draco hasn't exactly been an angel the last six years.”

“Neither have we,” George observed with an honest smile.

“Everybody deserves a second chance,” said Fred agreeably. “And Malfoy's never done anything really terrible. I mean, killed anyone? Nope. Maimed anyone? Nope. And—if I may say so—he's shown excellent taste. Can't fault the man for that!”

“Thanks,” Harry said, trying not to blush. “It's good to know _some_ of my friends can handle this like adults.”

“Whoa, now!” George admonished. “Don't let that get around!”

“Secret's safe with me, boys,” Harry reassured them. Clapping a convivial hand to George's shoulder, something across the room caught his eye. His blood pressure rose exponentially. He hadn't seen Draco's hackles up like that since... well, since the day Draco got tarted up as a girl and wound up punching him. Draco Malfoy was the master of keeping his cool these days, which only worried Harry more.

“Excuse me a second,” he muttered, stepping away. “I think someone's harassing my boyfriend.”

Draco stood by the refreshments area. Fountains of many different types of wine had been erected with magic. There were no actual fountain parts, just tiers of wine that spilled down in little waterfalls that hovered in mid air. Bunches of roses and other fragrant flowers had been spelled to float inside the fountains, untouched by wine and easily seen through the liquid. A few witches and wizards stepped up, conjuring a glass and dipping it in one of the streams to collect their beverage. It was beautiful as well as clever—like his boyfriend, who stood with his back straight and proud, French syllables hissing from his taut pink lips. The recipient of his ire was none other than the fair, haughty man who had been observing them outside.

Harry took a moment to inspect the stranger. His hair was somewhere between sandy and true blonde, his eyes sharp, intelligent and quite stunningly blue. Like Draco, he would look at home on the pages of _Witch Weekly_ , perhaps in one of their infamous most handsome smile contests. As he stood now, Harry thought the man's expression sour and unpleasant despite his refined features; high cheekbones, defined brows and such did little to distract from an unpleasant temperament. And this man looked like a spoiled, foul excuse for a human being.

Whatever he'd said to Draco had both their tempers up. Harry could tell by the set of Draco's shoulders, the way he leaned his weight to one leg in a kind of standing swagger. He'd struck that pose a fair few times at Hogwarts, often right before lobbing an insult at some unsuspecting Gryffindor with the misfortune to be standing near Golden Boy Chosen One. Draco's voice was frustrated even in French, bordering on irate. He stood on one side of a fountain of rose wine, the pompous git on the other. They spoke through the streams.

Harry drew close to his boyfriend, placing a hand to his shoulder blade in what he prayed was a casual-enough manner.

“Everything alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Draco replied tightly, glaring at the other blonde through the pink fall.

Harry gave the tall man a nod of greeting. “Harry Potter,” he said evenly in introduction, not offering his hand to shake. They'd both get a wine-soaked sleeve if they did.

“ _Je sais vous,_ ” the man replied, nodding in lieu of a handshake. His voice was deeper than Draco's, though not as deep as Harry's got in lust or anger. It was almost too deep, too rough for his posh and polished appearance. “ _Je suis Philippe Didier._ ”

“ _Enchanté,_ ” Harry replied without thinking. When his brain shut down, the foreign word sounded oddly smooth on his tongue. He schooled his face in a Malfoy-like mask of indifference so the Frenchman wouldn't realize Harry was dying to launch forward and choke the life out of him with his bare fucking hands.

His one casual word had been enough to convince Didier that he spoke the language. The man announced a few sentences ringing with flip and arrogance. When Harry heard the name 'Malfoy' he let his brows shift. It wasn't a nod or a shake of the head but the slightest acknowledgment possible, as though Didier weren't worth his time. Under Harry's hand, Draco seethed. His pale face showed nothing.

“ _Je vais être honnêtte avec vous, Harry,_ ” Didier shrugged offhandedly, tossing a hand out as though he were talking about the weather. “ _Il couinait comme un cochon qu'on emmène à l'abattoir. N'empêche, il vallait son pesant de gallions._ ”

Draco went absolutely rigid beneath Harry's hand. Draco took a steadying breath that inflated his chest to capacity, flaring his nostrils. He took a second and then a third. Then he was turning on his heel, storming off, cloak billowing out behind him and chin held impossibly high.

“Draco,” Harry called, about to walk after his blonde. He'd reached out to grab Draco's arm but he was a second too slow.

“ _Comment?_ ” Didier asked.

“I can't understand you,” Harry said, speaking to Didier but watching Draco's retreating back. The Malfoy dragon flew through a door at the end of the grand hall, slamming it behind himself.

“Ah,” said Didier, voice dripping with contempt, “yoo don't speak French. Of course.” He practically rolled his blue eyes, suggesting The Boy Who Lived was uncultured and uncouth. It wasn't Harry's fault he'd grown up abused and ignored in a cupboard. Then again, growing up like Draco—abused and ignored in the lap of luxury—didn't sound a whole lot better.

“No, I don't,” Harry shot back. He tried to focus his swirling emotions into his words, giving them heat rather than volume. Everything came out in a hiss he hadn't at all intended. His syllables seethed with rage discernible even in snake tongue. “ _But let me tell you this: you'd best pray I never have reason to see your left arm. You'd best pray I never see you on the battlefield. Because I swear to you, you'll be the first man I kill._ ”

He heard voices all around, whispering. He registered Didier's stunned blue eyes and cringing face. When Harry glared at him, the wine glass Didier was holding gave a subtle pop before disintegrating into powder. Blush wine poured over the man's manicured hand as Harry swept off in a swirl of navy robes.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

It turned out Draco had taken the old servants' entrance. He sprinted up the worn spiral stairs, not stopping until he reached the topmost landing. Out of breath, he braced against his knees and panted, his black cape pooling around him.

Of course Philippe was here! His father was Apolline Delacour's step-brother, making him and Fleur step-cousins. It would be rude for the Didier's _not_ to attend. Why hadn't he prepared himself? He should have seen this coming.

He was on the eighth floor of the main castle tower. The whole place was under spells so the muggles would see it as mostly ruined. Witches and wizards appeared as the innocuous staples of abandoned ruins—birds, squirrels and other wild animals, perhaps a stray cat or dog. Little did the muggles know the castle was fully functional, hosting parties and political events for the elite of the magical community.

Draco leaned against the rough stone wall, gazing out the only window at the brilliantly pink and orange sky. It was like the sun didn't want to set and was holding out, fighting fate.

If he had been prepared, mentally, would seeing Philippe have been any different? Would he somehow be less affected? Probably not. He breathed slowly, trying to calm his racing heart. Those few flights of stairs had really undone him. He felt a lack of emotion—dry, dead. He didn't feel anything. Whatever humiliation and rage had heated his blood was vacuumed out when he ran from the reception like a fucking girl. He could never face any of those people again....

Footsteps on the stairs broke him from his thoughts. He swiped at his face to be sure there were no beads of sweat that might be mistaken for tears. Draco Malfoy didn't cry.

 

 

“Draco?” Harry called, mounting the seventh flight of stairs. He was getting worried. “Doll, are you up here?”

His answer was a mass of black fabric and fury hurtling down the stairs to land squarely in his arms. He fell back against the coarse stone wall, cradling Draco to him, breathing his sweet smell and stroking his back through the layers of suit, shirt and wizard's cloak.

“Don't call me stupid names,” the blonde muttered, arms thrown haphazardly around Harry's neck.

“ _Ta Gueule,_ ” was Harry's reply.

Under any other circumstance Draco would have had a hundred blithe and pithy retorts at the tip of his sharp tongue. Today he simply obeyed, burrowing his face further into Harry's warm shoulder. Harry hoisted him upright, getting them to the top of the landing where they could stand evenly. He kept Draco tight in his arms, pressing the blonde into the wall. Harry kissed his neck, his ear, his soft cheek, a hand round his waist and the other buried in his glossy blonde hair.

“Now,” he whispered, their noses rubbing. “Tell me you're alright.”

“I am,” Draco agreed, swallowing against his dry mouth.

“I don't believe you,” Harry said quietly. “You suck at lying to me.”

“I do,” Draco agreed once more. Apparently he'd forgotten to put on his spine this morning.

“Do you wanna tell me what that fucker said?”

Unable to summon words past the lump in his throat, Draco meekly shook his head.

Harry's response was to catch Draco's lips with his own. The blonde responded almost reluctantly, his lips watery and weak, salty in place of their usual crisp sweetness.

“Draco,” Harry warned against those lips, voice maddeningly low. “Either you tell me what he said or I'm going back down there to _make_ him tell me. Slowly and painfully. Do you want me to cause a scene and get carted off to Azkaban? Or do you want to tell me?”

Draco looked away, blinking furiously. Harry took his damp, clammy cheek in hand, bringing his silver gaze back where it belonged.

“Tell me, Draco.”

“He...” Draco felt himself choke back a sob. This really was his undoing, wasn't it? “He said I... squealed like a pig at the slaughter... when we... when he....”

Harry stroked his cheek with a thumb, looking into his eyes. “You don't.”

“Wha' would _you_ know?!” Draco spat, trying to push Harry away. His arms were like gelatin and Harry was strong with anger. Draco felt the man's magic crackling along his skin wherever they touched, jumping between them in great colorful sparks. His escape failed miserably. He was crushed against the stone by Harry's hot, hard body. Glowing green eyes bored into him.

“I don't know anything,” Harry said boldly. “But neither does that prick. At least I can see how amazing you are.”

Harry's lips claimed his, fast and sharp, tongue licking and teeth biting like they'd die at sunset and this was their last moment together. Draco moaned rather loudly and gave in, kissing him back, giving as much as he was given. Their teeth clacked, tongues danced, groans mingled. Slowly, Harry's hand closed over his sensitive throat, pressing him against the castle wall until it was difficult to draw breath.

“You're mine, Draco,” he whispered darkly, his voice heavy. “Mine.”

“Yes.”

And Harry was on his knees, unfastening his belt.

“Yers.”

Harry was tugging at his trousers, freeing him, touching him.

“Always,” he expounded in a whisper of his own, out of his mind with the pleasure of Harry's mouth, those green eyes boring up into him. He couldn't look away for the life of him, couldn't wrench himself away from the sight of Harry bleeding Potter sucking his cock—gagging, really. He was going too deep and forgetting to breath. And it felt bloody fantastic every time that tight, sweet throat closed down on the head of his prick, enclosing him in suffocating wetness, pulsing tightness and heat.

“Harry,” he found himself moaning. “Harry.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Dinner went off without a hitch. He and Draco sat side by side at one of four long tables set up to form a square in the large room. Tiny fae played games among the topiaries and flower arrangements decorating the space inside the tables like an indoor garden. Harry liked that everyone could see everyone—he could keep a close eye on Philippe Didier.

Harry had reached out to get Draco's chair when they'd returned to the hall. That had been his only flub for the evening. He'd conjured the proper glass for toasting, given the correct reply, and cast the spell to roll his sleeves at the proper time. Harry had watched as Arnett Didier cast the spell, rolling his shirt sleeves nearly to his elbows. Philippe's spell was weak, barely turning up the cuffs of his robes. Draco cast the spell at his right arm only, unfastening and rolling the left sleeve manually. He turned the cuff twice, very careful to keep the Dark Mark covered even though anyone who read _The Daily Prophet_ knew that he was Marked. Harry understood that desire to lay low and avoid notice. Beneath the tablecloth, their knees touched.

Dinner was a grand affair with many small and delicate courses. Harry was a good sport and tried everything. A few of the dishes were just not his thing. He discovered he liked something called foi gras. Escavêche? Not so much. Just like Hogwarts, plates of food appeared by magic, disappearing at the end of each course. It wasn't long before the dancing began. The orchestra returned to play stately waltzes and minuets, Draco's foot tapping in time to a few songs. They watched as Bill led Fleur around the floor, soon joined by Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Fleur's grandmother and Arnett Didier, then Charlie and the Maid of Honor. Charlie kept the beautiful French witch laughing the entire time. She seemed quite taken with him. Harry realized she might be rather upset if she ever realized the red head's inclinations weren't bent her way.

Harry found himself wishing he could dance with Draco—not because he fancied dancing but because Draco did. And he was so good at it. Harry wanted people to see Draco for who he was, not what people assumed of him because of his father or his politics. Harry heaved a sigh, sipping the last of the red wine he'd had with dinner.

Gabriella Delacour approached them, a determined smile fixed on her face. Her blue eyes flitted between the two men like a moth in a wind storm. At the last possible second she settled on Harry.

“Would you care for a dance, 'Arry?” she asked, raising a simpering eyebrow. Harry hadn't been nearly so suave at twelve. Thankfully, Draco intervened immediately.

“You wouldn't want to dance with him,  _ Mademoiselle _ ,” Draco heaved a mock sigh. “He'll only step on your lovely feet. Might I have the honor?”   


Draco was all courtliness, standing to offer the girl his hand with a formal bow. She smiled and tittered happily, lead away to the dance floor. Harry watched for a moment before going for a refill on his wine. Philippe Didier was no where near the fountains when he arrived; in fact, he didn't see Didier anywhere and that suited him just fine. The man had already made the very short list of people Harry could and would kill when given the chance. With his wine glass full, Harry strolled back to his and Draco's seats. Not wanting to sit just yet, he leaned against the back of his chair watching the dancers swirl around the floor to a quick waltz. Draco looked amazing, a brotherly smile on his handsome face as he twirled Gabriella around the way Bill had spun Fleur. The girl's laughter was infectious out on the floor.

“Yoo are not dancing,” said a lilting voice beside him. Harry turned to find Fleur Weasley, now without her demure veil, sipping a glass of champagne and looking at him fondly. She leaned forward, kissing both his cheeks. Like her sister, she smelled of sugar and roses.

“I don't dance—I step on people,” Harry shrugged, uninvested in the matter. “I'm sure you remember.”

“Yoo were 'ow old, zen? Fourteen?” Fleur gave a pleasant laugh, gesturing with her glass. “We are allowed to change in life.”

“You're right,” Harry said, sipping his wine. “Maybe, once all this is over with, I'll learn to dance. There are a lot of things I'd like to do when the war is over.”

Fleur followed his gaze out to the dance floor, observing her baby sister with Draco as he led her through a complex series of steps. She followed beautifully, her gold skirts swirling around her ankles as she moved under Draco's direction.

“Yoo are in love with him,” Fleur said, as though declaring that the sky was blue or there were gnargles in mistletoe. Harry inspected his shoes to keep from blushing.

“Am I that obvious?”

“It eez good ee feigns indifference with more skill than yoo,  _ mon préféré _ ,” Fleur replied, smiling broadly. “Yoo are ze 'appiest I 'ave ever seen, 'Arry. 'Ee must be good for yoo.”   


“He is,” Harry agreed. “And I think he's happier now. That's all you can do—be happier together, right?”

“Yes,” Fleur said proudly, watching Bill waltz more slowly with his mother.

“I think you two will be happy for a very long time—forever,” Harry offered, not much good with sentimental conversations. Or with women, apparently. At least he had Draco now, taking 'women' off his very long list of things to worry about. “ _ Q _ _ uello che sarà, sarà _ ,” Harry quoted.    


Fleur's hand came to rest on his shoulder as she leaned very close. She whispered in his ear of a terrace that could be accessed from a nearby hallway. It was sure to be deserted and was not subject to the Apparition wards.

“ _ Merci beaucoup _ ,” he told her.    


“ _ De rien, _ ” she replied. Her wink suggested she and Bill had already made use of the terrace's exclusivity—nay, planned it in advance. Harry downed his wine, waiting for Gabriella to finish amusing herself with his boyfriend so he could take the man home and make wild, impassioned love to him. Hopefully several times before dawn.   


 

 

 

**\- - -**

 

 

The second the big wooden door closed at his back, Harry drew his dragon into his arms, flooring the blonde with a powerful kiss. Harry threw him bodily against the door, the cool evening air on their skin as their mouths worked hungrily.

“Where are—?” the man managed between having his lips bitten and tongue sucked.

“Alone,” Harry growled, pressing his groin against Draco's. He felt Draco stir. He closed his lips over the delicate pulse at his neck, kissing, licking and biting his way to the shell of Draco's ear. He hovered behind said ear, searching out the sensitive nerves that made Draco weak in the knees.

“ _ Oui _ ,” Draco observed, one hand gathering a fist of Harry's robes at his waist. The other hand pulled at Harry's unruly hair in a way that made his insides purr. “ _ M'épargner _ . Rescue me from pianos and twelve year old girls with crushes,” he mocked.    


Harry kissed his strong jutting jaw, working steadily toward that arrogant mouth.

“Am I your hero?” he challenged, voice dark and heavy, lust building.

“Yer Wonder Boyfriend,” Draco drawled, shrugging as though it should be obvious. That scathing drawl was so sexy now.

“Say it,” Harry insisted. It came out as little more than a growl.

“Make me,” Draco challenged, eyes on fire.

Nose to nose, Harry lowered his hand to the front of Draco's trousers, cupping his growing arousal and palming it with fast, sure strokes. He caught Draco's bottom lip in his teeth, tugging ruthlessly until Draco let out a throaty moan that anyone could have heard through the heavy door. He kissed the very edge of Draco's disobedient mouth, watching as silver eyes slid closed in supplication, anticipation, desire.

“Yer my hero, Harry.  _ Mon Dieu _ ,” he spoke below a whisper, his face peaceful. “Let's go home.”   


“Yes,” Harry agreed. He wrapped his other arm around the blonde's shoulders, holding him tight to combat the jarring of Side-Along Apparition. The wards on Grimmauld Place had been adjusted so that either of them could Apparate in and out. Harry had convinced Professor McGonagall that he and Draco needed to be able to leave quickly in an emergency and she consented to alter her wards. Harry's excitement grew as he spoke. “Take me to our bed.”

“I like a man who knows wha' he wants,” Draco smirked. He grabbed Harry's arse, pushing their groins together and kissing him roughly before the compression of Apparition hit.

 

Two tall figures observed from the shadows.

“ _ I told you _ ,” the young man simpered in his native tongue, flicking an invisible spec of dust from the sleeve of his black wizard's robes. “ _ Potter's taken Malfoy's boy as his plaything. They are... perhaps more attached than I realized. _ ”   


“ _ To put it mildly, _ ” the older man confirmed, rolling his eyes. “ _ The Dark Lord would be very interested in this information. We should use it as another bargaining piece. I don't know how much longer we can keep this up. _ ” His bearded chin sunk to his chest as he dug in his breast pocket, producing a small potion vial. He unstoppered it and drank, scowling at the taste.   


“ _ Do you think anyone's on to us, Uncle? _ ” the younger asked quickly, blue eyes wide as his head swirled with possible complications.   


“ _ Not yet, _ ” he replied. He cleared his throat. “ _ We've been very careful. I've fooled my own mother... for now. We mustn't become too full of ourselves. The sooner we are in His good graces, the better off we will be. _ ”   


The young man smiled a wicked smile. “ _ It shouldn't be long now. _ ”   


 

  


\- - -

 

 

Harry felt a little dizzy when they landed. He wasn't sure if it was the distance of the Apparition or Draco's lips on his, kissing him against the swirling void of nothing. Apparently it was possible to grope someone while Apparating, too, because his hand was still planted firmly on the blonde's crotch. The last dregs of sunset came through the open curtains, giving enough light that he didn't have to fumble for the buttons of Draco's jacket. He pushed the garment off of lean shoulders, kicking away his leather dress shoes, their lips never leaving. Draco let his suit coat fall to the floor in a heap, pale hands shooting up to hold Harry's face, deepening their kiss by holding him still. Harry threw his glasses, yanking at Draco's black tie until the knot came free.

Then Harry remembered he was a wizard. He pulled his wand from his sleeve and gave it a powerful swish and flick. Buttons and catches released and fabric flew. Harry's robes zoomed across the room. He lifted his legs and his trousers slithered off. Caught unprepared, Draco hopped in unbalanced disorder, trying to get out of his trousers even as his shoes shot off his feet and into the closet. He teetered onto the bed, falling with a groan onto his face, white boxer briefs the last to fly off into the hamper. He gave a little hiss of pleasure, whether at being naked or being stripped by magic Harry wasn't sure. He didn't bother to find out, straddling Draco's prone body and biting the back of his neck with a vengeance. Draco jerked and moaned, voice tight in his throat. Harry forced the man to his back, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along his back and chest, every inch of skin his wanting mouth could reach. He looked down at Draco, gently brushing a stray lock of hair from his silvery-green eyes.

“Draco,” he said, inching them further up the bed. Draco slid under him, teasing with little touches until he lay with his head nestled in downy white pillows. “I want you to fuck me.”

Pink lips parted and mute, Draco could only blink. His hair was a feathery blonde halo, framing his face and making him look like an angel again. “Yeh sure?” he choked.

“Yes,” Harry smiled, brushing Draco's lips with butterfly kisses. He was quite sure. “ _Baise-moi._ ”

“ _Comme tu veux,_ ” Draco simpered, grinning.

“I like the sound of that.”

They were both screamingly hard when their bodies met again, rubbing furiously as each spelled out his intention in bold kisses. Harry pressed down, enjoying Draco's shivers and sighs, thrusts and mounting pressure, their cocks rubbing in an escalating grind they had all but perfected. Harry knew the exact instant Draco started to sweat—that burst of crispness he had once mistaken for cologne filled the air, the pungent bouquet of sweat and natural oils that the man's rose petal skin produced in spades. They should bottle Draco's scent and sell it to lonely witches at the apothecary. He was maddening! He didn't wear deodorant half the time. He just smelled the way he smelled, like Quidditch lawn and dry autumn leaves, the tiniest hint of tart crab apples, sweet lemons and an herb Harry suspected was sage. He could lick and kiss this man 'til they both came. Draco was about to. The blonde shook under him, gasping at the things Harry's mouth did to his pale skin, his slender, supple, kissable neck. Not so pale now: Draco was marked red and raw. Harry eased his weight back, pushing up onto his hands to relieve most of the pressure from their groins. Draco let out a petulant moan, trying to pull him back down.

“You're about to come,” Harry pointed out. He couldn't resist bowing his head, licking a droplet of sweat as it ran down Draco's smooth chest. It tasted of salt and sweet and _him_. 

“Yesss,” Draco agreed, bucking his hips, grabbing at Harry's ass to force his hips to move, too. “Make me come. _Please_ make me come,” the blonde begged. Harry kept his body raised. Their cocks barely touched, making Draco frantic. 

“But I want you to fuck me,” Harry reminded him.

“Yesss,” Draco said readily, eyes black with the lust and arousal coursing through him. “I'll last longer if I come first.”

A rogue smile crossed Harry's face. “Why didn't you say so?”

Transferring his weight to one arm, he slid his free hand down Draco's compact, writhing body until he reached the man's cock. He wrapped his hand around the base, squeezing tightly to prevent him from coming as Harry lowered himself down once more. He gathered them both in his hand and—just the way Draco liked—he began thrusting into his hand, rocking his hips and encouraging Draco to do the same. Draco pushed at his ass, begging him to go faster, to thrust harder, to give more. It wasn't long until they both worked frantically. One of Draco's hands joined his, squeezing them together as the pressure built.

Draco's orgasm was sudden and explosive. His eyes shot open and he screamed at the top of his lungs, fingernails digging into Harry's ass cheek to leave little red half-moon shapes. Harry almost came when he realized Draco was screaming his name. He froze, listening. He let Draco's hard, masculine sound ring out in his ears, smelled Draco's skin, tasted Draco on his lips. And then he felt Draco kissing him softly; wet, messy and sated.

After a moment Draco pressed at his shoulder, urging Harry to roll to his side. The blonde curled against his chest. His mouth closed over a nearby caramel brown nipple, flicking it with his tongue. Harry gave an involuntary shudder. Draco made him feel sensitive, awake and alive like nothing else in the world. Draco insured both of his nipples had the same treatment, hardened to bright red lavished nubs before sliding down to take Harry's cock lazily into his mouth. He sucked at the head, helping draw out the pleasure. He bobbed lower on each pass, licking a hot path up the shaft before pulling off.

Harry was about to protest when Draco took one of his balls in that ungodly mouth, giving it the same leisurely, suckling worship. He moved to the other, summoning his wand with a tattooed arm.

“Do we have to use magic?” Harry croaked, only half coherent.

Draco looked up from his thighs. The expression on his pointed face said he'd rather not be interrupted as he was rather enjoying himself. He sighed heavily, concentrating on a decent answer through the haze of sex.

“I dunno how muggles do this part,” the blonde admitted, giving his wand a little flick but not casting any spells.

“Is it... necessary?”

Draco raised his eyebrows and nodded; large, serious silver eyes in stark contrast to his pink-flushed cheeks and red lips swollen from kissing.

“M'kay,” Harry said with a little nod of his own. He closed his eyes, mentally preparing himself. Draco's non-verbal spell still made him jerk. It was like a Scourgify to the intestines and it made him squirm until the sensation subsided, leaving him clean and empty. He looked down himself at Draco, unconsciously biting his lip.

“Gods, you look good,” Draco whispered, running a hand up his chest. He fondled the dark hair at Harry's stomach with reverent fingers, taking in the coarse feel and yielding skin beneath. Still lying on his side, Harry propped up an elbow, resting his head at a downward angle so he could watch Draco.

Silver eyes locked onto his, mouth agape and happily, hungrily staring. He licked his raw red lips. He focused on Harry's face even as he stroked, even as he kissed and then sucked cock, breath ghosting over Harry's stomach and making his innards flip.

“Mmm,” Harry cooed, a hand on Draco's head as the blonde took him deeper. Draco stayed true to his word, not using magic to alter his throat like he usually did. He couldn't take it nearly as deep but it felt just as good. Draco certainly tried. Harry felt his gag reflex a few times, the blonde pulling back each time to splutter and regain his breath. He blinked rapidly, eyes wet, before diving right back to it. He was nothing if not determined.

Just when Harry felt fit to burst from the slow, tight heat, Draco pulled off. He worked the base of Harry's shaft with his hand, knowing that so much as touching the head again would send him right over the edge. Harry had a knee up, giving Draco room to work. Now the blonde rolled, sliding face first between Harry's legs.

“Put yer hands behind yer head,” he urged, nuzzling just under Harry's balls. “Enjoy it.”

Harry smiled, closing his eyes and doing as Draco said. Draco's nimble body wormed between his legs, his lips moving further and further back. He put both pale hands on Harry's rear, massaging at first and then spreading gently. His fingers didn't move any closer; instead, he used his gorgeous mouth.

Harry was already close. One slow, hot lick to his entrance and he was leaking precome. He almost never did that—unless Draco teased him like this. Draco tapped with the back of his tongue, slightly harder each time until Harry relaxed into the pressure. It was easier now that he knew what to expect. It had been weird the first time because Draco was literally between his legs; except for contact in that very personal place, they'd hardly been touching at all. Now Draco was draped around him. They were just... wrapped up in each other. He kept a hand behind his head but slipped the down his back, reaching down to once again hold Draco's blonde head, pushing them closer. Draco took the hint, transitioning from licking to sucking. It wasn't long before he started slow, firm thrusts with his tongue, not yet breaching. He worked the muscles until Harry felt boneless and tingly from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. When he opened his eyes he found that Draco was hard again, long pink cock on display between lean, creamy thighs.

“Yes,” Harry whispered, voice like gravel. He gripped Draco's hair in a strong fist, reveling in the fresh beads of sweat blooming over the man's scalp. “More.”

Draco obliged, flicking his tongue hard before pushing in. Harry felt a slight sting but that was all. He breathed through his nose and then it was over. He went back to the filthy pleasure of it. Draco hummed happily inside him, his cock jumping.

“Like it?” Harry asked with a deviant upturn to his slack, open mouth. Where had this sick, perverted streak come from? Draco swirled his tongue before withdrawing to answer. He rubbed his face in a tangle of dark body hair, inhaling deeply, sliding a spit-slicked finger over Harry's opening but going no further.

“Ya taste good,” Draco sighed before diving in for another wet lick just to prove his point.

“No way.” Harry couldn't help a certain amount of incredulity.

“I could do this all fuckin' day,” the blonde whispered against him. “I love it. Love the way ya taste.”

Draco slid right back again, making him gasp. Harry clenched, ripping a high, keening, impulsive wail from Draco's lungs. The sound shook him everywhere, down to his bones. The blonde scrambled, hands gripping tighter as he fought to get deeper, to taste more.

“Can...” Harry panted, a hand now fisted in unruly platinum locks and tugging mercilessly. His other hand ripped at his own hair with equal disregard. “Can you make me come from this?”

Harry felt Draco smile against him and then they were off, Draco plunging roughly as his hands kneaded Harry's arse, pulling cheeks apart. Harry pushed Draco's beautiful face in there, grinding, realizing he could to a certain extent sit back on Draco's face, trapping the blonde between his body and the mattress. His knees clamped down around Draco's torso, fulfilling the need to be as close as possible with every part of their bodies. A finger joined the mix, getting good and wet before joining Draco's tongue. Harry felt that familiar tightening in his gut. We writhed, riding the high.

“Close,” he warned. “Close, _mon beau_.”

Draco's finger snaked inside him, making him pulse and clench. A second finger actually made it better, spreading just enough that Draco could work his tongue back in between the two. Harry growled, deciding in that moment it would be pointless to touch himself now. He could feel his orgasm like a cliff edge under his toes. Why rush it? He was about to fall.

Draco's fingers found a spot that quite literally made him see stars. Mouth hanging open like a spacking idiot, white sparks danced in his vision before taking over, everything going white. His head swirled in a melted-sugar mess. He was vaguely aware of ejaculating all over himself and Draco. His entire body jerked wildly. It was a good thing the man had told him to put his hands behind his head—he couldn't feel his arms or legs, let alone control them. The arm behind him flailed, slapping Draco across the top of his white blonde head.

Draco laughed _in_ him, sending jolts of fire up his spine to short out his brain. Everything went black for a second, though he wasn't aware of closing his eyes. He blinked furiously, his vision at last straightening out. The low light helped his eyes readjust. Little arcs of white lightning shot across his vision in the darkness.

Draco was licking come off his still twitching stomach, talented tongue cleaning the dark hair that decorated his abdomen—and he wasn't letting a drop go to waste. After he'd licked up every white splash, he put a hand to his chest, swiping at a puddle before bringing those fingers to his mouth, sucking all three at once with a fierceness to his eyes. Watching, Harry felt himself returning to hardness despite the fact that he'd quite literally shot his brains out seconds ago.

Draco looked pointedly at this straining new erection before his silvery eyes slid up to meet Harry's. He wore a lopsided smile on his perfect red lips. His left hand shot out, again summoning his wand. He cast a Cleaning Spell at his mouth, momentarily going cross-eyed from the scrubbing.

Harry tried not to laugh. Draco looked unbelievably, ridiculously, adorably silly with his eyes crossed, taking at least twelve years off his face. Harry had to wipe the grin off his own face before Draco saw and never crossed his eyes again for fear of looking juvenile. It looked so good on him.

“Please,” Harry spoke, his voice an odd rasp from more shouting than he'd realized. “No more magic, okay?”

The blonde didn't set his long hawthorn wand aside; instead, his face scrunched in consideration. “But... we need lube.”

“Er, alright then,” Harry agreed begrudgingly. Lubrication did sound horribly important just then. Especially with what he assumed was about to happen. Draco cast the spell at his hand twice, not satisfied with the initial amount conjured. After the second spell he tossed his wand all the way off the bed, turning back to Harry.

“Lie back,” he said softly.

Harry dropped the elbow he'd been leaning on, falling comfortably to his back. He closed his eyes, enjoying Draco's warm hand at his side and the warm press of the man's thighs as he knelt between Harry's legs.

“I know yeh don't like this,” he said bracingly, “but the only other way ta finish gettin' ready is with magic.”

“It's okay,” Harry said, keeping his eyes closed and focusing on the warmth of Draco's lithe body kneeling over him. “It doesn't bother me. It just... doesn't do anything for me, either.”

“Ahh,” Draco said after a second's hesitation, his voice shaky. Harry squinted and saw Draco coating his prick with the lubricant, stroking himself much longer than necessary as he scanned Harry's body with an appreciative smirk. Harry let his head fall back to the pillows. Draco picked up a spare pillow, tucking it under Harry's hips. A second later, Draco's hands were on his knees—one warm and the other wet, sliding his legs further apart, folding ups legs up accordion-style until his heels rested about a foot from his rear.

Draco's lips closed over his cock, sucking long and hard to distract him from the thin, damp hand that inched lower, stroking his perineum with a bony knuckle. It made Harry's head drop to the side, a muscle in his calf twitching. Oh, Draco knew what he was up to down there. The first finger went in just fine. The second wasn't a big deal, either. The third posed a bit of a problem. Harry took shallow breaths, breathing from his lungs instead of his stomach because that seemed to help reduce the sting. Draco's fingers swirled inside of him, spreading slowly, pushing in a steady, regular rhythm.

“Okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yeah.” What else was there to say? The man had three oiled fingers up his ass and was about to replace them with his impressive—no, _massive_ cock. Harry felt Draco shift on the bed, inching himself closer, sidling into position.

Draco's fingers never left him; instead, he felt something much larger brush against that sensitive, forbidden place. Just that made him clench. Draco seemed to have expected that reaction. He waited patiently, not so much as wiggling his fingers until Harry's muscles subsided and he returned to his nose-breathing.

Draco pressed carefully, agonizingly forward, using his fingers as a sort of guide rail. Even with his fingers it was like inviting a cross-continental jet through a car tunnel. It was just the wrong damn size. The proportions were hopelessly off. Harry hissed through his teeth, trying to stay calm. His confidence shattered around the five second mark.

“Ow!” he whined, face screwed up. “That _really hurts!_ ”

Draco froze mid-push. “Ya wanted ta do this the muggle way,” he sighed. “ _I_ din't want yeh ta suffer.”

Harry nodded weakly: it _had_ been his rubbish idea. He stuck to shallow breathing, hands laid passively on the bedsheets. He didn't want to grip them. Any tenseness would translate directly to that region of his body. Draco slid a fraction more before he began to retract his fingers, letting Harry adjust around the thickness he'd need to handle. He felt firm and solid, a battering ram compared to his gentle fingers.

“Almost,” Draco whispered. He leaned forward, hovering. Then his bony hips slid forward.

It stung. And then it burned worse than his lightning scar. It felt like he was being forced open, ripped in half, blown up from the inside out. He stared up at Draco, trying to keep the pain from his face, trying to breathe and maybe look happy. Air wheezed from his lungs, catching in his throat. Green eyes wide and blinking furiously, he forced himself to breathe lightly through the pain, willing it to subside. The pain was just as stubborn as either of them.

Above him, Draco's chin rolled to his chest as his eyes slid closed, his mouth hanging slack in soundless pleasure. His breathing decelerated, thin hands massaging Harry's hips, groping, feeling blindly. A vein at the side of his neck fluttered and pulsed beneath his sweat-covered skin. Kneeling there, he was so beautiful.

“Is that...?” Harry trailed off awkwardly, praying Draco knew what he was asking. _Are we in?_

“Good?” Draco supplied. Unable to speak another syllable, he licked his thick, kissable lips and nodded vehemently, eyes still screwed shut.

“I, er,” Harry stuttered. “All... in?”

Draco understood then. He shook his head, drawing cautious little breaths. He was being oh-so-very-careful not to move. “Not even close.”

Harry couldn't help flinching. Apparently when his face flinched, he flinched down there, too. He felt himself close like a vice around Draco. And Draco gave an answering throb inside that echoed through him, pushing at frazzled, over-sensitive nerves. It really felt like Draco would rip him in half if he went any further.

“How much... more?” Harry gasped when his breath returned. He hadn't been aware of holding it until his lungs started to ache. At least holding his breath kept him from clenching again.

Draco didn't respond—that didn't bode well; instead, he brought his hands to Harry's thighs, massaging calm, sweeping circles with practiced fingers.

“Here,” he whispered. “Let's try somethin'. Go on an' wrap yer legs 'round me.” And he lifted Harry's knee very slowly, hand sliding to his calf and guiding Harry to twine his leg around the blonde's waist. Harry linked his ankles at Draco's lower back. The blonde gave him time to adjust, not moving a centimeter inside him. “Better?”

Harry focused, taking time to really feel and assess. He opened his eyes with a verdict.

“Isn't any worse,” he shrugged. Draco hovered over him, leaning his weight down to an elbow to stroke Harry's cheek with his free hand. He tried to brush the discomfort and concern away with his fingertips.

“Good.” Draco made a trail of damp kisses up his neck, nipping at his jaw before settling a gentle kiss to each of his eyelids. “Na jus' ferget it.”

Harry almost gave a derisive snort. Forget that Draco was at least part way in him... down there? He didn't think that was possible to forget.

Draco's warm lips closed over his moving hot and slow, sucking at his lower lip before swiping with his thick, talented tongue. Harry's cock jumped. Draco deepened their kiss, his hand sneaking to the back of Harry's neck to tilt his face, gaining better access. Harry's tongue flew out, meeting Draco's in a familiar parry and retreat. Draco sucked and snapped his teeth, moaning softly. Harry let his arms drape over Draco's shoulders, stroking lean, sweat-slicked muscles. And then Draco's body was flexing powerfully under his hands. Harry realized they were finally in. The pain wasn't so bad when Draco kissed him.

Harry kissed back, biting at Draco's lips. Teeth clacked as each scrambled for control. Harry won, dragging Draco's perspiration-drenched body flush against him and kissing their brains out. He pressed his hips until Draco was sheathed in him to the hilt. Harry pulled at silky, sopping wet tresses and moaned, moaned long and loud and full to the very last ounce of his breath. When had this started to feel so _good_? Somewhere between the kissing and Draco on top of him—sweating deliciously and profusely, moving his hips in musical, refined, feather-light thrusts—everything had changed.

“You're using magic,” Harry accused between sharp, demanding kisses.

“No” Draco wheezed, breathless, eyes shut as he rocked tenderly. “No magic. Tha's jus' you.”

“Us,” Harry corrected, tightening his hold on Draco as their chests slid together, hips locked in a slow, delicious grind. Harry pushed into each articulation of Draco's body, feeling the tempered slide of him deep inside. He wanted more, so much more.

“Yes,” Draco agreed, face buried in his lover's neck. “Harry, Harry....”

Harry had always believed at the very back of his mind that Draco used magic on him, sexually. Now, as he writhed with Draco pushing into him, careful and shallow, edging them both closer and closer to oblivion, he realized all those sparks were just the chemistry between them; intense physical attraction—maybe a dash of hormones?—but the deep desire for true connection and perhaps even a trace of... no, not yet. It was too soon. He felt so foolish, mistaking passion for magic. It was enough to know this was all real.

He used his legs around Draco as leverage, meeting each neuritic slide with a challenging verve. Draco let out a high, nasal sound, biting down hard on Harry's neck, teeth raking.

“Draco,” Harry panted. “You... you....”

There were words trying to get out, beating wildly at the backs of his teeth, trying to escape with big heavy picks and sticks of dynamite. He bit his lips and thrust harder, swallowing the syllables down.    
__

_ You do this to me, Draco. I think I'm falling in love with you.   
_

There. Maybe it was too soon, but he couldn't help _thinking_ about how he felt. There was no reason to verbalize that kind of useless pap at a time like this.

“ _ Tu es _ _ trop _ _ serré _ ,” Draco managed in a constricted voice. His neck, face and shoulders were rosy from the effort of holding himself back. “Tight. So tight, baby. It's not supposed ta be this good the muggle way.”    


“Mmm,” Harry replied. “We're just that good together.”

Draco rolled his hips, angling up in a way that made something inside him zing until he was dizzy. Harry groaned loudly, pressing his face to Draco's wet hair.

“There,” he said loudly. “There. More.”

Draco's hips moved in a strenuous, maddening drive that was sheer athleticism; powerful and achingly slow, rolling over and over against that spot. Harry reached for the blonde's ass. His arms not being quite as long, he could only touch that wonderful curve where high, round cheeks met his lower back. Harry pushed with his fingertips, urging Draco not to be so gentle with him. It felt fucking  _ good _ .    


“Harder,” he ordered, squeezing with his legs to work himself higher up Draco's shaft even as the blonde was on a back thrust. A high, whinnying sound escaped Draco's throat. Even with his weight distributed mostly on Harry, his supporting arms shook.

“Yeh asked fer it,” he muttered, menacing, rearing his hips back until Harry felt a press at his opening—the head of Draco's long cock pushing at his entrance as his lover withdrew. A second later, he slammed back with pure determination, rocking Harry's body a good few inches up the bed. Gravity and kinetic friction brought Harry bouncing back down his length, Draco's bollocks slapping his ass.

“Again,” Harry demanded. “Harder.”

On his elbows, Draco slid his forearms under Harry's back, crossing them and gripping Harry's broad shoulders, giving himself leverage to bear down without the raven haired object of his affection sliding away. It was like an embrace—the tightest, sweatiest, bestest embrace. Once again Draco pulled back, sliding all the way out this time, teasing in small circles with the head of his prick. He needed that second to breathe and collect himself before plunging into mind-bending tightness and heat. It was like nothing he'd ever imagined. This was fucking harder than he'd ever fucked in his life.

“Yes!  _ Yes! _ ” was Harry's encouraging response. “Faster!”   


Draco launched again and again, driving down into the mattress, sinking teeth into Harry's neck to help hold him down. He sucked sweat from hot, spiced skin, feeling Harry's instinctual, insistent sounds thrumming in the throat beneath his mouth.

“Won't last,” Draco's voice was a tremble in his own ears, muffled by his teeth sunk well and deep in Harry's flesh. He was sliding, slipping, completely in and yet consumed. “Gonna come, baby.”

“No!” Harry said quite forcefully. “Not yet—too good!”

“Yesss, yesss, yesss,” Draco hissed his agreement between panting breath. His hips flew, driving with punishing force. “So close. 'Bout ta, 'bout ta....”

With a strength neither knew he possessed until that moment, Harry gripped Draco's sides with his knees and threw the blonde onto his back. He landed on top with a squelching thump, Draco's cock reburied in him. And Draco felt even bigger at this angle, getting that much deeper with gravity on his side, forcing Harry down his slick length.

Harry placed tentative hands to Draco's heaving chest, sitting up a bit and giving Draco some of his weight. He lifted his hips experimentally before lowering himself back down. Draco's silver eyes slid closed, head thrown back against the pillows, arching up helplessly into their mutual pleasure. Harry leaned forward, stealing a kiss before dropping back with a bit more gusto. Draco's prick was long, allowing him to build momentum as he dropped. That next slam drove the breath from Draco's lungs in a throaty wheeze. The blonde gasped beneath him, hands scrambling; one hand reached out to snag Harry's messy hair in a tight fist and the other found his hip, gripping fiercely to still his movements.

“Don't,  _ mon ange _ ,” he warned. “Yeh'll be so sore—”   


“Don't... care,” Harry panted, a crazed smile taking over his face as he speared himself, landing with increasing speed and enthusiasm. “Feels... too damn good.”

“So good,” Draco agreed. He let his hand roam Harry's chest, touching hard nipples and flexing muscles, letting him do as he would. Draco gave up any delusions of control. There wasn't a doubt in his mind about who was fucking who here. He was getting thoroughly, fiendishly fucked. By Harry. _His_ Harry.

Gods, the man moved as well on a cock as he did on a broomstick. He glistened, strong arms and chest positively rippling, rock hard thighs clamping down, pinning Draco to the bed. Harry was compact violence and ferocity, explosive; Draco knew to the marrow of his bones that he couldn't take much more of this wetness, this press and heat, this excruciating bliss that was making love to Harry. All Draco could do was pump Harry's thick sex trapped between them, hoping to get his gorgeous lover to come while he got his brains fucked out his cock. Draco had always felt in control with his dick in someone's ass—somehow, even with Draco buried in him, flying in and out from head to hilt, Harry was in charge. And it felt so good to be loved that way, loved so much and so fiercely that The Boy Who Lived To Be Straight would impale himself on just over twenty four centimeters of pureblood cock. Fucking glorious sight, too.

Harry actually batted his hand away, gripping him fiercely by the wrist and pinning him to the bed. The raven haired man quickly twined their fingers together, leaning close.

“Draco,” Harry whispered, thick lips brushing his. “Come with—”

Draco cut him off with an earth-shattering kiss. He gave a mighty upward thrust right to Harry's sweet spot and they were coming, Harry spilling across their chests and Draco losing it inside him—losing his mind, his body, everything that he was and ever could be. Eons poured from him like sweat from his skin, joining in this magnificent new universe. With his eyes shut tight, the only thing in his world was Harry. And that was the way it should be.

 

 

 

_“You know,” Sylvestra announced, breathing out her cigarette smoke in a thick, inky cloud, “I think I may actually prefer the bent ones.”_

_“Why is that?” asked Lysandra. She lay sprawled across the blurry purple chaise they'd dragged out onto the Quidditch lawn. Constance stood a few feet away, staring out at the world with her jaw askew. The witch might start drooling soon._

_“Double the fun,” Sylvestra shrugged. She fanned away the smoke to see her friend a little better. The stale, stormy pitch was in need of a breeze. “Granted, they've only eyes for each other, but this way I get to watch two men at once.”_

_“You didn't like the last pair,” Lysandra whined. “You never wanted to go and watch them.”_

_“The dog and that wolf? They weren't exactly strapping young things like these two.”_

_“They were fit enough,” Lysandra said in their defense. Those two had been a very loving, affectionate pair. She'd always enjoyed the show when the men forgot to close the bed hangings._

_“I suppose there's something to be said for the exuberance of youth,” Sylvestra puffed on her cigarette—it never burned down. “I think Constance would agree.” She gestured to the witch standing a few yards away, nose pressed to the edge of the worlds._

_“Constance, dear,” Lysandra called. “Come away and sit with me. They can't be ready for round four already.”_

_Constance shook her head of stylized blonde curls. “Not yet,” she sighed, up on her tip toes to peer at the two lovebirds in their nest. Their little mating calls had been heard throughout the house. The ladies had gathered up bits of furniture and dashed to the Quidditch landscape that hung above the bed. They never missed a show._

_“Dearest, come quickly!” Constance called, signaling with her hand for her friends to join her at the divide. Her crackled face danced with emotion. “I believe my favorite is in tears!”_

_Lysandra heaved her bulk off the chaise, offering Sylvestra her plump, jeweled hand. They strolled to the place where the grassy field cut off, joining the excitable Constance. The boy with the delicate face and white blonde hair was Constance's favorite. Of course he would be—he was of her lineage, after all. He had some of her looks about him._

_“You know,” Sylvestra observed, quite astounded, “I believe you're right.”_

 

 

 

“Draco, you alright?” Harry asked past heavy lips. He squeezed Draco's hand in his, pulling back from the blonde's so they might speak properly.

Draco swallowed mightily and kept his eyes screwed shut with everything he was worth. He'd come so hard his eyes were watering. And his throat was still hoarse from screaming their first round. Harry's dead-tired weight on top of him was a welcome comfort.

“Yeah,” he choked out, voice oddly high. “Fine.”

“Are you...?” Harry couldn't or wouldn't finish the sentence.

Crying? It was implied. Perched on top, Harry examined his flushed face with naked care.

“No,” Draco scoffed. And then his treacherous body betrayed him with an unmistakably sniffle.

“It's okay if you are,” Harry offered. He placed a kiss to the tip of Draco's pointed nose before observing him again.

“I'm not,” Draco replied, some of the firmness back in his voice. He still sounded like a man who'd recently screamed his head off but at least he was back in the right register. “Really.”

Harry took up his left wrist, bringing Draco's hand with the Gaunt ring to his face. Harry nuzzled against that pale hand before bending to kiss the Dark Mark. When Draco's eyes shot open in shock, a single tear escaped. It rolled down his cheek in full view.

Harry rolled gingerly onto his side before pulling his boyfriend's sweaty head to his chest. Draco twined his arms around Wonder Boyfriend's waist, snuggling close before another stupid tear could be seen.

“I dunno why I'm fuckin'—” Draco interrupted himself with another pathetic sniffle. He decided to stop talking all together before he dug himself a deeper grave.

“You don't?” Harry smiled a bit sadly before burying his face in Draco's hair. They wreaked of sweat and sex and it was bloody fantastic. “You really don't?”

Unable to speak past the flood of childish emotion now pouring down his face, Draco shook his head. He tried to burrow further into Harry's chest, inhaling the salt of sweat along with that tangy something that always hung on Harry's skin no matter what. He just needed to stay like this until he stopped... doing whatever it was he was doing. Throwing a missish fit or something. Draco Malfoy didn't cry.

Harry breathed calmly, stroking his boyfriend's back while the man refused to acknowledge that he was, in fact, in tears. Of course Draco couldn't admit it. For the first time he had actually let go of himself and  _ felt _ , genuinely made love to another human being. Of course he was crying. Harry didn't say a word. He held Draco to him, distributing kisses over his hair and trailing to his temple. Soon Draco sought his lips, catching him in a mushy, tear-flavored kiss. Harry's thumb swiped the dampness from his cheek before claiming Draco's mouth with teeth and tongue. Their bodies rolled together in familiar heat, hands roaming contours and angular planes as their mouths worked with increasing passion. When Draco's hand cupped Harry's ass to increase the pressure between them, the dark haired man flinched, sucking in air through clenched teeth.    


“Gettin' sore?” Draco asked, his voice laced with concern.

Harry was a little shocked at how much it hurt now. Draco had warned him but this was pretty damn bad. It felt like his innards had been rearranged by a person who had only the vaguest impression of where said organs were supposed to go. He didn't really want to move from his side and Draco seemed to understand that.

Draco didn't think about summoning his wand from the floor; instead, he returned his hand to the healthy curve of his boyfriend's backside. He focused his entire self on Harry, staring into his emerald eyes, syncing their breathing, willing the hurt away with the voracity of his affection and guilt. Draco watched the pain and discomfort melt from Harry's bright green eyes. He felt a tightness in his chest dissipate, too.

“How'd you do that?” Harry asked quietly, now able to shift comfortably to his back.

“I've studied Endopathotic Theory,” the blonde shrugged. Never mind that was the first time in his life he'd had any success with it. His explanation wasn't enough for the legendary curiosity of The Boy Who Lived To Stick His Nose In Things.

“I've heard you mention it before. What is it?”

Draco made himself comfortable beside Harry, looking at the ceiling with an arm behind his head as he contemplated how to explain what was probably a very complex and involved magical theory. He snuck his other hand under Harry's neck, massaging firmly. Harry's eyes fell, a sigh leaving his pouty lips as Draco's fingers set to work.

“Did ya ever accidentally do magic as a child?” Draco felt Harry nod acutely against his hand, so he continued. “It's unusual but it happens. Kids sometimes release uncontrolled magic if they're scared or feel threatened. I never did but, when I was eight, Theo Nott blew a hole in his mother's conservatory wall when I snuck up on him. The theory says tha' certain emotional responses can trigger our magic without our realizin' it. What magic did ya do?”

“Little stuff, mostly,” Harry shrugged. “My Aunt Petunia cut my hair short and I hated it. The next morning, it had all grown back. And once, Dudley and his gang were chasing me; one minute I was trying to hide behind a dumpster and the next I was on the school roof.”

“Yeh Apparated?”

“I guess.”

“Na  _ tha's _ rare,” Draco announced, eyebrows creeping up as he looked at the powerful wizard beside him in an entirely new light. “It looks like yer magic acts in self-preservation when yer afraid or threatened. The theory suggests tha' a wizard's ability fer wandless magic doesn't go away when we're trained ter use wands, jus' goes dormant. Supposedly tha' kind a' errant, wandless magic can be brought back an' controlled ter a certain extent. I've never been able ta get it ter work before. Guess it doesn't work fer everyone under duress.”   


“So why do you think you could do it now?” Harry asked, yawning quietly at the end of his question. He grabbed the sheet and pulled it over them.

“If I had ta guess?” The blonde scratched the side of his head, further mussing his hair. Shagged senseless was a fantastically good look for him. “Maybe it only works when I feel... guilty.”

Harry gave a short laugh that rumbled around in his chest. Draco could probably count on one hand the number of times in his life he'd felt true guilt, let alone remorse... but he was slowly changing. Harry had to give Draco credit for evolving into a normal human being with actual feelings.

“You have no reason to feel guilty,” Harry offered with a sincere smile.

“Reason has nothin' ta do with it,  _ mon ange _ ,” Draco replied, a bit of flippancy poking through even as he yawned. He returned Harry's slow smile. “Ya feelin' better?”   


Harry reached out, wiping the last undried tear from Draco's soft, creamy cheek. He felt more than better. This was perfect.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: French Translations**  
>  _Je sais vous_ \- I know you  
>  _Je vais être honnêtte avec vous, Harry. Il couinait comme un cochon qu'on emmène à l'abattoir. N'empêche, il vallait son pesant de gallions._ \- I'm going to be honest with you, Harry. He moaned like a pig at the slaughterhouse. But still, he was worth his weight in galleons.  
>  _Comment?_ \- What?  
>  _De rien_ \- It's nothing  
>  _M'épargner_ \- Save me  
>  _Comme te veux_ \- As you like  
>  _mon beau_ \- my beautiful one  
>  _Tu es trop serré_ \- You're too tight  
>  _mon ange_ \- my angel
> 
>  
> 
>  **POST SCRIPT:** I'm still waiting for my Pulitzer.


	23. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scar Head The Great has a knack for saying stupid, sappy things that make Draco speechless. Cue the big ones. Mundane events hide deeper, far more sinister goings-on. Death Eater-shaped storm clouds on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** vulgar and sexual language, Dark Arts, drivel in spades, Hermione being a prude  
>  **DISCLAIMERS:** Obviously, I don't own Coca Cola. If my fag-ass did, I think we'd all know about it.

 

 

 

“Please?!” Draco whined.

Harry shook his head. 

“But... _please?!_ ” the blonde stomped his foot in a petulant show, hands fisted at his sides hard enough that his knuckles stood out and the tips of his long fingers reddened.

“Draco, I said no,” Harry replied gently. 

“I'll wear the stupid disguise,” the blonde offered, head cocked to the side and chin jutting forward in his sincerity. “No one's going to kill me at a muggle produce market. Please, Harry! _Please._ ” 

He'd already decided to let Draco join him on his grocery errand; at this point, he was just enjoying the begging. Draco wouldn't behave this way in front of another living soul—his Malfoy pride would strike him dead before he could feel the poison of embarrassment reach his veins. But he pouted, whined, bitched and moaned like this for Harry. He was willing to make an absolute bloody fool out of himself to get his way. And Harry couldn't get enough of it. 

Draco stepped close, resting his cool, thin hands on Harry's broad chest. 

“Please, baby,” he pronounced, eyes forlorn, “I need to get out. I've been cooped up fer two days. I need _air!_ ” 

“Even London air?” Harry raised his eyebrows slightly. He also extended his arms, taking Draco's waist and inviting him closer. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “I'll do whatever yeh say.” 

Harry swallowed. Draco really must be stir-crazy to make a promise like that. 

“You're cute,” Harry said. His boyfriend was giving him puppy eyes and oh-so-vaguely pouty lips.

“Am not,” he sniffed, looking away. He couldn't seem to get the begging gleam out of his eyes, though. 

“Are too,” Harry said, leaning his forehead against Draco's and brushing his nose against that pointy one. “And I won't tell anyone. They wouldn't believe me anyway,” he chuckled, planting a kiss to the end of Draco's nose. It was loving, tender and adorable—and Draco hated it. This afternoon he endured it passively, he was _that_ dead set on getting outside today. Harry thought it looked like rain.

“Okay. Go upstairs and fix your hair. Make it good,” he joked. “If you're recognized and get yourself killed, I'll... I'll abandon my heroic quest to destroy Voldemort and take up Necromancy. And do you really want that on your conscience?”

“No,” Draco replied slowly, his eyes brightening because Harry was letting him out of their Number Twelve cage. He'd half expected a retort along the lines of “Silly Scar Head! Malfoy's don't have consciences!” What he got was a rapid joy suffusing Draco's perfect face. 

“Gimme five minutes, okay?” 

And he tore up the stairs, inelegant as a five year old. 'Spastic' was a good word for the way he nearly lost his footing on the hall carpet. Harry smiled after him like a fool in love. 

It wasn't until they'd Apparated to into a nearby alley and walked all the way to the market that Harry realized something was “off” about Draco's appearance. Sure, his hair was once again dirt brown and there were glasses hiding his silvery eyes. And he wore a grey blazer because it really did look like rain—he'd turned his pointy nose up at Harry's offer of an old nylon jacket. 

“Wait,” Harry said, pausing in the produce section by a display of apples. He dragged Draco to a stop by way of several fingers inserted in the back pocket of his denims. “These look awful familiar.” He tugged at the jeans. Draco didn't turn but looked over his shoulder, black-framed glasses sliding down his nose.

“They're yers,” Draco replied, not a hint of concern on his face that he'd been caught nicking his boyfriend's things. As it was, the denims could be called “low slung” at best, dripping off his narrow hips. The curve of his ass helped hold them up. Harry tried not to stare at those round cheeks he knew so well without a stitch of clothing on them—he could practically taste Draco against his lips from memory. He tried to be mad. He really tried.

“But I bought you all those clothes...” Harry shook his head, pursing his lips, green eyes wide. Even the unforgiving fluorescent lighting didn't dull their color. If anything, the low quality light made them brighter. 

“Ya know yeh like it, Potter.” And Draco bit the very side of his bottom lip, sending the pink meat of his mouth careening off to one side. Puckered lopsidedly and one dark brow quirked just-so, it was a mighty struggle not to kiss him senseless. Harry settled for a light swat to the ass. Draco had the gall to look affronted.

“Get going, Malfoy,” Harry shot back, jutting his chin to show the direction. “Left at the dairy case.” 

Draco quickly found he couldn't navigate the tall, narrow aisles, claiming they were identical. He didn't notice the numbers conveniently suspended from the ceiling. Unlike Hogwarts, there was a merciful lack of moving staircases, trick steps and walls that disguised themselves as doors for a day. Harry found the market a welcome place to navigate by comparison. Draco followed two steps behind, swinging the plastic shopping basket in his hand as he went. 

“So wha' exactly are we gettin'?” Draco asked, peering over Harry's trench coat-clad shoulder. Harry was scanning the meat display. They'd bothered to escape Azkaban: they should at least treat themselves, right? He examined a few packages of lamb before picking one with a nice amount of fat. If he'd learned one thing cooking for the Dursleys it was that a bit of fat was bad for you but great for flavor. He and Draco were bound to exercise it off one way or another.

“You like spicy food,” Harry answered, placing the lamb in their basket. “So I thought I'd have a go at making curry. Ever had it?” Draco shook his head, following Harry down a dry goods aisle. “Good! You won't know if I bullocks it up, then.” That got him an exhaled snort of laughter.

Harry scanned the shelves, looking for premixed curry powders. He didn't have the first idea what spices went into making curry, just that there were a lot of them. He crossed his fingers for something that mentioned lamb. The first few boxes he picked up weren't quite right and he set each back. Draco started tapping his toe. 

“Stop being a shit,” Harry mumbled, eyes flicking along the top shelves. 

“Ya _like_ tha' I'm a shit,” Draco articulated in a whisper, suddenly very close at Harry's back. Warm lips brushed the shell of his ear. An elderly woman further down the aisle shot them a dirty look. 

“Yes,” agreed Harry, flushing. “Just not right now.”

He spotted a sauce that looked promising and stretched a hand up. The stubborn box remained just out of reach, even on the tips of his toes. God damn being short—it wasn't such a big deal for a wizard but, as a muggle, it made certain things difficult.

“Here, _poilu_ ,” Draco offered. He took a little half-running step at the shelf, jumping to grab the box and pull it down. He gave Harry a light, playful smile when handing over the package, the sides of his eyes crinkling and apples of his cheeks perking up to make that special smile that Harry suspected was just for him. He smiled readily back, a sigh bouncing around in his chest, begging for release. The man made him goopy with a twitch of his lips or that emotional softening of his piercing grey eyes. Draco bent, breaking their all-too-short interlude to retrieve the basket from the checkered linoleum floor. Harry read through the parts of the box printed in English and decided it would do. He would need coconut milk and something called ginger paste. Venturing further down the spice aisle produced a garlic and ginger paste which he deemed close enough. He handed it to Draco, watching the man place the glass jar carefully in the basket. He'd arranged their purchases so that nothing touched, like volatile potion ingredients instead of the makings of curry. Harry suppressed a chuckle as he gathered coconut milk and a bag of basmati rice.

Searching for a last little treat led them down the junk food aisle. Draco slipped an arm around Harry's waist and pointed with his chin. 

“Why do I recognize those?” he asked in an undertone. 

“Crisps?” Harry shrugged. “Ron eats them. They're supposed to be really bad for you. Did you wanna get some?”

Draco's pretty face crinkled as he physically shied away from the display of crisp packages in loud colors. “I think I'll pass,” he said with conviction. Bad for him _and_ Ron's favorite? He'd probably rather die. His arm stayed around Harry as they walked down the aisle, slowed by foot traffic. Draco seemed aware of the occasional odd look they received; apparently, he didn't care. If anything, he pulled Harry a little closer. They were bumping hips when Harry stopped in front of the big bottles of fizzy soda. He didn't drink it all that often—it was always off-limits at the Dursleys, being one of Dudley's favorites. It was syrupy and sweet, so Draco was bound to like it. 

Harry stared up at a bottle of the name-brand stuff. The bottles were kept in a sort of rack that allowed them to slide down aided by gravity; unfortunately, it was clear that neither he nor Draco was going to be tall enough to reach them.

Harry let out a “harrumph.” The store was crawling with muggles, so hawthorn or holly aid was right out. They could try jumping again. He watched that idea spread across Draco's pale face. He waited until a woman pushed her cart past before setting down the basket and giving it a try. No luck. But Harry did catch a hint of something separating his creamy expanse of stomach from borrowed denims—something decidedly plaid. That something was a pair of Harry's boxers. 

His mouth may have hung open a little. He got a light, effervescent feeling in his fingertips, a tingling that made him want to reach out and _touch_. His chest got tight. He was very aware of the muscles in his own neck as he swallowed, watching Draco struggle to no avail. He was almost sad when Draco gave up. 

Harry had an idea; he didn't give Draco time to protest, only to react. He took to a knee and brought Draco's thigh down on his shoulder, lifting the man up. Draco's instinct was to drop a hand to Harry's other shoulder, bracing to distribute his weight as he rose in the air. Draco was heavier than he looked, being mostly muscle, but Harry knew his weight by now. Still, his leg shook at the strain of straightening under the sudden burden. It didn't take long for Draco to grab the soda bottle and squeeze his shoulder, signaling Harry to put him down before anyone discovered Draco Malfoy accepting assistance without vehement complaints and much rolling of eyes. Harry let Draco slide down his front, landing with his curvy arse firmly planted against Harry's crotch, hands wrapping his angular hips.

Harry followed Draco's gaze down to the end of the aisle. A girl about their age was looking at them, smiling at Draco. Her smile spread into a full grin when she spotted Harry. Did she think they were... cute? Her grin said she did. Harry discovered Draco smiling back. The girl was really quite striking, with long brown hair cascading down her back and a generous set of bristols filling out her short floral dress. Yes, she was grinning at the both of them. It made Harry uncomfortable. He picked up their basket, got an arm around Draco's waist and started steering his boyfriend away. 

Draco's head of dark hair swiveled, raising what could only be a coquettish eyebrow at Harry before looking behind him, sending the expression that girl's way. Then, with Harry's arm still around him, Draco actually winked at her. 

Harry moved his hand from Draco's side to his back pocket, inserting his entire hand and giving a good, possessive squeeze. “Cut it out,” he hissed.

“Okay,” Draco whined, as though Harry were nothing but a spoilsport raining on his inappropriately flirtatious parade. “Yer the jealous type. I guess threesomes are off the menu.” 

“They most certainly are!” Harry snapped without thinking. He lowered his voice considerably. “What—do you wanna fuck that girl?” He may have felt anxious, perhaps threatened, but he came across as nothing short of angry.

Draco had the good sense to rearrange his expression into an uneasy one. He leaned close.

“Not as much as I wanna fuck _you_ the second we get home,” he whispered in Harry's ear, pulling back afterwords to gauge the dark haired man's reaction. 

Harry worked to keep his face neutral, steering Draco to the check-out queue by the hand glued to his rear. “Good answer,” he growled.

Draco almost looked nervous, leaning in again to pose his next question. “Yeh'll be expectin' monogamy, then?” He said “monogamy” like it was the black death and Harry was asking him to run off and catch it.

Harry couldn't help it when his hand tightened on the shopping basket. His hand on Draco barely moved but he would have liked to pinch rather bruising. He didn't want a sharp pain to distract Draco from his rising ire or the severity of his tone.

“Fidelity... goes hand in hand with honesty and loyalty,” Harry observed through clenched teeth. “You'll find we do a lot of _those three_ in Gryffindor.”

“I see,” Draco laid a hand to the smalls of Harry's back, moving with him when the line surged forward. He rested the big soda bottle against his bony hip, leaning into Harry so they could continue speaking privately. “An' if I should... 'slip' from the tower of virtue? Then what?” His eyes were unreadable but his pretty-boy face worked its way to lip-biting, rapid-blinking, gaze-avoiding insecurity.

“I would be disappointed,” Harry said, voice deceptively soft while his words went hard as granite. “I might go so far as to say 'betrayed.' A dash of violent rage could enter the mix—especially if it's a leap rather than a fall. Will staying in the tower be a problem, dear?” The pet name was almost an accusation.

“Tha's a prison I can agree to,” Draco said quietly, bowing his temporarily brunet head. Darkened hair fell behind his lenses, into his silvery eyes slightly magnified by the frames. “It's not really a problem. I just need—”

“Boundaries,” Harry finished for him. “Very clear and unwavering ones. Am I right?” 

“Spot on.” Draco bumped Harry lightly with his hip. Harry wouldn't look his way as the line crept forward. “I haven't upset yeh, have I?” 

“No,” Harry sighed, shaking his head at the checkered pattern on the floor. “I just thought we were past this sort of thing.”

“We... never talked 'bout it,” Draco offered. “Na we have, right? An' we're past it.” 

Harry nodded, placing their items on the belt and offering a weak smile to the cashier. Draco hovered behind him, slipping Harry's wallet out of his pocket and handing it to him. He was trying to be helpful—his very tiny way of saying he was committed, involved, participating in the relationship. Harry realized this might very well be the first time sexual exclusivity was requested of a Malfoy. But it was a requirement for Harry Potter. The thought of anyone else so much as touching Draco made his blood boil. He tried not to grind his teeth. As it was, he swiped his credit card with much more force than was necessary. 

Draco stood there, thin hands stuffed in his pockets, feet shuffling and looking at the floor. Harry sighed, bagging the groceries himself. Draco opened his mouth, a hand shooting out of his pocket to rest between Harry's shoulder blades. After a second he pulled away, returning the comforting hand to his pocket. He looked like he wanted to say something as they walked toward the exit, Harry carrying the two plastic bags in one hand. When it became apparent that he couldn't get the words out Harry stopped. They stood in a little plexiglass enclosure between two sets of sliding doors, muggles passing them on either side. Draco looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Harry faced him, feeling his brow draw down in a stern expression. 

“Draco,” he said slowly. “It goes both ways, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not gonna screw around or cheat on you,” he reassured. “I'm serious. I want _you_. Is that so hard for you to understand?” 

Draco wouldn't meet his eyes. He took a step to the side, then another, then turned, walking slowly outside. Harry followed two paces behind, belting his coat against a damp breeze. Draco stood under the shop's awning, silver eyes watching as the first of many fat rain drops began pelting down. Thin hands turned his collar up against what would clearly be an onslaught. 

Harry stepped up beside him, flipping his own collar. He removed his glasses and stowed them in a breast pocket. Glasses didn't do any good when you couldn't see out of them. 

“This is the part where you say something back,” Harry chided. “I'm sure you remember this from school, yes? It's called an argument.” 

“Oh, ha ha,” Draco snapped. “Very clever, Harry.”

The sound of his name on Draco's lips, free of malice and misunderstanding, still made his heart slam against his chest like it was roped to a stampeding Thestral. He wasn't sure what to say to make Draco feel better. The man's drastically different lifestyle made Harry feel quaint, talking about things like virginity and monogamy as though they mattered a great deal. Would Draco care if he was unfaithful? Would it break his heart, like it would Harry's? Would he get angry, scream, throw things? Or would he not even be bothered? 

Draco ran the flat of one hand over his mousy hair, pale fingers starting at the back of his neck and sweeping all the way to his temple. He gave Harry a sideways look, the edge of his glasses interrupting his gaze. 

“Do ya like this?” he asked. 

“Do I like fighting with you?” Harry huffed. “I thought we covered that! I hate fighting with you. It's the last thing I want—”

“I meant my hair,” Draco said evenly, eyes on the river of water building in the street. Cars drove by, splashing through great puddles. It was turning into quite the downpour. 

“Oh.”

“Maybe I'll stay a brunet,” he said, noncommittal. He ruffled the hair at the top of his head, rearranging the way his bangs draped into his eyes. Harry grabbed his thin wrist, turning Draco to face him. 

“Don't,” Harry said, pulling off those thick, preppy glasses and sliding them into Draco's blazer pocket; immediately, the darkness of the frames left his eyes, replaced by blue flecks from the thread of his blazer. Harry brought his hand back to Draco's face, pushing glossy strands away from his eyes. He drew near enough to whisper over the blaring of car horns and the pummel of thunder. “I like you as a blonde... normal. I mean, I fancy you any way you look! But it doesn't matter. I want you to be yourself. Because I like you for who you are. Actually,” he took a deep breath, holding that silvery gaze. The longer he stared, the more green Draco's eyes became. So perfect. “I love you.” 

Draco looked Confunded—maybe even Imperiused, the way his jaw hung slack and his eyes went oddly wide, like he was staring at a four headed Grindylow and didn't know quite what to make of it. His lips parted but he wasn't breathing. Harry broke the silence before it could get any worse. 

“You don't have to say anything. I just... I wanted you to know where I stand. I won't say it again if it makes you uncomfortable,” he offered. 

Draco cut him off with lips, hot and fast against his own. He pressed hard, arms winding around Harry's waist and tugging him close. It didn't tell him anything about how Draco felt, if he was happy or displeased or couldn't give two straws, but at least it was _something_. The fact that he hadn't run screaming was a step in the right direction. Maybe the way he kissed was enough, sucking at Harry's lips, breath coming in sharp, staccato pulls, tongue begging for entrance. Maybe that sweep of tongue said it all—that he may not understand it or necessarily like it, but he would accept this if it meant that nothing had to change. And Gods were they good together, just the way they were. 

Draco's body met his in a familiar melding of lips, chests, groin and thighs. It was becoming second nature to hold and be held this way. They found one another in their sleep, always waking up twined together in a hard, sweaty, wet dream-grinding pile. Draco's thigh was tucked between his even now, their bodies quickly reacting to stimulation that was becoming as regular as meals. His boyfriend was hard against his thigh, lips working his with unrestrained desire. The smallest mewling moan escaped his chest. 

Harry knew that noise. It meant Draco was happy. Harry tightened his fingers in Draco's silky hair, gripping the back of his neck and deepening their kiss, taking Draco's mouth with the same passion, the same need. 

The unmistakable sounds of cat calling echoed across the street over the driving rain. Harry opened his eyes to catch sight of several teens standing under umbrellas. One of them was the girl in the floral dress. She stood next to a tall man with a scraggly goatee. He held a large umbrella in one hand and a six pack of ale with the other. The rest of the little crowd held similar bundles of alcohol and junk food. They looked like local college students, judging by the lewd message tshirts and baggy jeans most of the men wore. 

“Oi! Get a room!” One man shouted. His friends guffawed their agreement. 

“Yeah!” added the man with the goatee. “What're you, fifteen?” The girl in the floral dress smacked his stomach with the back of her hand, silencing him. The rest of their group continued to glare. 

Harry desperately wanted to flip them the bird. Draco beat him to the punch and his come back dripped with class. He smiled serenely across the street, lacing a hand in Harry's thick hair. Draco pulled—hard—until Harry's messy black head was forced all the way back, throat exposed. 

“Jealous?” he drawled, each syllable so clearly uttered by Draco Malfoy, once and always the fucking Prince of Slytherin. And his lips closed over Harry's, harsh and demanding. The girl gave a loud cheer of approval but it barely registered in Harry's lust-addled mind. His crotch jumped involuntarily as his lips were punished, mouth despoiled. His mind was stripped. It was Draco who came up for air first. 

“Sorry,” he whispered against Harry's swollen lips. “I jus'....” 

“Got carried away?” Harry chuckled. “It's fine by me.”

Since when had he become such a sexual deviant? They were b arely legal—and that was kind of raunchy in and of itself! For the first time in his life Harry was enjoying himself, his own body, without hesitation. And then there was Draco— _his_ enthusiasm, _his_ excitement pulsing a steady rhythm through his denims. It was clear that Draco fancied him right back, fancied him for who and what he was at his core, at his most base; sweaty, awkward and stubborn to a fault. Even his body hair, which had always proved a constant embarrassment in his past, seemed to do nothing but turn Draco on. One morning a few days ago, they'd been curled up together in bed. Draco clearly thought Harry was still asleep because he'd buried his face in Harry's armpit, breathed deep and started touching himself. Draco's slender hands had caressed them both. He'd moaned softly, grinding himself against Harry, inhaling his natural scent. Harry pretty much quit deodorant after that. 

Draco was looking at him as the teens trudged down the street. His eyes slid closed, nose nuzzling Harry in that way he thought the man hated. Maybe not? 

“Can we get a taxi?” he asked, breathing the scent of the rain and of London. 

“Of course,” Harry smiled. 

 

 

Harry had to tell the driver number thirteen Grimmauld Place because, as far as muggles could see, number twelve didn't exist. He paid the fare. Stepping out onto the curb with Draco, they made a dash for the stoop of number twelve. Half way up the stairs, Harry felt a wand at his throat. 

“How do you know this address?” demanded a woman's voice. She sounded angry enough to kill. It took Harry a second to filter out the menace and recognize her voice. 

“Tonks!” he sighed. “It's Harry and Draco.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could make out her watery, Disillusioned form. Draco had spun around on the top step, brandishing his wand. His shoulders didn't relax when Harry identified the body behind the wand as a friendly one. 

“Prove it,” she growled. “Both of you.” 

Draco thought a moment, not dropping his wand. “I've been sorted into Gryffindor,” he said with a shrug. 

“Remus taught me the Patronus Charm my third year,” Harry provided. “He kept feeding me chocolate and telling me I was as stubborn as my father.” 

Tonks seemed to accept these statements as proof of their identity. She lowered her wand only slightly.

“Now you,” Draco insisted from the landing, giving his wand a swish toward the semi-invisible Tonks.

“No,” she said sternly. “I don't answer to sneaking hooligans. I came for my guard shift and you two were nowhere to be found. What were you thinking, running off like that?! You Know Who has Death Eaters, Inferi, Werewolves, Dementors, Giants and Vampires, even! You could've been killed!” 

Draco reached a hand out to Harry, inviting him up to the landing. Harry handed over the shopping bag, fumbling in his pockets for his keys. They both ignored the irate Auror. 

“What if Death Eaters trailed you back to the house, hmm?” she posed, even angrier for being brushed off with adolescent nonchalance and detachment. “What if they discovered your location?”

“That's what we have the Fidelus Charm for,” Harry muttered, working his house key into the bolt. “They can't touch us here.”

“Harry!” Tonks insisted, reaching out for his shoulder. Harry shrugged her off, working at the second lock. “You can't be running off like that! You're too important to the Order!” 

Unlocking the door, Harry shoved Draco inside—out of the rain before he caught a cold—and then rounded on Tonks. “I'm not a weapon!” He announced loudly. “I won't be kept safe, locked up in some dusty gun cabinet until I'm needed! And I refuse to be loaded with everyone's hopes and shot at Voldemort. I appreciate your concern but I'm an adult and I make my own decisions.”

With that said he stomped inside, slamming the door in her face. 

Draco watched Harry peel off his soaked trench coat, dropping it to the floor in a sopping heap. He was getting more and more like Draco, leaving his things lying about for Kreacher to pick up after him. With a flick of his wand, Draco dried their hair and clothes. 

“From now on,” he posed seriously, “we Apparate in, we Apparate out. Yes?” 

“Sounds like a plan,” Harry nodded curtly. He picked up their grocery bags, about to head for the kitchen. 

“Did ya want help?” Draco offered, wand still in hand. 

“Er,” Harry stumbled for words, shifting the bags in his hands. “I'm... in a bad mood. The Order and stuff,” he shrugged. “I think I wanna be alone for a bit. Would that be okay?” 

“Sure,” Draco smiled gently, stripping off his blazer and flipping it over the banister. He started up the rickety staircase. “I feel like a nap. Wake me later?” 

Harry rolled his eyes. Draco _was not_ going upstairs to take a nap. “Nap” was code for going to bed to have a nice long wank and Harry should join him. They'd been tonguing in the back of the taxi—if Harry was still half-hard, Draco was too. And the man never let an erection go to waste. Ever. 

“Don't you start without me,” Harry warned, mock-stern, holding up a warning finger. 

Draco continued up the stairs, laughing softly, peeling off his shirt as he went. 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The rice was taking forever to cook. Harry stood by the stove, stirring slowly, the aroma of spice-rubbed lamb already leaking out of the oven and permeating the house. He heard Draco enter the kitchen; when he chanced a look at his boyfriend, all he saw was a perfect, naked torso and very flushed cheeks. 

“You couldn't wait?” Harry fake-sneered. “I'm busy making you a nice dinner and you're getting off without me? Better make it up to me.” 

“Harry...” Draco said, his meaning indiscernible through a practiced, even tone. 

“Oh, come on,” Harry rolled his eyes, stirring the rice. “Get over here an' blow me.”

No response. 

“What?” Harry couldn't resist egging the man on a bit. “You haven't sucked me off since your morning coffee. You must be dying for a quickie.” 

“I'm gagging.” The way Draco said it made him turn around. There was something about the sound of his voice... fear. He was afraid of something. Swirling white scars stood out on his chest, punctuated by flecks of old burns and yellowing bruises shaped like Harry's fingers and mouth. And in his hands were the two white rose boutonnieres from Bill and Fleur's wedding. Harry looked from the flowers cradled in Draco's hands back to his pale, drawn face. 

“What's wrong?” 

“Ya didn't... put a Stasis Spell on these without tellin' me, did ya?” he asked very quietly. The way he held the roses was very odd, like he didn't want to be touching them but had no other choice. He could have levitated them. 

“I don't even know the incantation,” Harry sighed. “What's the problem, Draco? Talk to me.” 

Draco walked to the sideboard and carefully placed the flowers on the silver tray Harry sometimes used to bring Draco breakfast in bed. He then extended his hawthorn wand, silently summoning two glass domes from the disused parlor. The contraptions reminded Harry of something you'd see in an old fashioned museum—big bells made of glass that could be clamped over dusty models or taxidermy birds. Draco put one over each of the flowers, clamping them down with a Vacuuming Charm. He backed away, wary, seating himself at the kitchen table. Slowly, he reached back until his hand found Harry's. 

“Those flowers should've wilted,” he said quietly, as deadly calm as he'd been when giving testimony before the Order. “I found trace magic on 'em but I couldn't tell wha' it was. I thought... yeh'd preserved 'em or somethin'. Bein' sentimental. But when I was... ya know,” he shrugged. 

“Because you couldn't be good and wait for me,” Harry said under his breath, trying to lighten the mood. Draco only squeezed his hand tighter. 

“Stop,” he commanded. “I realized wha' else would stop them from wilting,” he turned to Harry and his eyes were dark with true fear. His hand gave the tiniest tremor. “I looked down, saw the Mark... an' I remembered: _Drengr Leita._ It's a form of Dark Magic invented by Norse warlocks ter find comrades across large battlefields. It's wha' the Dark Mark is based on.” 

“You think those flowers are... what, exactly?” Harry spluttered. “Transmitting our location to someone?” 

“No,” Draco shook his head. “I think they're tryin'. The Fidelus Charm prevents knowledge a' this location bein' passed by anyone but the Secret Keeper. I think the magic is trapped, keepin' the flowers alive. If I were plantin' a spyin' device on The Chosen One, I'd want it ta behave as normally as possible. I'm sure these flowers are spelled to decay after signaling their _dróttinn_. We could take 'em outside an' test tha' theory—”

“Except that would give away our location and we'd be instantly attacked,” Harry sighed, stirring the rice with his free hand. Suddenly he wasn't so hungry. 

“Exactly. We need ta isolate 'em, no magical influence of any kind, 'til I can get an owl ta Headmistress McGonagall. Viktor might know somethin'; o' course, the best person would be Professor Snape. He knows more 'bout these older forms than anyone else.” 

“Fat chance getting a hold of him,” Harry snorted. Snape, no longer a Hogwarts professor, claimed to still be on the Order's side; yet they hardly ever heard from him and his information was relatively useless these days. Harry harbored his doubts: Snape hadn't even tried to save Draco from a week of torture. “Besides, we need to figure out every person who touched these things—from the florist right down to the wedding guests. Because someone on that list can't be trusted.” 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Hermione's bushy head materialized in the green flames. Harry leaned against Draco as he looked into the fire. 

“Where have you been?!” Hermione demanded without preamble. “I've been floo-calling you for three days! And Kreacher said you were out!” 

Draco answered for him. A casual shrug tilted his angular shoulders, an arm tucked around Harry's waist where Hermione couldn't see.

“We were probably fuckin'.”

They might've been having sex. Or Harry might've been out, arranging his last surprise for Draco before he returned to Hogwarts in a few short days. Hermione's mouth fell open. 

“Wha'?” Draco looked askance at Harry, pulling an innocent face.

“Gryffindors... don't really talk like that,” Harry explained.

Draco gave Harry a slow, warm smile. “They can learn.”

Hermione couldn't decide which of the two to direct her dirty look at. Her head snapped between them, attempting to divide her venom.

“Hermione,” Harry cautioned, “don't.” 

“Don't what?” she asked. Harry could practically hear her hands on her hips. She pursed her lips like Professor McGonagall, hair wild around her agitated face. 

Harry sighed heavily, leaning into Draco again. “Don't act like he's blowing the 'Chosen' out of me.” 

The blonde beside him dissolved in cackles, falling back and holding his stomach as he hooted and squealed. Tears pricked at his pretty grey eyes. For Hermione's sake, Harry ignored him—even though it was adorable. More than anything, he liked seeing Draco happy and at ease. 

“He's actually been really helpful,” Harry added over his boyfriend's wild laughter.

Hermione's tone was testy at best. “I'm sure,” she sniffed, turning up her nose.

“Not like _that_ ,” Harry asserted. _“_ He's the one who realized there was something wrong with those flowers. McGonagall told you, right?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “And I agree with her. You need to destroy them immediately.”

“Um, that was actually Draco's idea, too,” Harry corrected, knowing it would only incense Hermione more. He couldn't help it, though. “The downside is that they were created through a form of the Dark Arts. It's going to take a Dark spell to destroy them.”

“I don't see why—” Hermione began. 

“Of course yeh don't,” Draco interrupted. “Ya know nothin' 'bout the Dark Arts. I do. An' I've been workin' with Harry on a spell tha' should do the trick.”

“We turned the third floor shower into a containment field,” Harry explained, “and I've been practicing. I think we're gonna try it this afternoon.” 

Hermione glared at them. She clearly didn't approve of Harry practicing the Dark Arts, even if it was to save his own skin. She disapproved even more of Draco serving as his instructor. But Headmistress McGonagall had said in no unclear terms that those roses were to be destroyed as quickly, carefully and discretely as possible. Draco promised that using the Dark Arts to get rid of them would prevent their maker from detecting the destruction. He added that the same applied to Horcruxes. Harry redoubled his efforts to master the archaic burning spell Draco had dug up from the Black family library.

Hermione began drilling them with questions about the nature and origins of the spell on the roses as well as the fire spell Harry had spent hours upon hours practicing. Once she and Draco got started, Harry didn't understand a word that passed between them. All he knew was that the magical fire consumed not only physical objects but the magic within them. Draco had practiced, too, casting simple Dark spells on bits of paper and then attempting the fire spell. Even his best efforts weren't as successful as Harry's, so it was decided The Chosen One would be the one to do the spell when it came time. Harry had to be somewhat proud of himself. Draco had been touted as a talented Dark Wizard from the age of seven. Like Quidditch, this was another thing Harry could take from him and be better at. Instead of being bitter, Draco seemed almost proud of Harry's capabilities.

Harry got up, excusing himself from the academic discussion with a squeeze to Draco's shoulder. 

“Just where do you think you're going, mister?” Hermione snapped. 

“Bathroom,” Harry supplied, trying not to roll his eyes. “Draco knows more about this, anyway. I'll be right back.” 

The door to the little library room closed behind him with a sigh of dust. No matter how much it was cleaned, number twelve Grimmauld Place seemed to want to be dirty. After adjusting the carpets, upholstery and wallpaper of the most commonly used rooms, Harry and Draco simply gave up, letting the house be.

“Now tha' we're alone,” Draco said, leaning conspiratorially toward Granger's face in the fire. He gathered his wits, stomach, and steel balls. He needed every ounce of courage he possessed. “I have a favor ta ask ya.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Hermione spluttered. 

“Yes,” Draco sighed. “Much as it pains me... I don't want ta Apparate out a' here unguarded. Yeh remember tha' jacket I wanted? The leather one?” Hermione nodded guardedly. “Well, it's cold in Scotland.” 

Draco waved his wand, summoning a slip of parchment and a small bag of galleons from a drawer of the nearby desk he'd adopted as a hiding spot. Harry never used this room except to floo-call. The blonde handed the gold and parchment into the fire, forcing the muggle-born witch to accept them by pushing rather rudely at her face.

“Why should I do you any favors, Malfoy?”

Draco's face was cold as stone. “Read the measurements, Granger.”

Hermione's face shifted as she glanced at the paper. Her eyes widened comically. 

“It's for Harry,” she whispered. 

“Yes,” Draco confirmed, folding his slender hands in his lap. He fixed Granger with a solid look, willing her compliance with hard eyes. “A surprise. Think yeh can manage?”

“Sure,” she said slowly, processing that Draco Malfoy was buying his boyfriend, Harry Potter, a present. A surprise present. If they were any other couple—if Draco Malfoy were any other wizard—she would say it was sweet. Unfortunately, this was Draco Malfoy, Death Eater son of a Death Eater, liar, cheat, and all-around scoundrel. Her mind went right to the worst. “Where did this gold come from?” 

“Not like it's any a' yer business,” Draco sniffed, “but it's mine. From the Ministry. It's real, Granger. Will ya do this?” 

“I already said I would,” she snapped. 

“When?” 

“I'll get it today if it'll get you off my back!” she scowled. Draco couldn't fight his Malfoy smirk.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

_Concentrate. Focus. Let everything else go...._

Harry centered himself, letting his vision narrow to the two glass domes inside the shower. Draco finished tracing chalk runes that would reinforce the old glass partition against the impact of Dark magic. He tossed the chalk into the sink as he approached, stopping at Harry's side. He gave his handiwork a little nod. Everything was ready. 

“Get behind me,” Harry mumbled. The blonde was a distraction—and Harry needed every ounce of his conviction if this was going to work. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Draco tucked his wand in his back pocket and stepped behind him. Draco knew better than to touch; instead, he crouched, watching around Harry's shoulder. 

Harry let his focus draw to a point, his breath slowing. Draco had worked with him to perfect every aspect of his casting. The Dark Arts were so different from regular magic. Just the amount of concentration and focus required was enough to leave him breathless and in need of a nap. This particular spell was archaic, requiring a level of concentration that bordered on trance-like. The pronunciation was key: the spell sounded nasal and raspy, _əp-ter in-dh_. He'd spoken the syllables a hundred times in his mind until they became a sort of chant. He let it develop from the center of his mind, building, becoming more that the foreign sounds, more than himself. Harry pulled his breaths slow and deep, letting everything else but his determination fade away. A hot wind rose up, tugging at his clothes and mussing his hair. He harnessed it, pushing it into the spell on the tip of his tongue, at the tip of his wand. He pushed it out. 

“ _Eptir Eldr_.” 

A swirling blue and white mass erupted from his wand, hurtling for the roses. It spit and hissed like fire, folding in on itself to become one blinding point of light as it hit the domes.

Draco slapped a hand to a nearby chalk rune, slamming the shower partition closed to contain the Dark fire. Harry felt winded, more exhausted than if he'd just run a marathon. He put a hand to the counter, leaning all his weight as he panted, doubled over and weak. 

The fireball looked like it was doing its job. 

There was a sudden impact to the air, like being too close to a rocket launch. The world bent, wobbling at the center. A second later, glass and tile was spraying everywhere. Harry leapt back, throwing himself and Draco to the floor. He landed on top of the blonde, knife-like shards of glass shooting past and all around them. Neither had a chance to throw out a shield. Bits of tile and grout flew, powdery remnants of plaster walls bursting in the air like clouds bearing a dangerous storm.

“Harry!” Draco shouted beneath him, struggling to get free of his determined human shield.

The bathroom mirror cracked into jagged, deadly pieces that were swept by insatiable magic winds. A section of glass caught Harry across his back, slicing through his tshirt and skin. Blood spattered across the floor and wall as the chunk of glass kept right on moving, cutting up to his shoulder before being swept away in the gale. It was all over in a matter of seconds, the last bits of debris clattering to the floor in sad little tinkles compared to the monstrous explosion of moments before. 

“That wasn't so bad,” Harry offered, nuzzling the side of Draco's head with his face. Little ricochet bits of glass, tile and plaster fell from his dark hair as he moved. 

“Yer hurt!” Draco exclaimed, working his hands free of Harry's weight. 

“I'm fine,” he muttered. He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at Draco. Quite a bit of his blood had landed in white blonde hair, the splatter misting across his milky cheek like dark freckles. Harry smiled. He licked the pad of his thumb before lightly wiping the blood from Draco's face. 

Draco reared up, kissing him hard on the mouth as pale hands roamed his back, squeezing the long wound shut as best he could. Harry hissed in pain.

“Yer such an idiot,” Draco mumbled against his lips.

The flow of magic was unmistakable. It raced up his spine, settling in his skin as the bleeding gash worked itself closed. It prickled, almost uncomfortably so. A part of it felt a little too warm; like tea drunk too soon, it left a stinging deep in his muscles instead of on the tip of his tongue. But the rest felt like Draco, like his wet kisses and frazzled breath blowing out again and again over Harry's cheek. He let the magic run through him, let Draco kiss him feverishly. And he returned it with everything he had.

Draco's fingers stroked up and down his back, insuring that every inch of him had been healed. Hands slipped through the rip in his ruined tshirt, needing to feel skin on skin to know for sure. Draco had healed him Endopathically. Again. 

Harry gave Draco's lips one last easy, sensual suck before pulling back enough to speak. 

“Okay,” he said, voice sounding like gravel in his own ears. “Tell me how _that_ made you feel guilty.”

Draco's silver eyes went from lusty to begrudgingly dark. “I hate you,” he seethed.

“Yeah,” Harry snorted back skeptically, raising his eyebrows. “That's a whole lotta 'hate' filling your cock right now.”

“I _really_ hate you,” Draco drawled, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Wait! I get it, now,” Harry preened, flippant. “You get off to me saving you.”

“Yer gonna regret tha', Wonder Boy.” 

And, without warning, he Apparated them to bed.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Fully aware of his shirtless state and the chosen blood still spattered through his platinum hair, Draco wrenched open the front door. If the bitch didn't stop it with the overzealous door bell ringing she'd wake Harry. And she did not want to face Draco if Wonder Boyfriend was woken prematurely. Draco still had to finish the Blood Replenishing Potion brewing in the kitchen and pour it down sleeping beauty's throat. 

“Granger,” he sneered. The witch wore some undoubtedly muggle summer dress in bright orange. It really wasn't her color.

“Malfoy,” she said back, toeing the line of civility. Then her brown eyes took him in, widening perceptibly as she processed his state of undress and mild bloodiness. He signaled her in with an imperial wave of his hand, shutting the door behind her. “You look awful,” she announced.

“Why thank you,” Draco drawled, heavy on the sarcasm. “I take it tha's...” he gestured to a large white shopping bag in her hands. 

“Where's Harry?” she asked quickly, handing over the bag. 

“Indisposed.” 

“Really, Malfoy.” She attempted to use her stern expression on him—he could have laughed. That had no effect on him. He was a Malfoy, for fuck's sake. “Where's Harry?” 

Draco shrugged, casual. “I tied him to the bed.” 

Granger looked positively mortified. 

“We had a little accident taking care of those cursed roses,” Draco elaborated, not that the woman deserved to know. Draco assumed she'd bugger off more easily if she were in possession of a few facts. “He's fine; it was really nothing, just a couple of scratches. He didn't wanta rest but I made him—slipped a mild Sleeping Drought in his Coke. Tha' muggle drink's so syrupy yeh could mix it half with bubotuber puss an' not know the difference. Satisfied?”

She mouthed wordlessly at him, not sure she wanted to take his word given the amount of blood in his hair. Unbeknownst to Draco, several trails of it ran down his neck. He'd washed his hands thoroughly before preparing the Blood Replenishing Potion, saving just a few drops of Harry's blood to tailor the brew, making it more effective.

“Well, you know where the floo is,” Draco said crisply. He headed for the kitchen, shopping bag in hand. Granger stared at the scars on his retreating back. “Good evening, Granger.” 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry was just waking up when Draco entered their bedroom. His green eyes were closed but Draco could tell by the hissing sounds the man made in his sleep. He set down the tray with tea and Blood Replenishing Potion, placing the gift box out of sight on the floor before crawling into bed to examine his patient. 

First he brushed dark hair from Harry's forehead, feeling his temperature. He was a little furnace when he slept, so the heat wasn't unusual. Draco leaned down, pressing his lips to the lightning bolt scar that sat just off-center from unearthly green eyes and a slightly bent-up nose. He'd been the cause of at least one break. Was that something to be proud of? He set those thoughts aside, moving on to check his boyfriend's pulse and heartbeat. Everything seemed normal. He settled a hand on Harry's cheek, waiting for his eyes to open. Sleepy, Harry nested a scruffy jaw in his waiting palm, breathing deep before his eyelids began to flutter.

Draco leaned forward, a very sick part he wouldn't admit to wanting to be the first thing Harry saw when he woke. Sure enough, green eyes focused to the sight of his own. Harry smiled, dragging him down for a sleep-strength hug. 

“Feeling better, I take it?” Draco asked, enjoying the closeness despite himself. 

“I was fine,” Harry shrugged, hands getting rather pervy in their post-nap explorations. “You're the one who wanted me to rest.” 

“True,” Draco admitted. Harry gave his ass a squeeze and he pulled away, warning in his eyes. Harry pouted. “Lemme go. I have a surprise fer yeh.” 

“Blood Replenishing Potion is hardly a surprise, love,” Harry joked, sitting up and stretching. “I'd know that smell anywhere.” 

“No,” Draco snorted, leaning head-first off the side of the bed. Harry undoubtedly had a great view of his denim-clad arse. The man was probably licking his chops. Draco gave his bum a little shimmy, just to be sure he had Harry's undivided attention. He emerged with the large gift box. “Here.”

“What's this for?” Harry questioned, settling the box on the bed. His calloused fingers undid the green bow Draco had conjured. A boyish smile crossed his face when a moment later, the ribbon evaporated in his hand. He'd never seen enchanted wrappings before? 

“Because...” Draco searched for a good reason. Unable to find one, he looked away. “I jus' wanted to. Open it.” 

Harry lifted the lid and pushed aside the tissue. Draco had examined the jacket closely, checking for weak threads or defects before arranging it carefully in the gift box. One sleeve sat up by the lapel, showing off a set of zippers and silver buckles that allowed the garment to be tightened, contouring the forearm and tapering to the wrist. It would be perfect for flying. The wide, asymmetrical collar would bring your eye right to Harry's broad shoulders and dark hair, the silver fastenings setting off his eyes. It was a great jacket; a sort of roughness to the material, a ruggedness and simplicity that reminded him endlessly of Harry. It would look right on no other man. 

“Do ya like it?” Draco asked. 

“It's really... perfect. Thank you,” Harry replied, lifting the jacket out of the box to examine it more closely. The metal parts _clinked_ and _clanked_ , muffled a bit by the supple black leather. Shirtless, Harry threw it over his shoulders. “How did you...?” He raised his eyebrows. 

“I asked Granger ta pick it up fer me,” Draco shrugged. Harry's eyes bored into him, spooning the rest of the truth out of him as though his mind were made of melon. “I used my Ministry gold.” 

“You didn't have to do that,” Harry chided, tugging the zipper up half way. It fit like a glove. A very terribly sexy glove. Draco's resolve not to jump his recently injured boyfriend was quickly fading. The man looked _good_. 

“If yer gonna kill the Dark Lord fer me, yeh'd best look good doin' it,” he mumbled, mouth inexplicably filling with drool. 

“Baby, you really shouldn't have.” Harry reached a hand to Draco's shoulders, pulling him forward for a hug that smelled of spice and new leather, warmth and Harry. “But thank you.” 

From Harry's shoulder, Draco growled. “Call me 'baby' again an' I'll hex tha' gorgeous dick off.”

“But, you've called me that—”

“Wonder Boy, I've been _in_ _ya_. I'll call ya wha' I like.” Draco pulled back to fix Harry with a stern look. “Fuck me—hard—an' yeh can call me whatever stupid sodding gibberish ya please.” 

Since when had he wanted Wonder Boyfriend to top him? The leather was clearly going to his head, making him think crazy thoughts.

“I'm taking that as a challenge,” Harry said, wrestling him down onto the bed and groping every naked part he could reach.

“Good,” Draco sniffed: only Draco Malfoy could pull off haughty while being manhandled. “It was intended as such.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations of Old Norse**  
>  _Drengir_ – fellow, warrior  
>  _Leita_ – seek, search for, find, go, attack  
>  _dróttinn_ – leader, master of the horde  
>  _Eptir_ – to obtain, according to  
>  _Eldr_ – fire
> 
>  
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**  
>  A General Thought About Saying "I Love You:"   
> Assuming you've been dating someone regularly (aka meeting them once a week to do brunch, concerts, dinner & a movie, etc.), the most appropriate window for Those Three Little Words is the three-to-five month mark.   
> This chapter presents an unusual situation in that not only have the boys known each other for six years and been living together for three months, but they've also been shagging several times daily the last two-ish weeks, hardly leaving one another's sight during that time. This—when combined with the love-starved, wounded baby bird that is Scar Head The Great—would yield a rapid return on the Three Little Words front.   
> There's also the solid catalyst that they are, in fact, seventeen. Enough said.


	24. Indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry orchestrates one last surprise for Draco before he's packed off to school. Draco desperately needs to cut loose: Harry hands him the opportunity on a silver platter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** very coarse language, underage drinking, smoking, smoking fetish, recreational drug use, emerging D/s power structure, rampant exhibitionism, sapiophilia, public sex, Dark Arts, a shit-ton of R.A.C.K., debatable orgy, sex magic, fellatio, fingering, rimming, anal-oral sex, anal sex, unprotected sex, premature ejaculation, felching, forced orgasm, forced facial, erotic humiliation, Clothed Male/Nude Male, Dom!Harry, service-top!Draco, Bottom!Harry, Aggressive!Draco  
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**  
>  **This chapter depicts recreational use of marijuana.**  
>  I am in no way saying that people who listen to MSI or Rammstein smoke marijuana. I'm not saying marijuana is good or bad; instead, like guns and alcohol, it's something which exists in the world and can be used in a healthy or destructive way. Much like magic, it's all about the manner in which one utilizes it. Casual drug use herein forms a narrative commentary about the boys' state of mind as well as serving as an illustration of the very different paths by which these two individuals came into manhood.  
>  **DISCLAIMERS:**  
>  \- Rammstein is produced by Universal Music Group. The song mentioned is “[Du Hast](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=My0HQ0QkGLQ)."  
> \- I am a huge fan of Mindless Self Indulgence, have been for years, and went to a few shows back when my health allowed me to live in the city. MSI retains ownership of their music, leasing to record labels in a glorious and laudable effort to fight the man. The song mentioned is “[Faggot](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ltin0GzdSk).”  
> \- The black-papered cigarettes mentioned are called cloves, the most common brand being Djarum Blacks. They are currently illegal in the US but are sold and enjoyed in many other very lucky parts of the world. Anyone living in said countries who feels like sending me some... infinite brownie points.  
>  **TECHNICAL NOTES:**  
>  \- For American readers, 1 stone is equal to 14 pounds. So a man who is pushing 17 stone would weigh roughly 230lbs.  
> \- For the record, “Ionescu” is the third most common surname in Romania. English equivalents include Jones, Smith and Johnson.

 

 

 

Harry wouldn't answer questions all through dinner. He just sat there with that goofy, conniving grin on his face, bolting his pot roast, potatoes and summer salad. The Boy Who Screwed couldn't hide his excitement, though. It shone through his pores, through his eyes—the room practically vibrating with bubbling, vibrant green energy. Draco knew to his very core that something was up—something good—but Harry was determined not to spill the proverbial beans. Both men squirmed in their seats all through what could have been a lovely dinner.

When the dishes bore only crumbs and swipes of sauce and the bottle of wine was polished off, Draco directed the china to the sink where it began to suds and wash itself. He folded his wiry arms across his chest, catching the back of Harry's knee with his foot so the raven haired man couldn't worm away.

“Out with it, Potter,” he demanded. “I'm on ta yer scheming.”

Harry raised his dark brows, leaning back on the kitchen bench to stretch, contracting his stomach and rolling well-built shoulders. Harry always stretched those strong, coiled limbs when he was contented—typically after sex or a good meal. The shifting of muscles under his buttermilk skin was familiar and mesmerizing. The man was almost as white as the tshirt he wore and could do with some sun; between the dismal weather and their confinement by imperial decree of the Order, Draco didn't think that would happen before school started. It was just two days away, now. Harry must be plotting a last good romp before the iron bars of Hogwarts.

“Why don't you go upstairs and fix your hair?” Harry said with a Malfoy-worthy smirk.

Draco's eyes widened just enough to show his understanding... and delight. So they _were_ going out. But where? They'd just finished eating. Dessert, perhaps? Gelati and a stroll in the park? Or maybe another of those muggle movies?

“Where are we goin'?” Draco asked, unable to take the suspense.

“Out,” Harry shrugged. He rose from the table, pulling Draco up and nudging the blonde toward the stairs.

“Yes, out,” Draco agreed, scampering in his excitement. He gripped the banister and slithered up the stairs backwards. “Out where?”

“A club,” Harry replied, hot in pursuit, driving his boyfriend up the staircase.

“Wha' kinda club?”

“There's a concert,” Harry explained, following Draco into their bedroom with unreadable eyes. “You remember that... that song the other day?”

Draco nodded, pulling off his shirt and tossing it in the hamper. He threw open the closet. How could he forget? Harry had flipped on the radio while they were kissing and it was like a thousand charms and hexes going off in his head. He had no idea muggles could make such fantastic noise. The cacophony was so intense, so boisterous, so... aggressive. He'd barely managed to get his clothes off before he came—embarrassing! Something came over him and he just wanted to move. And it was that moving, with Harry and yet against him, that animalistic tension which threw him over the edge. It was like a catapult. He'd flown! He was sure Harry had felt it, too. The man had snuck out to get him more of this drug.

“What's it called?” Draco asked. “Tha' music?”

“Metal,” Harry shrugged. “It's a punk metal band that's playing tonight. Bunch of yanks but they're supposed to be good.”

Draco nodded his understanding, pushing a few shirts around in the closet. “An' wha' does one wear?” he mused.

“You tell me.” Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair, eyes trained on the threadbare carpet. “It's at a gay club.”

“Oh.”

Draco's hands settled at his sides. Harry bleeding Potter was taking him to a bent muggle club to hear more of the angriest, most energetic and sexy stuff he'd ever heard? He shed his loose denims and made for the loo at a fast clip.

“I need ta shave!”

“Draco,” Harry whined, close on his heels. “We don't have a lot of time. And you look fine.”

“Harry,” he rolled his eyes, forcing enough seriousness into the name to make it an admonishment as much as an endearment. “I have a fuckin' beard. I need a shave.” Draco examined his reflection as he started the sink, picking up the conjured straight razor Harry always left lying about. They were getting comfortable, messy. He'd already let his face go from prickly to downright mangy. He wondered that Harry hadn't been repulsed. It wasn't as though Draco could grow a proper beard. His hair just wasn't thick enough. This half centimeter of sandpaper scuffle was as close as he got; Harry, on the other hand—if his long sideburns and heavily shadowed jaw were anything to go by, the man would generate a righteous beard. His inky hair was healthy and thick and grew in spades. The rest of his body harbored entire dark, mysterious forests of the stuff.

“Just... hurry up, okay?” said Harry, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He leaned against the door frame watching Draco lather up his pale neck. Draco made a noise of ascent before bringing the blade to his throat with a practiced flick, shearing off a layer of cream and white blonde fluff.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry had to admit it: he hardly recognized the man standing next to him as Draco Malfoy. Only... there, when he squeezed Harry's hand and smiled, the lights flashing over his pointed, handsome face. The curving apples of his cheeks, the way his brows rounded down at the sides, and the way the colored gel lights lingered in his eyes were all achingly familiar.

Draco wore his tight black trousers with Harry's old blue and green plaid shirt, unbuttoned half way down his pale, mangled chest and the sleeves lazily half-rolled. He'd conjured a charcoal pencil and rubbed it at the corners of his eyes. You could tell even with the glasses. It made his eyes black and smoky, sultry. The effect wasn't girly at all. It was like battle paint. Harry stuffed his other hand in the pocket of his new leather jacket, just to keep from reaching out. Draco was already holding his fucking hand—willingly. He promised himself he wouldn't ask for any more because that itself was enough.

Harry realized what was so different. Draco had darkened his hair plenty of times... but he'd purposefully left a swath of hair in his rushed shave-job, carving himself a thin mustache and goatee which was magically dyed a deep brown to match his hair. Draco shaved almost religiously. Judging by the rest of his body, he preferred himself smooth. Harry didn't know what to make of the facial hair. It was so masculine. He'd never thought about the fact that Draco was a man. So why shouldn't he be masculine? Draco had hairy legs and muscles and a cock, for crying out loud! How could a bit of facial hair make him so, so... manly? Rugged, even. And that stark maleness didn't detract from the attraction Harry felt. At all. And _that_ was something to consider. 

Harry looked around the industrial club with its low ceiling and walls, dance lights, swell of moving bodies and long, populated bar. The patrons were predominantly male. Then again, the music was blaring and vulgar. The band wasn't playing yet and a man's voice half growled, half screamed in what sounded like German through the floor-rattling, rib-vibrating speakers.

Harry scanned the crowd more closely as Draco led him to the bar. Lots of blokes who looked like the Weasley boys—either stocky with broad shoulders or tall with whippy muscles and gangly posture. There were a few women, most in punk, “naughty school girl” reminiscent get-ups of black and plaid. There was one woman clad in over-the-knee boots and a tube mini-dress apparently made from a scrap of black leather. Holding Harry's green-eyed, bespectacled gaze and sensuously rolling her hips, she winked at him. Harry watched her tiny white hand glide over the leather, ghosting over her breasts only to run down those undulating curves to her nearly exposed backside. Harry's thigh gave a powerful twitch. What did that mean? He couldn't be gay if he was drooling over this drunk, half dressed muggle woman... could he? He looked back at Draco. Draco, with his confined grace and languid limbs, fury, passion and bottled lust beneath angelic skin. The same muscle twitched, this time accompanied by a tightening in his denims and a wetness under his arms.

Harry unzipped his jacket and pulled out his wallet.

“Let me get you a drink,” he shouted over the music. Draco gave a little nod in time with the beat, his attention already swept away. “Whiskey?”

“Neat,” those pink lips mouthed, lost to the heart-hammering music. Harry pulled out a note and was able to signal the bartender for drinks. Draco took his as a shot, head jerking back to pound what was probably mid-quality liquor. Harry managed in two gulps, feeling the burn crawl up the back of his throat as he inhaled sharply through his nose. Draco crushed his lips to Harry's, mingling the sharp, sweet taste of whiskey with their own unique blend. He pulled back a fraction of an inch and laughed his real, tittering, squirrel laugh.

“Wha'?” Harry mumbled, catching a flushed lip between his teeth. It earned him another quick kiss.

“This song is funny,” Draco said, leaning forward to almost yell in Harry's ear, the music was that loud.

“It's German, yeah?”

That head of brown hair nodded against his, familiar outdoorsy smell flooding his nostrils along with the lemon and crab apple tang of his skin. Silky strands of auburn hair tickled his temple and cheek.

“Dance,” Draco demanded suddenly, hauling Harry forward by way of both hands in his front trouser pockets.

“What are they saying?” Harry asked, if only to distract himself from the fact that he wasn't nearly drunk enough for this sort of thing. He didn't dance. Then again, this looked more like sex standing up. And he and Draco did something like that before tea time, most days. How hard could it be? He let himself be dragged onto the dance floor by his crotch.

“Um, it's like a perversion,” Draco mused, still tugging Harry along in that cloying, intimate way. His hands were a fair ways in Harry's pockets, stroking his thighs. “They're messin' with the language.    
_Du hasst mich_   
is 'you hate me' and    
_du hast mich gefragt_   
is 'you have asked me.'”

“They sound the same except for the last word,” Harry shrugged. Draco bent slightly, rubbing his face between soft, creaking leather and the hot, hardened tendons of Harry's neck. He rolled his narrow hips against Harry's thigh and it was impossible not to reciprocate. This was everything they did in bed except standing up and with their clothes still on. Not hard at all.

“Tha's the idea,” Draco laughed, lips a wet slide from Harry's neck to the shell of his ear. He felt a blush creeping up his hairline, quickly suffusing his face as his breath caught in his throat. Okay, dancing with Draco was a different kind of hard. The man ground his hips in a slow, tantalizing circle, dragging Harry closer by his trousers. There was no escape. He laughed against Harry's flushed skin. “Now they're recitin' marriage vows, except instead of 'until death separates us' it's 'until the death of the pussy.'”

“If the sex goes, the relationship goes?” Harry forced out words to prove his brain still worked.

“Tha', or,” Draco mused right into his ear, draping an arm around Harry's shoulders and pressing so close their bodies were practically one. “A relationship's only as strong as the weaker partner—the cunt, yeah?”

“Pretty smart for a muggle bloke screaming,” Harry mused.

“Yeah,” Draco kissed his neck, his shoulder, leather and hair alike, whatever he could reach. “Not bad. I like it.” They danced the rest of the song, if it could be called dancing. Soon Draco was singing along, if it could be called singing. He pronounced the words under his breath, mouth always near Harry's ear, casting his hot breath over skin kissed and bitten red, wet with spit and gathering sweat. If French sounded beautiful on Draco's lips, German sounded vile... but no less sexy. Maybe it felt more real. It was all part of Draco, the milky French skin belying a hard, seething Aryan core.

“Do you want another drink?” Harry asked.

Draco gave a noncommittal shrug that Harry knew meant _yes, please! I'm not nearly drunk enough_. He disentangled himself from his boyfriend to make for the bar, earning himself a smack to the bum. Harry winked over his shoulder—they didn't have much longer to act this way. He couldn't blame Draco for taking advantage when that was exactly what he himself had intended for tonight.

People seemed to gather at the bar in groups, shouting and laughing over the music. Harry wedged himself between a clump of locals and several burly blokes speaking a Slavic language he couldn't place. Catching the attention of a bartender, he was given the signal for “just a minute.” The club was pulling good business and probably should've had another barkeep or two on duty. Weeknight or not, the place was packed.

One of the foreign blokes accidentally trod on Harry's foot. Big shoulders turned to apologize, giving Harry a good view of the little clique. They were all built like Charlie Weasley and Oliver Wood; heavy and broad, thick muscles filling out their tshirts, bulging at the sleeves. They could have easily been the second string of Bulgarian National. Their hairy arms and a few scruffy jaws made them almost menacing. Harry felt his feet wanting to take several steps back. Only the knowledge that he was a fully armed wizard allowed him to stand his ground. His head was level with the klutzy man's tree-trunk biceps.

All of the men had black hair save one; the shortest of them all and apparently the leader. His hair was sandy brown. He also had a short-trimmed beard and a tattoo of what looked suspiciously like a galloping Thestral around his upper arm. This brown-haired man slapped his clumsy companion upside the head.

“ _Koji ti je kurac?_ ” he shouted at his mate, hazel eyes gone very wide. “ _Jebo te Bog na današnji dan!_ That's Harry Potter!” 

Vehement strings of Slavic curses flew at that point. Most of them sounded like awed apologies and blaspheming oaths. The man with the brown hair put a meaty hand to his chest, right over his heart as though it threatened to burst from his barrel chest in shock. The gesture could have been girlish if the man hadn't been pushing seventeen stone. Quick as a flash, Harry was reaching for the wand in his front pocket.

“   
_Gle kurtsa ti u slamnatome sheshiru!_   
” the clumsy man spouted in a high, startled voice, holding up his hands. 

“Zee Boy Who Lived!” exclaimed the brunet, hand still over his hammering heart. “It's an honor!”

“Please,” offered another man, “might ve have zee pleasure of buying you a drink?” They all very wisely kept their hands where Harry could see them. The gleam in every set of dark eyes was pure, jovial excitement. Harry relaxed his shoulders but kept a hand near his wand just in case.

“I'm... here with someone,” Harry said slowly.

“Your girlfriend or somezhing?” one of them asked. Harry realized the guy was wearing an ACDC tshirt. With their fancy trainers, expensive watches and a few body piercings, these guys knew how to blend in with muggles. Harry counted eight of them.

“Or something,” Harry shrugged.

“Vot's your poison?” asked the brunet leader. Their accents were light, indicating a good handle on the English language. They might be of mixed parentage or at least more in touch with the non-magical world than the average pureblood wizard.

“Whiskey, neat,” Harry shrugged. The tallest of them turned to the bar, casually rolling up the sleeves of his windbreaker as he signaled the bartender. Their leader's hazel eyes slid to Harry, making sure The Chosen One noted the lack of Dark Marks on any of their forearms. Harry gave a slow nod of recognition. These strange men were going out of their way to prove they were friendly—the tall man ordered a round of double whiskeys, top shelf liquor. The bartender added it to their tab, leaving the bottle. The men were apparently good patrons. Oh, Harry wanted to trust them! They parted, letting Harry into their midst to retrieve his glass.

Harry was expecting a lewd toast in their native tongue; therefore, the sound of his own name surprised him. Each man raised a glass and repeated quite solemnly, “Harry Potter.” They took their liberal double shots in a solid gulp. Not wanting to choke, Harry took a hefty mouth full and then sipped at the remainder.

“What brings you to London?” Harry asked, shooting for conversation. He still held his drink in his left hand, ready to draw if necessary.

“Vell... Dušan, Chern, Mishenka and I lost our families vhen Durmstrang fell,” the brunet explained, pointing out ACDC shirt, tall guy and a younger, clean-shaven man with a pierced eyebrow. “Ve took our inheritance and ran. Vadik, Vitya, and Yura found us and ve broke zhem out before zhey had to take zee Mark. Nebojsa ve rescued.” The skinniest of them—a man with several piercings and a large, black tattoo of a Catholic cross on the side of his neck—gave a curt nod.

“Ve've been following zee Rammstein tour,” said Chern, the tall man in the jacket. “Dima said zhey wouldn't look for us in zee muggle world.” Dima must have been the brunet leader. He wore a tshirt for the metal band Rammstein. The yank band playing the club that night was touring with Rammstein. Harry had tried for tickets to the German metal band's concert, too, but it was sold out weeks in advance.

“You should be careful,” Harry advised. “There's already been an attack on the Underground.” He neglected to mention that it was an attack on Draco for deserting. These guys looked worried enough. Mishenka, the one with the eyebrow piercing, came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Dima. Their hazel eyes were identical—with the way they calmly leaned against one another, they were probably brothers.

“Ve've been here almost a veek...” Nebojsa said nervously, also looking to Dima.

“Ve'll move soon,” Dima offered his little crew. “Rammstein goes to America next. It's not safe for us zhere.”

“I can only wish you luck,” Harry said sympathetically. “It's getting pretty bad out there.”

Chern poured another round, refilling Harry's half-full glass. Dima clinked glasses with Nebojsa, a sly wink passing between them. Vadik and Yura, quite coy for big fellows, asked Harry if they could have their picture taken with him. Chern snapped the shot, then took another of Dima. Harry thought the brunet looked like a warlord, his pierced and tattooed comrades under each arm and big grins on their faces despite the battles clearly nipping at their heels. Maybe Dima would like to take over as The Chosen One and Harry and Draco could run away? Dima had an air about him. He was the kind of man people would willingly follow into battle. Harry sighed, leaned against the bar and eyed the squirming, shadowy crowd to see where Draco had gotten off to.

Harry froze with his glass half-way to his parted lips, the world hitting him in a cliff-jumping rush. He was drinking whiskey with a couple of Durmstrangers on the run, listening to German death metal while Draco Malfoy apparently learned to head bang in the middle of a mosh pit of muggles while wearing skin tight trousers and Harry's old plaid button-down—which he'd surely called plebeian on more than one occasion, right? And life didn't get any fucking better than seeing Draco happy, his dark brown head a blur as his lithe, lean form was tossed around the thrumming dance floor; mouth hanging slightly open as his head rocked, glossy hair flying, licking his delicate pink lips and bumping, twisting, throwing his body around like a leaf in the wind... so sexy. Harry's shot slid down his throat, the burn unnoticed as he watched. A feral smile curled his fat, healthy mouth, his eyes darkening. He had to turn to face the bar immediately so the Durmstrang guys wouldn't see his boner and think it was for them.

Dušan, in his black ACDC tshirt, looked at the extra glass sitting on the bar before raising his eyebrows at Harry. “Viskey, eh? Some date yeh've got,” he shouted congenially, the song blaring especially loud. Harry drank so he wouldn't have to answer right away.

Harry slammed his glass down on the bar. A second later, the breath left his lungs. A familiar scent reached his nostrils, warm breath rustling the hair at the nape of his neck. Pale and scarred arms wormed under his jacket, wrapping his waist. Bony hips met the padding of his arse, pulling him close as a handsome, somewhat sweaty face nuzzled into his shoulder. Draco licked a hot path up his neck, biting his earlobe before rolling it between his lips, accenting all this with an intimate and telling thrust to Harry's arse.

“An' here I thought _I_ was shoutin' the next round,” Draco joked, slipping his hand under Harry's tshirt to roam his chest. Every magical eye was now trained on the pair of them. Draco seemed to sense it; he froze just in time, one hand pinching Harry's nipple and the other dangerously close to the waistband of his denims.

Harry cleared his throat.

“Er... my boyfriend,” he shouted awkwardly in introduction. To his surprise, not a single heavy brow went up. Either eastern European muggles were _very_ liberal or these guys were purebloods like Draco, sent to Durmstrang for a very specific purpose that wasn't the education or the Quidditch.

“Vait,” said the tall Chern. “I know you from zee tournament,” he offered vaguely. “It's Malfoy, _da_?”

Harry and Draco tensed simultaneously. First in Draco's mind was where this wizards' loyalties lay. If these men delivered news of Draco's whereabouts—let alone his relationship with Harry—to the Dark Lord, they'd both be done for. The frightening thought rocketing to the front of Harry's brain paralyzed him with emotion, jealousy and embarrassment chief among them. What if Chern had been one of the many blokes lusting after Draco fourth year? Had he and Draco...? Harry forced himself to swallow, suddenly filled with too much white hot anger to speak. Draco's hands were sliding from his skin, leaving little shivering trails that always missed his touch the second it left. Harry slid an arm around Draco, clamping his boyfriend tightly to his side. If his grip was iron, Draco didn't complain.

“Yes, Draco Malfoy. Pleasure.” Draco offered his hand and introductions were made all around. This time Dima and Mishenka were called Dmitry and Mikhail, which Harry assumed were their full names. They were, in fact, brothers. Harry bit his tongue when their last name was spoken: Ionescu. Maybe it was a really common surname like Smith or Brown. Draco's decided lack of blinking told another story.

“I thought you were...” Chern trailed off, either unwilling or unable to say “Death Eater” to Harry Potter's boyfriend.

“Blonde?” Draco finished the tall man's sentence with a hearty laugh. It was a Malfoy laugh, not a tittering Draco laugh. He was trying to put the Durmstrangers—refugees—at ease. “I'm tryin' somethin' new.”

This comment was met with silence, music blaring into the conversational rift. The band was setting up on stage and the concert would start soon. Dmitry and Mikhail both gave Draco knowing, up-and-down looks, focusing on the pale arm between him and Harry. If these guys were hiding one hundred percent in the muggle world, they wouldn't have seen the _Daily Prophet_ article proclaiming Draco's change of allegiance. At best, they thought Draco was a runaway, like them; at worst, they suspected him of spying on Harry for Voldemort. Harry pressed the man closer to his side, offering silent reassurance in the form of his holly and phoenix feather wand the length of Draco's thigh. 

“And yes,” Draco spoke up, his grey eyes blazing defiant. “I was.” He snatched his sleeve, yanking up the loose cuff to expose the Dark Mark. Every surly face paled perceptibly. Nebojsa stared, looking ill. Mikhail quickly looked away, closing his eyes as though it were something he refused to see again. Draco met their abhorrence with a fierceness and rebellious courage Harry had associated solely with Draco since he came to Grimmauld Place—that dangerous, coiled energy he'd gained from being tortured to the final thread of his mortal rope. He seethed, the air crackling electric around him. “But like I said—I'm trying something new.”

Harry reached out, settling his hand over the Mark to draw Draco's arm down. He stroked the tattoo gently with his thumb, letting Draco stare the foreign wizards down. Harry focused on the side of Draco's ghostly, pointed face with the calmest expression he could muster.

“Does that make me 'something new?'” Harry quipped. Tension diffused like a gasket. Dima breathed a sigh that slumped his chest, Mikhail would look at Draco again and Nebojsa smiled, visibly relieved. Chern went about refilling glasses. Harry passed his to Draco, taking up the remaining shot on the bar. They watched the crew set up the stage, checking microphones and wire connections. Draco took a swig of alcohol that was clearly for courage.

“Ya wouldn't happen ta know a Tihomir Vukasin Ionescu?” he called over the music.

“Vuk?” Mikhail sputtered, eyebrows shooting up.

“You knew Vuk?” asked Dušan, leaning forward. All the men pulled in, forming a tight circle.

Draco's face quickly comprehended the tense of that question. Harry didn't need to be a gifted Legilimens to discern what was going through his boyfriend's head. Harry knew who Vuk Ionescu had been and his relationship to Draco.

“We drank together durin' the tournament,” Draco offered, his voice distant. He didn't have to speak as loudly with everyone huddled so close. “He... was a good man, funny as hell. Everyone's favorite. How... how did he...?”

“He vos caught vith zee resistance,” Dima answered, equally far away. He threw a thick, comforting arm around Mikhail's shoulders, the other around Nebojsa's waist. “He fell vith Durmstrang. Our elder brother. He died... getting us out.”

Harry was about to offer his condolences when Draco all but stepped on his foot. He held his glass to the center of their huddle. Everyone followed a moment later, recognizing a toast. Draco blinked rapidly, schooling his breathing. He didn't summon the Malfoy mask; instead, he met Dima's gaze with big, silvery eyes reflecting every color in the dark room.

“   
_  
Svaka ti dala   
_   
  
.”    


It was so short. Harry waited for the rest of it. If there was any more to be had, it was cut off by a roar of laughter from Dima, Mikhail and Chern. A split second later, the small group was hooting, snorting into their glasses, holding their stomachs and leaning against one another as gales of laughter shook their mighty shoulders. Harry smiled brightly at Draco before downing the generous double shot. It made his eyes water and his throat seize, but he managed. He was going to be D-R-U-N-K tonight! The Durmstrangers pulled Draco to the bar, all trying to talk to him at once. A flurry of languages flew at him. Someone clapped him on the back, someone complimented his shirt, someone poured him another shot. They settled into speaking German—apparently so Harry wouldn't understand them. Reformed offspring of Death Eaters bonding, as far as Harry could tell. Draco kept shooting Harry these secretive, alluring looks over his dark-rimmed glasses, always smiling with the apples of his cheeks and a lilt to his pleasant pink mouth before turning away.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

If possible, the muggle band Mindless Self Indulgence was wilder than the Durmstrang boys. The lead singer had to have used magic to get his green hair to stand up in foot-long spikes like that. On the back of his jacket he'd arranged strips of reflective tape to spell out “Fuck My Hole.” The show only got crazier from there. Two of the band members were girls dressed in the most outlandish, punky outfits that left Harry feeling rather tame in his formerly bad ass motorcycle jacket. He and Draco spent every set as the valley inside a towering Slavic mountain range; even Dima, the shortest of the bunch, was a head and a half taller than them and twice as wide. Harry felt like he and Draco were little kids, the way they were tossed around the mosh pit. They'd be bruised for days. Harry broke his glasses twice before tucking them in his pocket, he and Draco clinging to each other for dear life, yelling and screaming with the crowd.

At one point the band struck up a song that drove Harry's eyebrows into his hairline despite getting bucked around by a bunch of sweaty, muscled foreign blokes. The tune alternated between a slow grind that sounded like the background music to a porno movie and a rollicking, pounding beat over which the spike-headed singer screamed about pretending to be straight all the while performing “favors” for all his male friends, hoping to see some reciprocity. The outrageous muggle topped it off by singing, in a high falsetto voice, the word “faggot” over and over again at the end of each refrain. Draco, bouncing happily beside Harry, was singing the words in his way—mouthing along animatedly, pronouncing the words with silent, aristocratic lips.

“I really don't think you should be saying that word,” Harry cautioned, halting his boyfriend's excitable jumping and holding him still enough to hear.

“Why?” Draco demanded. He spun Harry around, inserting plump arse to excited crotch and rotating suggestively. Harry nearly jumped when Mikhail joined them, backing his rear right up to Harry's parts and grinding as sensuously as Draco—though without the grabby hands, exploratory lips and other such flirty nonsense. Chern looked like he wanted to get in behind Draco but Harry shot the man a quick and by no means uncertain Death Glare. The tall man immediately backed off, humping up on Vadik and some girl, instead.

“It's really offensive,” Harry tried to explain about the nasty word in the song, his throat gone dry.

“Ter who?”

“Er,” Harry struggled, “it's derogatory toward men who like men.”

“So? It's only offensive if yeh let it be!” Draco shrugged. He leaned back, working his hips in a purely sexual crush. Sweat poured down Harry's face as his own hips were pushed against Mikhail's firm, waiting and willing posterior. He looked around. Vadik and Chern danced like this. So did Dima and Nebojsa. So did half the men in the club. It was a dirty, entirely male way of dancing. No one bothered to move their feet or arms. It was just bodies and heat, no pretense. And it was fine by Harry. Mikhail didn't do anything for him but Harry certainly pressed himself back into Draco. If that made him a faggot then so be it. Draco and all the butch Durmstrangers were faggots, too.

They finished their bottle of whiskey in no time. Mishenka was right pissed. Dima, for being the shortest of his group, fared pretty well. Yura and Dušan were sort of holding each other upright but they managed to mosh just fine—it was the walking that proved problematic. They all kept pulling at Draco's shirt, yelling things in German and gesturing toward Harry with their eyes. Harry waited for someone to get brave and ask him in English.

“Did you vant to go for a smoke?” There it was from Dmitry himself.

  
Harry looked to Draco who was practically bouncing up and down to convey that    
  
_  
yes   
_   
  
, he very much wanted to go for a smoke.    


“Where?” Harry asked.

“Zee alley out back,” Nebojsa said, gesturing to a back door with his chin.

Harry bit his lip.

  
“I dunno,” he said carefully, making sure the men were paying attention to his words before speaking in a sort of improvised code. “I would need to    
  
_  
pop   
_   
  
out there, have a look around, if you know what I mean.” And he lightly touched the wand concealed in his front pocket. If anyone noticed he was hard, they mercifully kept any trace of reaction from their ruggedly handsome faces. All of these guys were handsome—terribly good-looking, in fact.    
  
_  
Was it magic or a pleasant side effect of the traditional pureblood inbreeding?   
_   
  
Harry wondered. Dima nodded before ushering their entire group to the lavatory. Ten full grown men locked in a double stall loo was an accomplishment sober. Eight out of ten men being small buildings unto themselves required quite a bit of creative maneuvering. When the door clicked shut—locked by someone's quick and heavily accented, slurred    
  
_  
Colloportus—   
_   
  
Harry found himself nose-to-nose with Draco, a mysterious hand coping a feel of some chosen ass. He let it slide. They probably thought he was someone else.    


“Okay, I'm Apparating out to check the alley,” Harry announced. “Leave a space for me to get back.”

“Me, too!” Draco added, sidling up to Harry until their chests touched for a Side-Along.

  
“The hell you are!” Harry snorted, pushing Draco a safe distance away. They both bumped against other bodies—hard, warm bodies that smelt of whiskey and sweat and... cloves? “You're staying here,    
  
_  
salop   
_   
  
.”    


Oh, sure, it was a dig. Draco never called him that. But Draco and the guys had been speaking bloody German behind his back all night: he felt entitled to a retort.

“Make me,” Draco snarled, teeth bared.

  
Harry didn't actually draw his wand. Like the most basic of spells, all it took was contact with his wand through the fabric of his jeans and the spell was off. He barely even thought the word, hardly visualized it or realized it in his mind before...    
  
_  
Imperio.   
_   
  
Well, shit. He didn't mean it—did that count for anything? Draco's perfect little mouth fell open in shock as the spell ran wild in his brain, tripping through liquor and lust, gathering everything in a jumbled pile and binning it. The last thing Harry saw before he Disapparated was Draco's goofy, lopsided, feckless grin.    


The dirty London alleyway was quiet compared to the club, cold and deserted. Harry crouched against the stone wall, still in command of his magic through the wand in his trousers. He cast a few nonverbal spells and nothing unusual pinged back. He looked down to see he'd Apparated without his left trainer. Drunk and immeasurably horny, it was a miracle he hadn't Splinched himself. He could feel the link to Draco's mind, a calm connection resonating at a sub-level of consciousness. Draco was talking, answering a question about escaping his Death Eater father right under Voldemort's flat nose. Draco swelled with emotion, stating proudly that it was Harry who rescued him, whose magic protected him—that it was loyalty to Harry that made everything possible. He was trying to convince the Durmstrangers to join the Order without quite putting words to it. Harry watched through Draco's mind as Dmitry and his comrades agreed. They were between a rock and a hard place, the sons of Death Eaters running to escape their Dark Mark-ed fate.

  
Harry signaled Draco that the coast was clear.    
  
_  
Oh, and can you bring my shoe?   
_

_  
I am not yer house-elf,    
_   
  
came Draco's caustic reply. A second later, nine bodies appeared beside him with a resounding mutual    
  
_  
crack   
_   
  
. Draco held Harry's ratty trainer in one hand as though it were Scabbers, Ron's old rat, and would bite him at any moment. If only he knew the truth behind said rat. A dyed brown brow was raised, a hand on his bony hip.    


  
“Ferget somethin', did we,    
  
_  
Mouffi   
_   
  
?” he drawled, tapping his toe.   


  
Harry ignored the jab, taking his sneaker and slipping it back on. He reached out, speaking through their link.    
  
_  
You're convinced they're good for the Order?    
_

_  
I think yer little social club needs the muscle as much as these boys need a place ta go   
_   
  
was Draco's soundless reply.    
  
_  
Dmitry's father was Durmstrang's Potions Master. The Ionescues are purebloods and Death Eaters, through and through. They've been with the Dark Lord since the very beginnin'. These men have defected. If they're found, they're worse than dead.    
_

_  
  
_   
  
Harry and Draco stared into each other's eyes, Dark magic crackling like a burning rope connecting them from chest to chest, heart to heart.   


  
  
  
_  
You're right,    
_   
  
Harry sighed mentally.   
  
_  
They're dead if they keep running and they're dead if and when they're caught—it's only a matter of time. So it's settled, then.   
_   
  
  
  
_  
I'll have them contact Viktor. I think they'd be more comfortable working with him than McGonagall.    
_   
  
Draco nodded his agreement.    
  
_  
Now tell me, how the fuck are you coherent right now? How are we doing this?   
_

_  
  
_   
  
Draco's response was to grab him by the sticky tshirt and drag him forward for a harsh, demanding kiss. Thanks to the link Harry was prepared for it, clamping down on the spell so Draco couldn't break free. Draco tried with his teeth, scraping Harry's fat bottom lip. He tried with his long tongue, stroking the roof of Harry's mouth, skimming his teeth and rolling languidly against his liquor-soaked gums. And he tried with his hands buried in thick raven hair, little moans escaping his mouth as he struggled in vain. Harry had learned enough about the Dark Arts not to be fooled by these wanton distractions. He held Draco as firmly with his magic as he did with his leather-clad arms. He could even hold the curse back enough that Draco behaved quite normally, unhindered by cloudiness or pain. Harry pulled back with a growling sigh. He smelled cloves again. And smoke. Like someone had thrown little pods of the cooking spice on a roaring fire. It was a warm, homey smell, reminding him of steaming mugs of tea and comfortable evenings in Gryffindor Tower. Harry separated himself from Draco's lips, his eyes sliding open to be stung by clouds of thick white smoke.   


Dima stood next to them, lighting two black-papered cigarettes with the tip of a switch-thin birch wand. The cigarettes were the source of the lingering spicy scent. They crackled, filling the air with a lip-smackingly sweet aroma. He passed one to Harry, advising him not to breathe too deeply.

The first puff wasn't what he thought it would be. The smoke was thick and syrupy, tasting exactly as it smelled. He rolled it in his mouth, taking in the complex notes of clove, nutmeg, chalk and tobacco. Against his better judgment, he liked it very much. Eventually he exhaled, blowing his smoke away from Dima's chiseled face. The man was looking fixedly down the alley at Nebojsa—the expression on his stony face softened perceptibly, his hazel gaze lit up like a Lumos Spell had taken refuge in his eyes. That was exactly the way Draco looked at Harry. Everything fell into place—the dancing, the sly winks. _We rescued Nebojsa_. Of course. Dima and Nebojsa were together, a couple, and Dima refused to flee to safety without his other half.

Harry watched Draco walk up to Nebojsa. The Serb produced a flask from his pocket, offering it to the former Slytherin with a slow, knowing smile. The rest of the men were lighting up at the mouth of the alley, screening Harry and Dmitry from view, guarding them.

“I told zee dragon you could Imperius any of us,” Dima said suddenly. “He said you vouldn't take to zhat.”

Harry gave Dima a sideways glance. Draco was The Dragon, huh? His dragon, surely.

“How about Legilimens, instead?” Harry offered. He didn't think he could manage two Imperius Curses at once. Lord Voldemort probably could in his sleep. Dima gave a nod and Harry touched the hand with his cigarette to his trouser pocket, initiating the spell non-verbally.

Dima was thinking about his boyfriend. He didn't hide a thing, his mind opening like a scrapbook with Harry leafing through the pages. Dmitry and Nebojsa loved each other very much, having admitted their feelings at thirteen; five years later, they were still as inseparable as at their first kiss. Nebojsa's parents, like Harry's, had died fighting Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Dima's family—staunch Death Eaters, just as Draco mentioned—had not approved of their son's friendship. Their romantic connection remained a secret; only their closest friends knew, including Dima's two brothers. Nebojsa was raised by muggle-loving relatives and isolated from the wizarding world. Before he found out about Durmstrang, Nebojsa's dream had been to become a priest. The man was still devout in his faith. He prayed several times a day. He'd prayed when he was taken from his home in the dead of night by masked Death Eaters, prayed while he was kept in a cell and tortured for information on his friends' and lover's whereabouts. When Dima and his band of rebels rescued him, the first words from Nebojsa's cracked, bloodied lips had been thanks and praise to God. Dima was his shield, his protector, just as Harry was to Draco. In every battle, Dima had guarded him, fought for him, killed for him.

That was everything Harry needed to know. He pulled back from Dmitry's mind, breathless from the roller coaster of images and emotions. Dima offered him a weak smile, inhaling his cigarette held between thick, calloused fingers.

“So I guess there's only one question,” Harry said in an undertone. “Are you running or fighting? Either way, we can help you.”

Dima thought about this, blowing thick, sweet smoke out his nose. No wonder the man smelled like cloves. Harry wondered if he would smell like the spice, too. Would he taste different? He'd have to look in Draco's mind later.

“Misha is too young,” Dima said, indicating his brother. “I've tried to shield him from zee violence as best I can. He doesn't look it, but he's only fifteen.” Harry's eyebrows rose of their own accord. From his size alone, Mikhail looked at least eighteen. He could probably pass for a man in his twenties if he didn't shave. “Dušan is strong. He'll fight. Chern... he and Vuk vere best friends. Vith no family, he says he lives for us now. Vadik and Vitya—zhey go vhere I go. Yura vants to look for his girl—she vas taken. I think she's dead by now. But I can't tell him not to try.”

“What about you two?” Harry asked. “You and Nebojsa. I mean, you're their leader.”

“You think?” Dima laughed. Harry took another drag. The black paper crackled merrily like wrapping paper in a Christmas fire. He'd have to pick up some of these cigarettes. They were like Hogwarts you could light up and smoke.

“Nebojsa is zee head,” Dima said forcefully, his jaw set. “Zee heart. I am but his hand. I vould be nothzing vithout him. You know—his name means 'fearless' in Serbian. And he is,” Dima sighed smoke. “I don't think he likes zhis running. Vhere do ve go?”

“Can you disguise yourselves?”

“Ve have some Polyjuice,” the man shrugged. Harry couldn't help but be impressed at their little band's resourcefulness—few people even knew what Polyjuice Potion was. These guys were smart. And desperate.

“Good. Bulgarian National plays next week. Go to the stadium before the match and ask to speak to Viktor Krum—he's a friend of mine,” Harry smiled at Dima's raised eyebrows. Viktor was very famous, especially amongst the pureblood and Durmstrang communities. Harry could see a flare of excitement in Dima's hazel eyes that he was going to have a chance to actually talk to the great Viktor Krum. That Harry and Viktor were friends seemed to blow the man's mind. “Tell him that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter sent you to arrange the Seekers match he promised us. He'll know what you mean. Be sure to mention both of us,” Harry cautioned. Dima nodded vigorously, committing it all to memory.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “You have no idea vot zhis means to us.”

“I know,” Harry offered bracingly. “You just stay alive, alright?”

Dima smiled knowingly. He pulled a dark, square box from his pocket, pressing it into Harry's hands before stepping away. It was a pack of cigarettes, nearly full. Harry smiled—now he could offer Draco a cigarette the next time they had sex. Harry sighed calming smoke before tossing his spent clove, stubbing it out with the toe of his trainer. Perhaps he should learn the spell to produce a little flame from his wand, as Dima had done? Harry looked up, filter of a fresh smoke held between his curled-in lips, about to ask Dima the incantation. He froze.

 _No_   
, he commanded through the link.    
_Draco, don't you fucking dare!_

  
Too late. His boyfriend was inhaling, sucking long and hard from the end of Chern's little glass pipe. Whatever he was smoking smelled stale, like asparagus gone off. Was that... pot? Wizard weed? Clearly Draco knew what it was. He was holding his breath, eyes closed, rolling his shoulders back. Draco's mind was a void, a wide and deserted expanse of calm; memories of chocolate, Quidditch, and the tang of salty sweat blowing in the breeze that rushed between the man's ears. Harry scanned his boyfriend's hazy, undulating memory—sweet Merlin, this was his fourth hit! Vitya and Vadik were applauding how long Draco could hold his breath in his cute little lungs. He was playing quite the convincing rebel for a pureblood pretty boy. 

  
_Come here._

Draco laughed smoke, all but ignoring Harry except for the tiniest shake of his head. He held the pipe out to Chern, asking for another hit. The tall man packed another pinch of herb in the bowl, so kind as to light it with his wand as Draco clenched the pipe in a row of perfect white teeth. He took a powerful drag before dutifully passing to Vadik.

  
_Now, Draco. Or I swear to fucking God I_   
will   
_hurt you,_   
Harry snarled.

  
That got Draco moving, though reluctantly. He retreated into the darkness of the inner alleyway, all but rolling his eyes as he dragged his feet. He was still holding his breath, the cheeky little shit. Harry couldn't contain his anger. What the bloody fuck did Draco think he was doing? 

Draco stopped in front of Harry, who now leaned against the old brick wall. Removing the unlit cigarette from his mouth, he fixed Draco with a fierce expression. When Harry licked his lips, they were as sweet as the cigarette paper—sweeter. He liked his lips again, slower, contemplating Draco's punishment for such blatant disobedience. It came to him in a flash.

  
_Blow me_   
. 

Draco sprung forward to kiss him, blowing the drug-laden smoke into Harry's mouth with a passion. It tasted like whiskey, staleness and Draco. Harry coughed, lungs heaving, pushing Draco's mouth away so he could breathe properly.

 _That's not what I meant and you know it_ , Harry growled through the link. He delivered the smallest zing of pain, focusing it on his boyfriend's feet and calves so he would get the idea.

Right there in the alley, Draco dropped to his knees without a care and began determinately working at Harry's belt. His fingers slipped awkwardly over the fastening, a combination of drugs, alcohol, curse, and lust. Harry was high from the adrenaline. And maybe the weed. Just a little bit. He returned his black cigarette to his lips, a wand tip appearing out of nowhere to light it.

Harry started, turning to the source of the flame now hovering before his face. Nebojsa smiled at him from beyond the wand's handle, Dima's arms around him as he was pressed to the wall beside Harry, bold and open-mouthed kisses laid to his Christo-tattooed neck. Harry was too drunk or horny to summon any higher level reaction than rapid blinking. Nebojsa kept smiling until Dima kissed him, their bodies flush together and grinding.

Draco managed the zip of Harry's denims. Face in sweat-dappled cotton pants, he breathed deep. Harry's hand shot out impulsively to cup Draco's cheek, turning his face up. His eyes were black, eclipsed by substance and desire. Harry realized with a jolt that his smoldering cigarette tip was scant centimeters from the flushed skin of Draco's cheek. He'd been tortured with a lit cigarette, burned as part of his punishment for disobeying Lord Voldemort. Harry sent calm, reassuring thoughts through the link before pulling his hand away. Draco caught a calloused, tobacco-flavored thumb in his mouth, sucking powerful and wet, drawing the digit into his mouth and the cigarette closer to his face. He didn't stop until the charcoal tip heated his skin from centimeters away. White ash dusted like freckles below his fierce dark eyes.

 _It's sexy,_ Draco asserted, his voice clear as a bell in Harry's mind. _Would ya... keep smoking? While I ...?_

Just those words—and the lusty images swirling in Draco's mind, the desire and anticipation that flowed unchecked through his unwound head—was enough to bring Harry painfully close to coming. He struggled for composure, to keep his face neutral. Staring into Draco's lust-lidded eyes helped.

 _You want me to be detached?_ he questioned. _To pretend I don't care?_

Draco shook his head, nose brushing Harry's straining erection through the thin, heated fabric of his boxers. _I don't think yeh could even pretend,_ he teased before going low and serious, skimming between their minds. _I want them ta see how much power ya have._

Nimble fingers drew his member out into the cool night air, making him shiver and tense. He could hear Yura and Dušan discussing Quidditch standings, Chereshko laughing, Dima grunting softly as he worked his boyfriend's body against the crumbling brick wall beside them, so close Harry could smell their sweat, feel the air rippling from their movements, hear their lips meeting, wet and passionate.

With a shaking hand, Harry returned the cigarette to his lips. Would the smoke calm his nerves? What the fuck was he doing? And what did Draco mean by “his power?”

One hot lick and he understood—right before the world faded away. Draco's mouth closed over him and the magic was gathering at his fingertips, along the edges of his teeth and between the buds of his tongue. He screwed his eyes shut, bottling the energy so it could rise up to a steady boil. Draco moaned, feeling the steady thrum like blood in the veins of their connections, physical and magic, lustful and Dark. He quickly performed his favorite little spell before taking Harry to the furthest reaches of his throat, all but goring himself. Harry felt the signature of magic allowing Draco to breath in ways only a wizard could draw breath. The back of Harry's head hit the wall with a dull thud, smoke billowing out his nostrils.

“ _Yes, Draco,_ ” he groaned in Parseltongue, the roiling magic needing some type of vent like steam screeching from a tea kettle. “ _I think you hate it but I love you. Tough fucking shit, baby. I love you,_ ” he babbled. “ _I love you, you devious, conniving, manipulative, genius-pot-smoking-cock-sucking-gorgeous-Voldemort-be-damned-pureblood-buggering-me-within-an-inch-of-my-bloody-life-bastard!_ _I love you, I love you, love you...._ ”

Draco's only response was to suck harder, to take more, his eyes trained on Harry's red, hissing lips through the clouds of smoke and haze of sex. He moaned again, gripping Harry's strong thighs. Harry fisted a hand in silky hair, riding so perilously close to the edge he could taste it.

“ _That isssss the only way,_ ” replied an unfamiliar hiss beside him. Harry's head lolled, brilliant green eyes meeting Nebojsa's frank stare. The man had a piercing, ice blue gaze beneath deeply hooded black brows. His lips were parted, nostrils flaring softly as he panted with Dima kneeling before him. “ _Itssss the only thing that mattersssss._ ” His eyes dropped to Draco, sucking Harry off with his eyes half closed, completely focused. Harry could tell his boyfriend was blocking out the hissing conversation going on above him, ignoring what it did to his own cock in order to concentrate solely on Harry.

“ _He lovessss you,_ ” Nebojsa commented. He watched Draco intently while cradling Dima's face at his own crotch. Blinking slowly, his icy eyes were darkening; strong, chiseled face going slack as the end approached at break-neck speed. Harry felt mindless, too. His skin was crawling with thousands of spiders running through his veins, the magic trying to get out. “ _And love isssss always worth fighting for._ ”

Nebojsa reached out, taking Harry's chin in his free hand and drawing him close. Their lips met in a chaste press, engorged and wet. It wasn't sexual so much as it was understanding—only that type of physical closeness could express everything the man was feeling in that moment, the intense bond of camaraderie and respect forged in their private exchange. There weren't that many Parselmouths out there, let alone ones that had been raised outside of the magical world only to fall in love with the son of a prominent Death Eater. And they were both fighting, though it sometimes felt like running blind. The kiss was only an outward sign of their pact, their determination to live in the face of it all.

Draco choked, throat clenching unbearably tight around him. It made the magic flex, like a muscle. He could feel it in his chest, burrowing deep and digging its in claws for leverage. It expanded until Harry couldn't breath. The magic burst from him in a hot rush of wind, sending a shock-wave rippling out through the alley. Brick dust fluttered down on their heads like snow, bits of garbage twitching on the ground. Every molecule of his body sparked with electricity. Nebojsa drew back with a smile of wonder, a hand brushing his thin lips. Draco gave a little yelp, unconsciously bringing his teeth down. Harry jerked at the sudden sensation, so different from warm, wet suction and lips and yet so achingly good. The sharpness seemed to accent his orgasm, dragging it out. He bit down on his lip to keep from screaming, breaking the skin. Coppery blood mixed with sugary sweetness. The air shimmered and danced, flecks of dust in the air glinting like pixies caught in magical moon light. Harry let it wash over him, felt his body shake, sensed Draco's gasp of pleasure as though from very far away.

Draco, sucking the head of his cock, was pulling a sort of poison from his veins. He got lighter and lighter, more and more free, the longer it went on. It was the polar opposite of casting _Eptir Eldr_ , which left him lifeless and drained. He felt new, whole, sharp and fresh, ready for anything. Gods, it was magic! Maybe that's what Draco meant by his “power.” Some power! He'd never come so long in his life. A drop of blood tracked down his chin before Draco finished swallowing, still lapping up the last of it.

“ _Greedy,_ ” Harry observed in a proud hiss. Draco nodded his agreement, nose buried in black pubic hair. “ _Get up here._ ”

He wasn't sure if Draco would understand his intention now; somewhere in the process of accidentally kissing another man and blowing his load while getting sucked off in a London back alley, he'd lost his hold on the Imperius Curse. Oh well. He must be stoned out of his mind right now because he really couldn't be arsed. Draco clawed his way up Harry's front, tucking him back in his trousers before brushing dirt and pebbles from his trouser legs. Wobbly, he fell into Harry, a puff of air driven from both their lungs with the impact. He swiped a long, pale finger up Harry's chin, gathering the little smear of blood on his fingertip before bringing it to his pretty mouth, sucking his finger clean.

“You're drinking my blood now? Tha's very intense,” Harry told his boyfriend teasingly—his boyfriend who was licking the Chosen One's dirty mixed blood off his delicate, purebred finger. It took a conscious effort to switch back to English. His brain was so far gone. “Odd, Draco. You're so odd, always licking things off me.”

“Yes,” the man agreed. “We're a trifle odd, the pair of us.” His eyes were still dilated nearly black and he leaned heavily against Harry. His silvery gaze was unfocused as he appeared to stare at Harry's lips, waiting for them to move again. With all the pot he'd smoked, he was probably hallucinating quite fantastically.

Harry swept forward to catch Draco's lips with his own, ignoring his cut-up lip. The sting became another dimension of their slow, languid kiss; a thrumming burn that joined with Draco's crisp taste and the musky flavor lingering at the backs of his teeth. Harry proceeded to lick the last of his come from the inside of Draco's mouth. Draco sighed, enjoying the tongue-lavishing of his tonsils.

A decided bit of throat clearing broke them apart. Nebojsa and Dima were cuddled close, fixing them with a hazel and ice blue daze. The strong men looked almost sweet, their bearded cheeks pressed tight, nose-tips almost touching. Dima let out a string of explicatives Harry was glad he'd never comprehend. “ _Jebo te Bog te jebo da te jebo te Bog da te jebo dabogda...._ ” Nebojsa was clearly offended—there must've been something about God in there somewhere because he shoved his partner away, though an indulgent smile crossed his thin lips. 

“Dunno wha' tha' means,” Draco sighed, “but we need ta get outta here. Quick.”

Dima and Nebojsa both nodded emphatically. Dima was staring at Harry with something resembling slack-jawed awe. Nebojsa's eyes were wide but his face was unreadable... until he fucking _winked_ at Draco.

“He can Apparate after zhat?!” Dima spluttered at Draco, eyebrows becoming one with his dark hairline. Draco chuckled deep in his chest.

“I wouldn't even let him try,” Draco shrugged, wrapping his long arms around Harry in preparation to Side-Along him home. “I'd be scraping him off the floor fer weeks.”

“And zhen vere vould zee resistance be?” Dima snorted. Nebojsa called their men with a quick hand signal. They apparently Apparated as a group, which was smart. It was harder to attack an entire group moving swiftly. Dima stepped back, slinging an arm around his tanked baby brother to hold him up. Nebojsa caught Harry's attention.

“Ve vill meet again, _da_?”

“ _Da_ ,” Harry nodded, smiling. He felt that familiar tug, the twisting sensation of Apparition in his chest, the squeezing of his eyeballs and churning of his liquor-filled stomach. A few sickening seconds later, he landed in bed with a very horny Draco Malfoy on top of him. And Gods, if there wasn't a wizard on Earth more fun to be drunk and horny with.

 

 

 **~ * ~**

 

 

Harry stood at the foot of the bed, hating himself. Draco had packed    
_their_   
trunk, spelling the inside deeper to accommodate two sets of clothing, personal items, quills and parchment. He'd asked Harry where his schoolbooks were so he could pack those, too. Harry was forced to lie, saying he'd pack them himself later. Draco thought he was packing now. 

The blonde hadn't separated their things at all; instead, the trunk contained tidy stacks of trousers, cloaks, socks and pants, his and Draco's possessions pleasantly mingled together, a quiet testament to their cohabitation. Draco didn't have much and clearly expected to borrow from Harry. It was an easy solution; after all, he thought they'd be sharing the Head Boy's quarters once they arrived at Hogwarts. Harry tasted bile at the back of his throat, fists jammed in his pockets. He couldn't look at the trunk anymore without hating himself. He had to tell Draco. Draco was leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow morning. This was their last night together. And Draco    
_deserved_   
to know—what he didn't deserve was his good-for-nothing boyfriend lying to him.

He'd invited Ron and Hermione for dinner that night, needing to establish peace between his two best friends and his boyfriend before sending them off to Scotland together. The rift between himself and his best friends grew wider every day. Something had to be done before he lost them. Draco seemed excited that they were having company, no matter that it was parts two and three of the Golden Trio. Harry suspected Draco was more of a social creature than he let on.

Harry closed the lid of their trunk, resigned to his fate. He had to tell Draco before Ron and Hermione got there. He shuddered to think how bad it would be if his boyfriend found out from anyone else. It was a minor miracle that hadn't already happened. Draco gave him privacy whenever he read correspondence from Headmistress McGonagall and tried not to ask too many questions. Draco had a certain way of being. He'd rather be reassured that everything was alright than know the details. If he knew details he tended to get involved, try to change things and nitpick. He understood that the last thing Harry needed was another person questioning him and so he placed faith in Harry a bit blindly at times. Now that faith was dogging Harry, making him feel like the lowest of the low. He    
_had_   
to tell Draco. 

Plodding miserably down the stairs, he heard Draco playing piano in the front parlor. The scent of apples and a hint of caramel wafted up from the kitchen—Draco was preparing their dinner with magic. It was still almost two hours until Ron and Hermione were expected so the sweet smell could only be some type of dessert. Harry heaved a sigh. It was ridiculous to hope that everyone would just get along. His boyfriend was perfect. Well, perfect for him; wild, feisty, indecent and perfect, like a beautiful, unbroken stallion. Draco ran unbridled, natural and free. Maybe one day his friends would accept the deep admiration and affection he held for Draco. Until then, it was this awkward peace-keeping, this tension and mild discomfort, this worry that any comment might start a brawl across the dinner table. Gods, why couldn't everyone just put their shit aside and act like adults? Even The Boy Who Lived had grown up. He deserved some kind of fucking medal for that. Now he waited for his world to catch up.

Draco was seated at the piano in his blue silk shirt and a pair of grey trousers, looking good enough to eat. Harry started when he recognized the tune—“Don't Let Me Down” by the Beatles. Draco drew the melody out in this quiet, happy way, trilling on the higher keys, chord hand slow and patient. Where had Draco learned a muggle song? Harry remembered the tune had played over the speakers at the market a few days back. It was incredible that Draco could play the song having only heard it once. Maybe he liked the melody and it stuck.

“Ya watchin' me?” the blonde asked over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. He stepped into the big room, closing the door behind him as though to keep the music just for them. It wasn't like there was anyone else in the house—just Kreacher and Hedwig. Still, he liked being alone with his boyfriend. Really alone. They didn't have much time left. Harry hummed with the chorus, thinking the words. “So don't let me down, don't let me down....” Except he was letting Draco down, lying to him. His shoulders sagged.

“Draco?”

“Scar Head?”

“I, er, wanted to talk to you...”

“So talk,” Draco shrugged, continuing to play at a softer volume. He didn't look up at Harry; then again, he didn't look down at the keys when he played, either. Mostly his grey eyes fixed on the polished top of the piano or on the folds of the old curtains covering a nearby window. The lid of the piano was down and he was staring straight forward, unseeingly, out of the window. It was getting dark outside. The air felt a little thick, like it might rain that night. Draco's warm, pleasant melody went on.

Harry completely lost his nerve... at least the nerve to mention lying about Hogwarts. He quickly found something else to feel bad about.

“I'm sorry about last night,” Harry offered quietly, turning away and clasping his hands behind his back. “I hexed you. And that was absolutely out of line. I was really drunk—not as though that's any excuse. Everything is kinda hazy after that.” He could feel his face going red.    
_Certain things_   
were hazy while others remained perfectly clear. He'd floo-called Viktor to let him know the Durmstrang runaways would be approaching him next week. He'd floo-called McGonagall, too, telling her that the guys could even stay with him at Grimmauld Place if need be. Maybe they could continue teaching him about Dark magic in Draco's absence. 

Draco was shaking his head slowly, smiling.

“Don't worry 'bout it. It was exactly wha' our new friends needed ta see.”

“Our new friends?” Harry questioned. He very much wanted those men to be his friends. Maybe Nebojsa and Dima already were, come to think of it.

Draco rolled his eyes launching into the chorus. “Wha' do yeh want me ter call 'em? 'Cause we did a little more than get drunk together.” He raised a delicate, returned-to-dirty-blonde brow.

So Draco remembered what they'd done—in front of an audience, no less.

“Are you okay with that?” Harry asked cryptically.

“Are    
_you_   
?” Draco shot back. He leaned to one side on the bench, turning to fix Harry with a cocky, lazy smile. It bordered on the old Malfoy sneer but was tipped with teasing, affection, and outright challenge. The man had better say something devious before he burst. “Here I was thinkin' threesomes were off the map an' yeh go startin' an orgy!” 

Harry swallowed against his suddenly dry mouth. “I did no such thing,” he insisted, face red.

Draco chuckled, trilling the soprano keys with enthusiasm, the gentle music utterly incongruous to their conversation. “Wonder Boy, yer powers of denial never cease ter amaze an' astound. Last night was    
_fun_   
. Yeh didn't do anythin' wrong. In fact, I think we should do it again if yer game. Yeh really oughtta let go a' this stuffy Gryffindor bollocks an' have a good time now an' again.” 

“So... we're okay?” Harry asked slowly. His face was still bright—he could feel the heat—but Draco seemed pleased instead of angry. And he still wanted Harry. That was what was important, after all.

“Yes, brill,” Draco shrugged, playing the melody straight and true. Harry sighed, coming to lay a hand on Draco's shoulder and watch his skinny fingers fly over the keys.

“How can you play a song after hearing it once? Is it magic?”

Draco laughed. “It's called talent!”

Harry snorted at his boyfriend's flippancy. “But you can still read sheet music, right? Or do you do everything by ear?”

“If it's very complex then yes, I prefer ta have the music in front a' me,” Draco admitted. “But simple rot like this I do by ear.”

“Would you like me to get you some sheet music?” Harry asked, smiling innocently. Draco's head whipped up to look at him.

“Wha'?” he spluttered. “This muggle tripe?” And he turned up his nose as much as one can turn up one's nose while looking upward to begin with. “No thank you.”

“There's some really good muggle music out there,” Harry protested. “Complicated stuff, even. Fancy classical stuff, like the wizard music you play. You might like it.”

“No thank you,” Draco insisted in his haughtiest Malfoy voice.

“Don't be an arsehole, Draco,” Harry said firmly. “I was offering to do something nice for you.”

“Don't make me bend yeh over the piano,” the blonde mumbled under his breath. The sentence wasn't lost on Harry's ears.

“For what? Being nice to you?” he couldn't help but snort in reply.

“Fer bein' bloody perfect, ya cunt.”

Draco pulled Harry down by the front of his shirt, kissing him upside down. The kiss was short and sweet; the hard meeting of lips, a quick sigh, the taste of those sweet pink folds and Draco was already pulling away. Harry hovered close, letting his hands slip down the vivid blue silk covering Draco's chest.

“I could be perfect some more—if you like,” Harry offered quietly, knowing how Draco felt about admitting what he wanted but forcing the issue none-the-less. Expressing wanting had been off-limits to the Malfoy heir; after all, Draco had wanted for nothing as a child... nothing but affection, anyway. And perhaps a bit of discipline. Now he had both in spades. Harry would only put out if Draco expressed his desire and the blonde bloody well knew it. The arrangement aggravated him to no end but served to keep him honest and upfront if nothing else.

“If yeh get any more perfect, I'll scream,” Draco uttered dejectedly.

Harry straightened, allowing the heat of his hands to permeate Draco's shirt before letting them slip away. Draco gazed off to the side, sullen and unwilling to meet Harry's eyes.

“I take it I won't be bent over the piano before my friends arrive, then,” Harry shrugged, stepping away. “Too bad.”

“Oh, it can be arranged,” Draco shot, swiveling around on the bench. He caught Harry's rear pocket, dragging him back. His hand tugged once at the denims, eyes bright. “Strip.”

“One condition,” Harry said, holding a staying hand over the white belt securing his jeans. Draco raised a questioning brow, so Harry supplied his requirement. It wasn't often, if ever, that he made stipulations on fucking so Draco was paying some attention. “Use magic,” Harry said quietly

“Yeah?” Draco rose from the bench, drawing close.

“Yeah,” Harry chuckled back, loosening his belt. The button on his jeans was the next to go. “I'd like to be able to sit comfortably during dinner, if that's alright.”

“Afraid I'm gonna fuck ya too hard?” Draco teased, watching Harry lower his zipper with an uncalculated and yet tantalizing air.

“I'm not afraid,” Harry said calmly, confidence making his voice smooth, rich and deep. “I know what I like. And you like it, too.”

Draco's eyes drifted closed for a second, his exhale shaky. The blonde smelled like lemons and that tan paste he conjured to style his hair. When he opened his eyes his pupils were dilating, taking over, leaving less and less silver at the edges. Harry found himself missing the color but looking forward to the crazy sex that look always brought about.

“Strip,” Draco commanded again. He pulled Harry's glasses from his face, carelessly tossing them to the nearby sofa cushion.

Harry dropped his arms to his sides, unwilling to give Draco the pleasure of watching him follow orders. It took a second for comprehension to dawn in Draco's lust-fogged brain.

“Bloody prat,” the blonde whispered, tugging the tails of Harry's oxford before working at the buttons. He started at the bottom and quickly made his way up, sliding the material from Harry's shoulders as an excuse to touch his warm, bare skin. Next, he unceremoniously pushed down Harry's denims and pants, letting them pool on the floor. Since he wasn't wearing shoes or socks, Harry simply stepped out of them. He reached out, grabbing a fist full of blonde hair to drag Draco into a kiss.

Draco smiled against his lips, a light hand wrapping Harry's shaft and giving a few teasingly slow tugs. Harry's tongue was sucked to the same rhythm, making his knees weak. Draco's other hand cupped the place where his ass met thigh, drawing their lower halves flush.

“Put yer hands on the piano,” he muttered into their kiss.

Harry pulled back, lifting his eyebrows in a silent laugh that blew out his nose in a huff.

“Please,” Draco quickly amended. “If I'm using magic, yer gonna need it.”

“That a promise?” Harry smiled, fingering the sleek fabric at the blonde's side. “If you plan to fuck me, love, you might wanna take your clothes off.”

“I think I'll leave 'em on,” Draco said with good humor, taking a step back so that their only point of contact was his hand still languidly pumping Harry's growing length.

Harry drew back with a grin, disentangling Draco's fingers and making for the deep curve at the instrument's side. He dropped his elbows to the piano behind him and leaned casually, going so far as to cross his ankles and really release his weight—as though he were early for Charms and waiting in the corridor instead of stark naked and leaning against a Black family heirloom. Draco watched him, perplexed.

“Yeh don't feel awkward?” the blonde questioned, looking Harry up and down.

“Why should I?”

“Yer... exposed,” Draco flicked a hand between them before taking a step closer. He didn't even bother to toe off his shoes or unbutton his shirt. Natural light receded quickly with the sun now set, leaving them with the bluish-white Lumos-triggered lamps that littered the old house. Draco looked especially pale in the weak, wavering light. Harry had been right: Draco's platinum hair made the shirt stand out more against his fair skin, reflecting the intense blue right up to his eerie, beautiful eyes.

“I'm not exposed,” Harry chided, adding the slightest swagger to his stance. Draco chose the strangest times to play these little power games. Their sex drives were equally insatiable. They'd blown each other while brewing a Hangover Potion that morning and then wanked in the shower only to take their clothes off again, frotting fast and messy on the kitchen table shortly after lunch; yet Harry stood with a full boner pointing at his chin, quite ready and waiting. And Draco chose this moment to tease? “You've seen me naked plenty of times,” Harry shrugged. “I'd have thought the novelty had worn off by now! I can only conclude that you    
_want_   
me to feel 'exposed,' as you say, vulnerable, weak,” he postured, gesturing idly with one hand. He brushed his hair out of his face, Draco's bright eyes following the little movements of his hand with rapt attention.

“Is that what you want?” Harry continued with sickening sweetness. He turned away, placing his forearms on the shiny piano and angling his rear to Draco. A part of his brain registered how slutty he must look with his naked arse on display in the front parlor but he couldn't rightly care. This would set Draco off like no other. Harry peeked over his shoulder, batting his eyelashes with the briefest modicum of sarcasm before trying to make it look real. “Like this? You want me powerless, all a-quiver and begging for you?”

He let the moment linger, leisurely boiling Draco's blood. Then Harry found    
_he_   
was the one who couldn't take it. He dropped his face into his arms, snorting hoots of laughter shaking his back. It was so fake he couldn't even fake it with a straight face. “Fat chance!” 

Draco was on top of him in an instant, thin fingers gripping his hips with bruising force as he laid his fully-clad body into Harry's bare one. He nipped at the back of Harry's neck, growling, “Yer ass is mine, Potter. Don't yeh forget tha'.”

“And your dick is mine, Malfoy,” Harry replied smoothly, tucking his rear against the bulge in Draco's trousers. The blonde hissed as Harry ground against him. Aha! A few too many layers of fabric come back to haunt him! “Kinda hard to fuck with your clothes on, yeah?”

When Draco attempted to pull away with a snarl of fury, Harry hooked the man's ankle with his own foot, unbalancing him and knocking them both forward, hard. They slammed into the piano, pushing it a few centimeters with an audible scratching of floorboards.

“Who says I'm fucking you, bitch!” Draco hissed, haughty and conciliatory.

“Draco,” Harry intoned, sighing deeply for patience, “you're going to eat me out and then fuck me silly. With magic. And before Ron and Hermione get here—unless you plan on charging them for a second show which I'm sure neither of them want or could possibly afford. Your prices are probably the least outrageous thing they'd have to worry about. I suggest you use the next...” he glanced at the old clock, “ninety minutes to their full potential. Because after that it's going to be a delightful evening spent in the company of your two favorite individuals.”

“Potter, I didn't know you invited my parents!” Draco spat, making a rather bad taste joke in that trademark snide and irreverent manner. “Or is it dear Severus and The Dark Lord coming for dinner? I do hope I've made enough dessert.” He drove his hips forward as an accent, rubbing his fully clothed cock against the healthy roundness of Harry's backside. The piano slid forward some more, causing Harry to lean at a precarious angle.

“Forgive me. I was under the impression I was getting laid tonight,” Harry said boldly, hints of anger and impatience lacing his acerbic tone. “But if you'd rather dry hump me—or    
_talk_   
at me—” 

Draco grunted, muscling Harry's legs apart with his own. He had the advantage with Harry's foot still wrapped tightly around his ankle. He wrestled Harry forward until his firm little body lay flush against the piano, leaving them both panting from the effort.

  
_Why am I doing this, again?_   
Harry mused. The answer hit him like a bag of bricks.   
_Because I'm too chicken-shit to tell Draco the truth. This is just a sick, needy grab for power when everything's spinning out of control. And that's probably how Draco feels right now, like this squabbling is just fuel to keep us going so we don't go mental._   
Maybe he could use that shared mentality to gain the upper hand. Harry bit down on his manic grin—not like Draco could see his face.

“Does this make it fun? Get your dick hard?” Harry asked dryly, his own ignored erection bumping the underside of the grand piano. The wood underneath was raw and unfinished—he could easily get splinters. “You like feeling in control? Does that do it for you?” he teased, earning a savage bite to his shoulder. He breathed through it, noticing that Draco's free hand stroked the side of his thigh, fingertips mapping the contour of flesh and dark, rough hair. “Too bad. You'd better fuck me, Draco. Do me. I    
_want_   
you to take me. There's really no power in it for you, since you're just doing what I want. But I might be willing to pretend if it'll keep your dick up.” 

Draco let out a muffled scream, his wand flying past Harry's ear. He threw a decent Sticking Charm at the piano followed by several sex charms at Harry's backside. From the feel of it, Draco had taken a good amount of hair from down there. Harry felt bare—he could feel the soft wool of Draco's trousers, feel a slight breeze from the Cooling Charms lazily circling the room. He couldn't let his discomfort show, even as Draco's magic scrubbed his intestines and worked at spreading him simultaneously. He kept any physical reaction from surfacing; inside, his brain protested quite vehemently at the indecent exposure but this was no time to be squeamish, to show weakness. This was a battle of wills like they'd never had before and Harry would be damned if he didn't win.

Draco cast one last spell—a specialized, non-verbal form of Incarcerus that left Harry's wrists bound together snugly with several wide strips of leather, the ends of which snaked along the top of the piano until dropping off the side like aerial acrobats, coiling around the instrument's legs and then hunkering down for leverage. Apparently Harry would be face down on the piano for the time being. He rested his forehead against the cool, lacquered wood, feeling beads of sweat rapidly building all along his body. His erect sex bobbed from inattention, scraping rough wood.

A hot mouth traveled down his back with more punishing teeth than adoring lips, narrow fingers working his ass cheeks with shocking strength. Draco's panting breath puffed out across his lower back. He felt the blonde drop to his knees, crumpling to the floor and craning his head to peer unabashed at the most private area of Harry's body. His examination was almost clinical, probing with dry fingers, trying to make Harry uncomfortable. But Harry wouldn't give Draco the satisfaction. He breathed slowly and evenly, listening to Draco swish his wand one last time before stowing it in his back pocket.

It was only a second before he leaned in, spreading Harry's cheeks with unforgiving hands before delivering a slow, hot lick

“Mmmm,” Harry voiced his approval, rubbing it in Draco's face—rubbing    
_everything_   
in Draco's face. He leaned into that nasty lick, taking more than Draco had intended to give. With a combination of luck and just the right angle, Draco's tongue slid right up his ass hole. And Draco went much farther than usual, having spelled his tongue to more than the length of a finger. Harry was unexpectedly speared on that wet muscle. “Exactly... what I wanted,” Harry reminded his boyfriend with a wicked, breathless chuckle. 

“Uuuck yough,” was Draco's muffled reply.

“All in due time,” Harry managed, gasping at the sensation of Draco trying to speak with his slick tongue so far up his boyfriend's ass. Harry rotated his hips, fucking himself, soliciting any type of reaction to this unprecedentedly promiscuous and downright shallow behavior. Draco couldn't help a moan as Harry clenched. It took them both a second to recover. Draco's hands raced up and down his thighs, encouraging him to spread his legs as far as he could go. Harry obliged, leaning back into Draco's mouth as he sucked, swirling his magically elongated tongue.

He hit on that elusive spot that made white-hot sparks chase each other across Harry's vision. His eyes probably rolled into the back of his head, nothing short of a wet gurgle escaping his lungs. He grunted, indicating    
_God damn it: there, there!_   
Draco caught on, waggling his colorful, filthy tongue. That was its best use, after all.

Harry came, hard and deliciously drawn out; the type of intense, animal response only Draco could bring out in him. Harry clenched, tense and contracting, beating his forehead in a slow, steady rhythm against the piano. The pounding matched the rush of blood in his ears, the stream of come pulsing from his cock in a hot wave. Draco let out a wail that was... disappointed, withdrawing his deviant tongue. He darted forward, sliding between Harry's legs and bashing the top of his blonde head on the piano's undercarriage as he rushed to capture the head of Harry's cock in his mouth. He eagerly lapped up the rest, swallowing and breathing heavily through his nose, savoring the flavor as it filled his mouth and slid too soon down his throat. But that first spurt mocked him in the from of a puddle on the floor beside him. He was careful not to get any on his fancy trousers. And the stray dust bunnies could be spelled away later. He was busy, apparently.

“Task one of two,” Harry chided when he could manage words. Draco was forced to non-verbally spell his tongue back to normal in order to make his reply.

“Gonna fuck yeh 'til yer blue in yer ruddy face,” he mumble-threatened from his hands and knees between Harry's stretched out legs. Harry let the leather bands take some of his weight until the piano gave an ominous creak and he withdrew, owning his slightly shaky limbs.

“I welcome the challenge,” Harry shot back, gaining coherence by leaps and bounds. “Sixty five minutes,” Harry reminded him, thoroughly enjoying his new power. “Tick tock, love.”

“Fuck. You.” Draco panted, still regulating his breath with little success.

“That would be the idea, now you've gone and got me ready for it,” Harry suggested with mild flip, resting his flushed cheek against the cool wood. He didn't expect what came next.

Draco waved his wand, releasing the leather straps so that Harry's weight sagged to his silk-clad shoulders. Had Draco licked the come from his boyfriend's crotch just to keep it from staining his shirt? He hoisted an off-guard Harry with a deep grunt, throwing him bodily atop the grand piano and then pouncing after his sloppy, nude form. Fully clothed and on his knees between Harry's thighs, Draco cast rapid Sticking Charms to the piano's three legs before hastily unfastening his trousers.

“Not the intended use of a grand piano, magical or otherwise,” he gushed, yanking his trousers open to free his red veined cock. Harry fumbled with mother of pearl shirt buttons. He'd only released the first two before Draco was casting the Lubrication Charm directly at his hole, swiping at the wetness to coat himself. Getting inside as quickly as possible appeared to be his only objective and he pursued it with wild abandon, blowing his hair out of his eyes even as he leaned close, guiding himself with a pale, practiced hand. Harry knew he was held open by magic but reasoned with his body to relax just the same, huffing shallow breaths through his nose as Draco pressed forward, expensive fabrics clinging to his frame like a second skin. And then Harry was his skin, enveloping him. There was next to no burn this way... the wizarding way. Draco easily slid two thirds of the way before pulling back smoothly. It was amazing—he was already in, and then out. Harry wanted in again... quite desperately, but he wouldn't let it show.

 

 

Harry was so hot, so slick, so tight! Draco nearly came the second he was in. He couldn't even fully seat himself, rearing back to scrabble for his center and just fucking breathe. Slow, slow. The edge was right there, quivering, beckoning him to slip, to fall over into much-needed orgasm. He took a second to rearrange their bodies, situating Harry's legs over his shoulders and bending the dark haired sex fiend nearly in half. Gods, he was flexible! Draco breathed through his arousal, pushing back into that swelling, roiling press and heat.

Because he was a masochist who lived for over-stimulation—that was the only explanation available, after all—Draco rested his palms just inside Harry's hip bones, nestling his fingers in a bit of inky black body hair and then easing himself over his lover, transferring the weight of his own body into their physical connection. Every molecule of Harry's being seemed to hum and then vibrate, zooming to constrict so sweetly tight around his cock. He felt the universe converge there, all pushing against him, demanding he get the fuck out of The Straightest Boy Who Lived because he, Draco Malfoy, reformed Death Eater, so very clearly    
_did not_   
  
_belong_   
. Harry watched him with small wonder written across his strong, handsome face, one hand exploring the scars beneath his silk dress shirt and the other moving like water through his hair, thumb stroking his temple quite tenderly. He could count the number of times he'd been in Harry on one hand and already he wanted to own this heat, wanted it to be his more than he could ever express. Green eyes fixated on him from a background of cherry polished wood, a calloused hand brushing disobedient blonde strands that pricked at his eyes. Draco drove his hips forward and Harry growled his pleasure through gritted teeth, voice deep and crackling with the desire for more. 

“Wha' do you call that?” Harry managed in a heavy purr, wild eyes indicating the hands pressing into his hips, creating that amazing tightness and tension.

  
_The death of me_   
, chimed a voice at the back of Draco's head. He beat it down, smirking.

“It's called nine inches a' pureblood bone in ya. Like it?”

“Really?” Harry arched up, pushing at Draco's hands with his hips using only the thick muscles of his thighs draped over Draco's shoulders, leveraging against his own taught upper body to take more, to absorb and devour. He smirked and it was bloody sexy. “I could've sworn it was ten.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, ignoring the compliment. “Ya sayin' ya want it?”

“I'm saying you're holding back on me, Draco,” Harry fixed him with a look that all but froze his breath in his lungs. Freezing... now there was a good idea. “All of you,” Harry insisted. “ _Now_.”

With a quick wandless spell, Draco's cock went several degrees colder. Harry shivered and flinched involuntarily, clenching around him. He was so close it hurt, biting his lip to keep from gasping. Oddly enough, staring into Harry's eyes helped. Flecks of green flashed up at him through dark lashes, framed by skin turned snowy white in the lamplight.

“I haven't even started with ya,” Draco growled happily, slamming forward with all his might.

In retrospect, it would have been smart to put a Sticking Charm on Harry as well as the instrument: hindsight was always twenty twenty. And Draco's sense of practical foresight had always been royally fucked and not in a good way. The piano stayed firmly in place but his sweat-slicked lover was sliding all over the place. That tantalizing way he wiggled his hips certainly didn't help. As much as Draco wanted to pull out completely before pounding, ramming himself home, Harry proved a constantly moving target. Even with his hips pinned by at least half Draco's weight, he managed to clench his arse, to worm here and slip there, rolling his hips like nothing Draco had ever seen. Harry was teasing _him_ , denying him what they both so clearly wanted.

“Get back here!” Draco snarled, curling his fingers around Harry's hip bones and dragging him closer, spearing him. The man's breath sang high and sharp through his clenched teeth. He was loving it, this pantomime of aggression.

“Harder,” Harry announced, pearly whites gritted and barred with his head thrown back, taking up fists of Draco's hair.

“Then hold still!” Draco shot back, beginning to sweat in earnest. He'd have to change shirts before dinner because this one would wreak of sweat and sex—their sweat, _their_ sex. He slid himself balls deep only to stifle a moan. He ground his hips, too sensitive to do as Harry had ordered.

“What are you afraid of?” Harry demanded with ragged frustration. “Breaking the piano—or me?”

The stunningly witty comeback on Draco's lips was summarily aborted by a thin, harsh kiss. His lips burned.

“The piano's in far more danger than I am,” Harry spat against wet lips, sharing Draco's breath. “How long are you gonna fuck me like a girl?”

Finally, finally, Draco managed a decent thrust. And then another. Harry was pretending for him, letting him stick his hand in the proverbial cookie jar with the promise he wouldn't be scolded. He was only doing what Harry wanted but _Gods_ if it didn't feel so damn good. The man made this wild noise in his throat, sounding rather like he were taking a punch low in his stomach. The sound rattled in Draco's chest, resonating with something in the pit of his own stomach. He pulled a hand from those undulating hips, slipping down healthy curves to that delicious bit of meat he was now bludgeoning with his cock. Draco really wound up, his hand rearing back like a snake about to strike. The flat of his palm landed on Harry's sweet ass with a resounding, soul-satisfying crack.

And he was coming, bursting apart in that endless tight. Mouth hanging open, he stared down at Harry. The raven-haired devil had ripped an orgasm from him, taken it right out of his balls and now it was bloody gone. Tears of frustration and rage pricked his eyes; he was too upset to enjoy the pleasure of blowing his load in Harry, too angry to savor the salt and tang of the man's delectable skin, too destroyed to process the hot tears that threatened the corners of his now screwed-shut eyes. He collapsed against Harry's chest, gasping his measly release like a fish out of water. It was a stolen orgasm and it held no pleasure.

Harry didn't say a word, giving him those much-needed seconds to collect himself.

He'd come too early. He'd lost control and blown it—quite literally—before Harry had gotten his fix. They could address it or ignore it. Draco was all-for calling it a fluke... except that he was having more and more of these hair-trigger releases with Harry. He was overloading, taking on too much. Surely Harry Potter wasn't too much for him to handle... or was he?

Harry's bits, hard as granite, lay trapped between their stomachs, the length of him encased between flesh and silk. There was a chance to salvage this. Ignoring his weak arms and painfully oversensitive cock, Draco mustered a shaky push-up to withdraw. Before Harry could catch his gaze he was sliding down that brawny, compact form, centering his weight as he drew back, guiding Harry's thighs to settle on his shoulders. He rose up to his knees, propping Harry up on his upper back, weight distributed to his neck and shoulders. The man's hands splayed out on the piano, bracing as his lower half was raised into the air.

“What're you doing?” Harry questioned, abdominal muscles crunching in a delicious display with his hard cock nestled on top like a big red cherry decorating the peak of his vanilla sundae skin. Draco would see to that gorgeous dick in just a minute. He summoned his most devious smile.

“Seconds,” he announced proudly before diving for Harry's come-slicked hole. Draco sucked powerfully, flinching slightly at the unsightly _slurping_ that, while unavoidable, was also utterly disgusting and undeniably provocative. There was no etiquette to this. It was payback, pure and simple. He was taking his orgasm back whether the domineering Gryffindor sod was having it or not.

Harry liked it, though. He actually wailed, his back flush with Draco's chest, allowing himself to be supported in the crazy position. He wormed his feet up to rest on Draco's shoulders; leverage gained, he proceeded to grind and fuck himself further on Draco's more than willing tongue. You could count on Harry to turn any situation to his advantage, be it a task in the ruddy Triwizard Tournament or getting spunk sucked out of his arse hole. Draco stopped reaching for control and simply let it happen, let Harry fuck his face in this new, utterly lewd way. Draco gripped his meaty thighs so he wouldn't slip and fall, encouraging this display with soft sounds and the occasional nip. He reached one hand to palm Harry's cock, pushing against hot, flushed skin. It didn't take long to bring Harry over—the subtle Heating Charm on Draco's fingers may or may not have had something to do with it. Draco lapped at that puckering pink hole, an insane idea brewing at the back of his mind. There really was nothing like a dose of humiliation to top off one's revenge, after all.

His cheeky grin was hidden by Harry's clenching ass cheeks. With vindictive pride, Draco took careful aim of Harry's cock, plying the sensitive head with his thumb. Harry came with a loud, tensing cry, spraying himself in the face thanks to Draco's guiding hand. He barely had time to screw those sparkling green eyes shut. His mouth was a tight, hard line. A nasal groan escaped as his own come splattered across his flinching face. Draco managed to cackle while still suckling Harry's oversensitive entrance.

The Boy Who Loved To Be Fucked stared up at him with one intense emerald green eye, the other kept shut against dripping semen. The expression on his face demonstrated how not-funny Draco's little stunt was. It became increasingly obvious that some sweet talking would be necessary. Harry was glaring, managing to look frightfully angry even with strings of white liquid decorating his face.

Draco slowly wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, revealing his silly grin. He lowered Harry's twitching body to the piano, crawling up to hover a few inches from that irate, adorable face. Harry practically tapped his toe, expecting an explanation of just where the fuck Draco got off, thinking this was acceptable. Draco's grin was becoming rather manic.

“Dessert,” he whispered with conviction before licking a hot path up Harry's stubble-and-come-covered chin, kissing his eyelids, lavishing his seed-and-sweat-strewn scar. Harry slowly relaxed beneath him, allowing Draco to apologize with his mouth on warm, pleasantly tangy skin. Draco cleaned his lover dutifully, caring for every freckle, every hair and worried line and whisker. They breathed together, slow and steady, riding out tense muscles and the last of the post-orgasmic shivers. Harry let out a contented sigh as Draco kissed the corner of his mouth. Neither of them were hard anymore—it was a moment of mindless closeness; foggy, fucked-out bliss. And it could go on forever as far as Draco was concerned.

They were interrupted by a loud crack emanating from the center of the room. Draco lifted his head from the curve of Harry's neck, setting eyes on Wonder Boyfriend's disgusting little house elf. The thing seemed to worship him for being a Malfoy, which suited everyone well enough. From what Harry said the creature was unstable and Draco believed it. He was happy to exert a little well-placed discipline on Harry's behalf.

“Elf,” Draco snapped. “What is your business?”

Harry tensed. If the house elf was put off by the Golden Boy's state of markedly sexual undress, it was indecipherable. The elf bore a small kitchen timer in its grubby hands.

“This is going off, Master Malfoy,” it croaked, indicating the clock. “Kreacher is not knowing how to stops it, sir.” As if on cue, the clock emitted several peals like a hand bell, signaling that a portion of their dinner should be removed from the oven to cool.

“I will see to it,” Draco drawled. “Leave us.”

Once the elf had disappeared with another

 _crack_

, Draco returned his attention to his boyfriend. “Tha' would be dinner,” he sighed. “I should take care of it.”

Harry nodded his understanding. “I think I'll go have a shower, then. Join me?”

Draco let out a long-suffering sigh, pushing up on his arms. His body immediately missed Harry's delightful, furnace-like heat, the roughness of his dark chest hair and salty thickness of his skin.

“I don't think I'll have time,” said Draco at last. “Bring me a clean shirt?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry smiled. Unfortunately, the happy creases of his smile didn't stay on his face for long. His expression became serious, his eyes more green as his pupils balanced, arousal leaving his system for the next few hours. He swallowed heavily. “Draco, there's something—”

Harry was going to comment about his... rather poor performance—the word 'pathetic' came to mind. He was going to have to work on that if he expected another invitation to fuck his boyfriend ever again. Draco cut him off with a distracted wave of his hand. He drew Harry's thighs around his waist, instead.

“It's important,” Harry insisted.

“I really don't care right na,” Draco shot back, bordering on stern to properly convey the vehemence of his opinion on the matter. “Can we drop it, Harry? Go take yer shower. I have ta keep tha' terror of a house elf away from the food or we'll all be poisoned.”

“Because what would the world do without Harry bleeding Potter?” Harry droned, his head lolling to one side in a fit of self-deprecating melancholy. “I'll be so fucking glad when this shit is over, Draco. You have no idea.”

“They'll jus' worship ya more,” Draco replied with a wince. There was no comfort to be offered on the subject. The masses were idiots when it came to Wonder Boy Chosen One and Draco said as much. “Ya know tha', right?”

Harry nodded, slipping strong arms around Draco's shoulders and pulling him down for a quick hug. He mumbled in the blonde's ear. “Thank the Founders I have you to keep my chosen feet on the ground.”

Draco smiled, worming an arm around Harry's neck to hug him back. “Yeh'd better believe it. No one takes the piss outta The Chosen One like I can.” And Draco sat up onto his knees, lifting Harry to sit straddled in his lap. The dark haired man eyed him very carefully.

“What's this about?” he questioned, indicating their embrace with a lilt of his messy head.

Draco pulled Harry closer, enjoying the weight bearing down on his thighs, the warm calves crossed at the smalls of his back and the angry red imprints of his teeth adorning Harry's broad shoulders. Harry smelled like sex, felt like sex—like heaven. Aware that tonight's chicken might turn out a little dry, Draco sat inhaling Harry's scent, pointed nose buried in dark hair as he stroked slowly up and down the man's spine, fingertips idly counting vertebrae after vertebrae.

“I'll Apparate ya ter the bathroom,” he offered after a time, not wanting to let go quite yet. Harry seemed to enjoy just sitting with him, completely naked and comfortable in his arms. Dinner could wait. For some reason, it felt like Harry needed him. He wanted to believe it. So he was sticking close.

“Draco,” said Harry slowly, more apprehensive than anything else. “I really—”

Draco shushed him, pushing Harry's head down against his shoulder. “I told yeh I dinna wanna hear it,

 _mon coeur_

,” he scolded. In an absolutely knackered state, Harry let him get away with it. Or maybe he was too blown away by the rarely uttered endearment to muster a come back. Draco resisted the urge to rock Harry in his arms; just sitting silent and peaceful was enough. Words would spoil it. Harry gave in at last with a heavy, groaning sigh.

“We'll talk later,” he warned.

“Yes, later,” Draco agreed. The plan to Apparate to the bathroom was sounding far too convenient. Maybe he'd have to carry Harry up the stairs—that was, if the man would submit to being carted about like a child. Harry was heavy, a consolidated weight in his lap, but with a Lightening Charm... if he had a shot in hell, Draco was going for it. He eased off the piano. Whether tired, defeated, or simply beyond caring, Harry quietly allowed it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations of Serbo-Croatian Explicatives**  
>  _Koji ti je kurac?_ \- What the fuck is wrong with you?  
>  _Jebo te Bog na današnji dan!_ \- This goes down in history as the day God royally fucked you!  
>  _Gle kurtsa ti u slamnatome sheshiru!_ \- “A dick wearing a straw hat!” A vulgar expression of surprise  
>  _Svaka ti dala_ – “May every [girl] put out for you.” It's a rather blasphemous way of saying “thank you” but rather fitting when considering Draco is toasting, essentially, his perverted dead lover. The phrase is fitting of Vuk's memory, to be sure.  
>  _Jebo te Bog te jebo da te jebo te Bog da te jebo dabogda..._ \- “May God fuck you, may He fuck you, God, that's who, may He fuck you, and may God allow God to fuck you, by God....” The phrase (which can go on as long as the speaker has breath, really) is meant to convey a loss of words, typically in rage. Dima's a funny guy. He's muttering this in awe, knowing he'll get the shit kicked out of him by his super-Orthodox boyfriend but doing it anyway because he's just that gobsmacked.


	25. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Hermione come to Grimmauld Place for dinner—they get more than they bargained for. Harry tries his hand at comfort/make-up sex. He's getting better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** drivel, drama, sexual content includes: R.A.C.K., sex magic, fellatio, anal sex, Aggressive!Harry, Dom!Harry, top!Draco, emotional!Draco  
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Yet another Pulitzer-of-Porn moment to wrap things up. The sex scene was not in the original outline but I felt like _I_ needed this—the story doesn't need it, but I need it. Harry and Draco could probably use it, too.

 

 

Harry was in the middle of retrieving his favorite white belt from a pile of clothes discarded on the parlor floor. Then he heard Draco's scream. He tore down the hall, holding his trousers up at the side with his belt half-threaded, fresh shirt unbuttoned and flapping. He burst through the kitchen door to find Draco by the stove, doubled over and screaming, pain-laced, dropping to his knees as he clutched at his arm. 

“Draco!” Harry shouted, falling beside the man and throwing an arm over his hunched, shaking shoulders. “What's wrong? Did you burn yourself?” 

Draco let out a wracking sob, slipping forward into Harry's arms. He squeezed Draco's shoulder, inviting that blonde head to his chest and ruffling his hair, fingers working his scalp in an effort to comfort. Harry did everything he could to sooth him, not knowing what on Earth was the matter.

“...Mark,” Draco gasped. 

Comprehension dawned cold. Draco was grasping his left arm, after all. Of course it was the Dark Mark. What else would make Draco positively _scream_ like that?

“Summons? Voldemort is calling you?” 

Draco flinched but nodded against Harry's bare skin. 

“Is it always this bad?” Harry asked, worried that the burning had yet to subside. It had been several agonizing seconds. 

Draco shook his head “no,” his jaw tightening, air whistling through his gritted teeth at he struggled to master the pain.

“You... you're sure he's calling?” Harry pleaded, holding Draco tighter. It was kind of rare that Draco would allow this kind of thing—the cuddling, the naked display of emotion. And the emotion was very clearly fear. 

“Yes,” Draco gasped, tucking his arm close and rocking through the searing discomfort. “Vehemently.” 

“Maybe he's doing it on purpose,” Harry suggested. “He's could be doing it just to hurt you.” 

Draco gave the tiniest of shrugs, body heaving as he struggled to breath in a normal rhythm.

“Warning,” he whispered. “Maybe. Dunno...hurts.” He stifled a rather pathetic sound with a fist to his mouth, biting down on his finger like a bit, the black stone of the Gaunt ring disappearing under perfect white teeth.

“He hasn't forgotten about you,” said Harry darkly. “And he wants you to know it.”

Draco sighed in confirmation, his breathing still uneasy but the pain was clearly lessening. He panted, keeping the hand to his mouth and his cheek pressed to Harry's skin still warmed from a very long shower. 

“Can you feel where he is?” Harry asked suddenly. 

Draco bit his finger, focusing his energy on the task Harry had set. After a moment he drew back, his silvery eyes wide. 

“ Besançon,” he said, sounding a little shocked that he had either pinpointed the location or the Dark Lord had given it to him. 

“That's in France?” 

“Switzerland,” Draco corrected, his eyes very far away. “Right on the border, though.” 

“Maybe he wants you to know,” Harry offered. “The question would be _why_?” 

“I... I'm...” Draco sucked in a breath that made his shoulders tremble and rattled sickeningly in his chest. “I'm not going. I'm not yer bloody spy.” 

“I don't want you to go,” Harry said firmly, leaning close to brush his nose and lips through Draco's soft hair—satin tresses that still smelled so faintly of sweat and sex. “And I don't want you to be. I want you safe. Fighting that fucker is _my_ job.” 

Draco gave a snort at his arrogance, a sign that he was returning to normal. He sat himself up, removing the impromptu finger-bit from his mouth and then rubbing at the Mark. Harry brought that tattooed forearm to his lips, kissing it as though to banish the pain with the voracity of his soppy affection. Draco rolled his eyes, prizing his arm away. 

“Yer friends will be here any minute,” he offered neutrally. 

“I know,” Harry shrugged, not moving from the kitchen floor. “Are you okay, Draco?” 

“Keep them outta the main parlor,” the blonde suggested, ignoring the question and not meeting his eyes. “It wreaks of sex. Not like Weasel King or the Encyclopedia Grangerica would recognize said stench.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. Yes, the searing discomfort was gone, replaced by snippy remarks and outright snark. Harry was almost glad to hear the near-insults dripping off Draco's tongue. It meant he was dealing with this and would be able to move on and act normally through their little dinner party. 

A timer went off from the counter, making them both jump. Draco moved to get up from the floor. 

“It's okay,” Harry offered, getting quickly to his feet. “Let me.” He smiled, picking up the oven mitts. Even parked on his rear, Draco managed a dignified huff as he snagged the mitts back. He rose fluidly to his feet, shouldering Harry away. 

“I've got it, ya sentimental twat,” he mumbled, opening the oven door. He flapped a mitt at Harry before removing a casserole dish that was bubbling with something red and herb-scented. “They'll be here any minute. Go. Meet yer friends.” 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Oi!”

“Harry!”

“What's wrong with him? Don't tell me Malfoy's done him in.” 

Harry's eyes fluttered open when a pair of thin hands seized his shoulders and began shaking him. Ron and Hermione's worried faces hovered over head, lit by fire and dim lamp light. He realized he was lying sprawled on the uncomfortable sofa in the disused formal parlor. He must've dozed off waiting for them to come through the floo, so he couldn't have been down more than a minute or two. He beamed up at his friends. 

“He hasn't killed me,” Harry said, sitting up but squeezing Hermione's panicked hand at his upper arm. Thank God he'd had the presence of mind to finish doing up his trousers and set his shirt to rights. He looked presentable—if a bit mussed from his cat nap on the sofa. “Boy Who Lived and all that. Takes more than a feisty ex-Slytherin to knock me off.” 

“I thought for sure you were dead,” Ron sighed, ruffling a hand through his hair. “You always talk Parseltongue in your sleep but you were... well, quiet.”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged, standing up and pushing a few wrinkles out of his shirt collar. “Draco says that's going away.” Thank goodness, because Draco was a light sleeper. Harry's hissing used to wake him in the middle of the night. He used to get hit, occasionally kicked; it depeneded on how deeply Draco had been asleep. But over the last week his sleep-hissing had been fading, though he still did it in the mornings.

Hermione made a little snort of surprise and Ron looked flummoxed but neither ventured to comment further. Ron looked a little flushed, even in the low light. 

“Come on, you two,” Harry half-teased, half-begged. “He's trying. He's  _different_ . You'll see,” he insisted when they both looked skeptical—they looked at him like he'd lost the better part of his mind. He ignored them. “He made us dinner. He's a really good cook, actually. I was surprised, him being a pompous git and all.” That got an appreciative snort from Ron. “I mean, he cooks entirely with magic of course, but he manages just fine.” 

Harry looked between his two best friends, willing them to accept that this was happening, that this was okay and they should just go with it. 

“Come on, you two,” he repeated, calm suffusing his voice. “He's in the kitchen.” 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“This is just...” Hermione gushed, searching her extensive vocabulary for the proper words, “absolutely  _delicious_ , Malfoy. Thank you. Isn't it, Ron?” 

Ron made a little gesture with his fork, his mouth full of stuffed chicken and ratatouille. They'd already worked their way through salads, leek and potato soup, a loaf of homemade bread and a bottle of white wine. Harry stood at the head of the table, uncorking a second dusty bottle brought up from the cellar. He nudged Draco with his hip while tugging at the stubborn old cork. And Draco looked up at him—smiling with his eyes, his face entirely blank. But Harry could see the emotion there. Draco might keep the feelings from his face through years of practice but Harry could see into him very clearly now. Draco was feeling pretty smug. 

“Really!” Hermione continued. “You must have been cooking all day!” 

“Slaved,” Draco confirmed with an over-acted sigh. Harry snorted, pulling the cork free and refilling everyone's glasses. 

“That's not true,” Harry corrected, taking up his seat beside the blonde. “You sat here most of the afternoon, drinking tea and waving your wand.”

Hermione looked between the two men, her glass half-way to her lips. Ron shoveled more food into his mouth, eager to have an excuse not to join the conversation. Hermione's brown eyebrow quirked as she considered Malfoy in his pristine white shirt and slacks, tousled platinum hair and quiet but casual attitude. He hadn't said much all through dinner. At long last, she decided the man wasn't so much of a threat as she first thought. Or maybe it was the wine working. 

“ _Well_ ,” she postured grandly, causing Ron to look up. “It takes quite a bit of concentration and skill to wave your wand and drink tea at the same time.”

Hermione Granger standing up for Draco Malfoy? Ron choked on his eggplant.

Dinner wrapped up and Draco produced dessert—a pretty-looking quartet of crème brûlée he'd blow-torched with his wand so that the top layer of the custard blistered, giving off the caramel scent Harry had detected earlier in the afternoon. There were slices of baked apple and a bit of caramel drizzled over the top. Draco's flair for the dramatic translated well to food. Harry picked up a spoon and broke the sugary crust of his dessert with gusto. Ron had long given up the pretense that Malfoy had somehow poisoned the food, attacking his dish with equal enthusiasm. 

“How are Bill and Fleur?” Harry asked. “I haven't heard from them since the wedding; then again, I suppose they're still on honeymoon.” Hermione and Ron exchanged worried looks. “Oh... what?” Harry set down his spoon. Looks like that were never good. 

“Fleur's in hospital in Barbados,” Hermione explained. “I thought someone might've told you, Harry. She was Imperiused. Bill realized—he's a Curse Breaker for Gringotts,” she added for Draco's benefit, “so he noticed something was wrong as soon as the two of them were alone for a while. He managed to break the caster's hold on her but they're still keeping her for observation.”

“Any leads on who did it?” Harry asked. 

“She doesn't remember anything,” Ron shrugged. He looked upset about the situation and Harry couldn't blame him. 

“She and Bill are really shaken up,” Hermione went on, laying a sympathetic hand on Ron's arm almost unconsciously. “The whole family is.” 

“Do you think maybe it has something to do with those cursed flowers you got at the wedding?” Ron asked, picking up his spoon again. 

“I've been thinking the same thing,” Hermione agreed. 

“There's a strong likelihood,” Harry nodded. His gaze slid to Draco a moment. The blonde's head was bowed slightly, eyes focused on his dessert and pointedly staying out of the exchange. “Other people had flowers from Fleur. Did anything happen with that?” 

Hermione shook her head. “The Aurors office looked into it on the side. No one reported any attacks. Tonks and Shackelbolt were able to retrieve a few of the boutineers and corsages and had a look at them. It would appear that yours were the only ones with Dark magic placed on them.” 

Harry didn't look away from Draco. The blonde was toying with his food, not really eating. Ron ate in earnest, though, stealing a bite from Hermione's dish when she wasn't paying attention. At least someone was enjoying the meal. Hermione looked between Harry and Draco, comprehension slowly dawning in her intelligent brown eyes. 

“You... Harry, you have an idea who did it, don't you?” she realized aloud, quite familiar with that angry, determined expression now flooding Harry's features. Harry waited until Draco looked up at him, a significant look passing between them before he opened his mouth. 

“I think we know,” Harry said firmly, his hard gaze settled firmly on Draco. 

The man rolled his silvery eyes, _here we go again_ clearly written on his pale, pointed face.

“What?! Am I wrong?” Harry pressed, setting down his spoon again and fixing his unabashed and undivided attention on his boyfriend. “If there ever was a more underhanded coward, I've yet to meet him! And that includes Peter Pettigrew,” he added for Hermione and Ron's benefit. Hermione's brows rose and Ron nearly choked on his food again. 

“Even if it _was_ Philippe,” Draco cautioned in a rather pained, impatient voice, “I'd say he's workin' with someone. He's a right impulsive _con_. He would've tried again by now. There must be someone holdin' him back—a more experienced Death Eater would be my guess. Besides, he hardly has the skill ta cast tha' kind a' Dark Charm. His strength was always Transfiguration.” 

“How do you know all this?” Hermione asked. 

“And who's Philippe?” Ron added. 

“Harry, is he the French wizard you picked that fight with at Bill and Fleur's reception?” Hermione accused, leaning over her plate to incriminate Harry with her gaze. Draco's brows knit as he rounded on his boyfriend, a teasing glint in his light-colored eyes.

“Picking fights at weddings?” Draco scoffed in a lofty voice Harry knew to be entirely affected. “Tisk tisk, Chosen One. Here I was thinking I'd finally taught you some manners. Clearly—”

Harry cut the blonde off with a low growl. “You know what he said.”

“What'd he say?” Ron pried. He was summarily ignored. 

“Yeh were at a  _wedding_ , fer fuck's sake!” Draco pleaded, knowing he wouldn't get anywhere but protesting on principle. 

“I didn't exactly pick a fight. She's exaggerating.” 

“Am I?” the witch said with a knowing waggle of her spoon in Harry's direction. He blushed. 

“I didn't pick a fight, Hermione,” Harry asserted through his flushing cheeks. His eyes remained hard. “I may have had a few choice words for him... in Parseltongue—”

“I don't need yeh ta defend my honor,” Draco snapped. 

“No,” Harry replied sweetly. “Just your hide, _mon cher_.” 

The blonde looked back to his plate, some of the fire gone out of him but still breathing hard. Hermione and Ron exchanged a look before staring openly at Harry. The Boy Who Lived took a casual bite of dessert... from Draco's dish. Apparently he'd been practicing his dragon taming. 

“So,” Hermione said to break the silence. “How do we know this 'Philippe' character?” 

“Is he a friend of yours or something?” Ron accused Draco. 

Draco's tousled platinum head shot up to glare at Ron but he very wisely kept his mouth clamped shut. How could he answer that? Was Philippe ever his friend? Lover? More like business partner. He looked askance to Harry. And Wonder Boyfriend came to his rescue yet again. 

“Philippe Didier. He's Fleur's step-cousin,” Harry answered. “And his father is Arnett Didier, the financier. The Didiers did business with the Malfoys—so yes, Draco and Philippe knew each other. But they had a fight during the Triwizard and hadn't spoken since.  The guy's a real prick. And we're pretty sure he's a Death Eater; apparently, he's dangerous and desperate enough to Imperius his own family to get to me. We're all staying away from him, got it?” he looked significantly around the table until everyone was nodding, Ron and Hermione's brown eyes approving and Draco's silvery ones... thankful. 

Draco smiled at finding he liked being protected, having The Chosen One as a shield between him and a very harsh and dangerous world. Getting fucked silly by said shield was really quite the bonus.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry led Hermione and Ron into the formal parlor while Draco made tea. He could tell the pair wanted a private word with him. He just wanted to get it over with. Harry sat in one of the arm chairs by the fire while his friends took up roost on the uncomfortably formal sofa. Hermione folded her hands in her lap, a motherly expression on her face. 

“Harry,” she said slowly, bracingly, “are you alright? You look ill.” 

Ron nodded his agreement, eyes on the sooty hearth rug. 

“I'm just tired,” Harry tried to reassure them. “It's been a really long day. You know, getting him packed up and stuff.” Neither one of them bought the lie so he started embellishing. “And we were practicing defensive spells earlier. The sitting room's a mess, which is why we're in here.” 

“Mate, why're you lying to us?” Ron asked sadly, his shoulders slumped. 

Harry's mouth dropped open. 

“We've known you for six years, Harry,” Hermione said bracingly. “We know when you're keeping something from us.” 

“So are you gonna tell us?” Ron questioned, his face pained. “Or are you gonna keep secrets?” 

“Fine!” Harry sighed, exasperated. He slumped back against the thin chair cushion, hands flopping listlessly to the arm rests. “I'm bloody knackered because Draco's a randy sex fiend! We've fucked three times today and I know he's gonna jump me the second you guys leave.” He kept right on going, ignoring their horrified expressions. They _never_ talked about their sex lives in this much detail. Ron would probably have nightmares but he'd bloody well asked for it. “I'm frustrated because I keep trying to talk to him about something serious, something that we need to discuss and he keeps shutting me out. It's what he does, though—he uses intimacy to avoid intimacy. It's driving me crazy but I don't know what to do and time is running out.” 

Harry huffed, folding his arms across his chest. Ron's mouth was hanging open, his freckles stark against his skin and Hermione was blushing up to her hairline. 

“Is this something you wanna talk about, then?” Harry pressed. “Or shall we move on to Horcruxes?” 

Hermione reached over and closed Ron's mouth. He visibly swallowed, awkwardness etched in his long limbs. This was their opportunity to reciprocate, to behave like adults. He seemed to be asking that a lot, lately. It would only get worse in battle, though, so he figured he might as well get used to the feeling now.

“Let's talk about the Horcruxes,” Hermione said daintily, color still high in her cheeks. “I've been looking over those books from Headmistress McGonagall and they've been really helpful. And I'm afraid what Malfoy said about the Horcruxes was right. It would be easier to destroy them with either the Dark Arts or something from a Dark creature to avoid detection.” 

“Like when I stabbed the diary with the basilisk tooth,” Harry provided. 

“Yes,” Hermione agreed. And they were off, Hermione pulling notes from her purse while Ron and Harry were dragged along, only understanding every fifth word but trying their best. 

 

 

Soon, Draco arrived with a tea tray. They were discussing Helga Hufflepuff's cup, a known Horcrux, and how to destroy it. Ideas flew, each spurting off whatever came to mind. Ron started when Draco entered, using a basic Hover Charm to float the tea service in front of him. Hermione's thin mouth, opened to speak another possibility, clamped shut. 

“Oh, for fuck's sake!” Harry drawled, slumping back in his chair. He angled his head at Draco to ignore his bloody friends and come in. “It's a cup. So why don't we fill it with something? Basilisk venom or... something. Slughorn got some Acromantula venom off of Aragog before Hagrid buried it last year.” Ron gave a little shudder at the mention of the giant spider. “I don't fancy sweet-talking him out of it, but at least it's an option. Or I could just use the Invisibility cloak and steal it from his office, providing he hasn't sold it already. But he's a collector of sorts. I doubt he'd part with it unless times were quite hard.” Hermione gaped. Harry made his conviction evident by his tone. “If push comes to shove, Hermione, I'm doing it. I'll steal from whoever I have to if it means getting the job done before another bride is Imperiused on her wedding day.” 

Draco set about preparing himself a cup of tea, body angled so that only Harry could see his pale face. His expression was guarded but unmistakably proud. If nothing else, he adored Harry's delightfully Slytherin side when it poked through the Gryffindor mask. Maybe they both wore masks, in a way. Draco wiped his face of all emotion before turning to seat himself in the armchair across from Harry. The firelight made his hair almost gold and set amber flecks in his eyes. And the plain white dress shirt left him looking a bit like a marble statue with great topaz gems for eyes. He had to tear himself away to address Hermione again. 

“Do you think it would work?” he asked, keeping any annoyance or frustration from his voice. “Because I'd rather use something from a creature to destroy them if it's possible. That fire spell is almost too strong. The third floor wash room looks like a bomb went off in there. I'm not casting that spell again if I don't have to.” 

“It's a possibility,” Hermione mused, riffling through her notes. “Although I wonder how much poison we would need. One fang was enough for the diary. Something tells me we might have to fill the glass all the way to the brim for it to work. I...” she stopped and pulled out the bit of parchment she was looking for. “I saw a painting of the cup in the Hogwarts archives but you saw it up close in Dumbledore's pensive, right Harry? How big would you say it is?” 

Harry thought a moment before holding out his hands, demonstrating an approximate height and width. Hermione scribbled on her parchment. 

“And the bowl?” she asked. “How much liquid do you think it could hold?” 

“Er,” Harry glanced around, picking up a tea cup. Ron was making cups for himself and Hermione, so there was one empty. He looked into it, thinking. “More than this, but not that much more. The cup only looks bigger because it has fancy handles on either side. They're done up with these scale-looking bits and a jewel on each. It has the same motif on the lower part of the cup, too. I dunno how deep it is, though. The basin could go into that bottom part or it might be solid.” 

Hermione's head bobbed, her quill flying across the page. “And what about the engraving? Is it embossed or is the inside of the cup smooth?” 

“I don't see how it could make that big a' difference,” Ron shrugged, placing Hermione's tea by her foot before curling up beside her on the sofa. 

“We would need extra venom to fill the space,” she muttered. “The two proposed venoms are exceedingly rare and hard to come by. We'll need to account for every drop if this plan is going to work.” 

“The cup is smooth on the inside,” Draco said suddenly, staring off into the fire. “The lower section is hollow. I'd say it would hold roughly ten fluid ounces. An' the engraving is of a badger with black stones fer eyes.” 

Hermione and Ron looked askance to Harry, suspecting Draco had acquired these details through Legilimens while the Chosen One slept or some other such rot. Harry willed Draco to look at him, drawing strength and comfort from his familiar gaze. 

“You're right.” 

“How does he know that?” Ron stage-whispered, causing Draco to roll his eyes over a sip of hot tea. 

“The cup you're describing was in my father's study at Malfoy Manor,” he said, pronouncing the words with a hint of his proper Malfoy voice. 

“Are you sure?” Hermione prompted. 

Draco shrugged, swallowing. He waved a dismissive hand in the witch's direction. “It was on top of father's liquor cabinet.” 

Hermione's brows knit, perhaps pondering why such an important artifact would be kept so openly in Lucius Malfoy's study. Then again, Malfoy Manor was a Death Eater stronghold. There would be little need for it to be concealed amongst allies. 

“What's tha' supposed to mean?” Ron grumbled.

Harry couldn't help a smile. “Means he'd bet his life on it.” 

A funny, lip-biting smile quirked on Draco's face. He met Harry's gaze over his tea cup, not saying another word. 

“Well, now we know where to find it,” Ron chortled happily. 

“If it hasn't been moved already, which is unlikely,” Hermione cautioned. She turned to Draco. “Do you know where they might've taken it?” 

Draco thought, tapping a long finger on the side of his cup. “Well, a group of Russian Death Eaters brought it in. An' they'd been bloodied to a pulp. From what I understood there were about ten of them: four actually arrived. The cup remained when they took their leave, so I can only imagine tha' the Manor was considered a safe place to keep the—Horcrux?” Harry nodded soberly. Draco chewed his cheek. “If it's still at Malfoy Manor, it'll be down in the family crypt. There's quite a bit of ancestral magic floatin' about down there. A Dark artifact would be well-preserved.” 

“You didn't see it while you were down there?” Harry asked quietly. Those crypts would be the logical place to erect the Death Eaters' torture chambers. 

Draco shook his head, blowing a lock of golden hair out of his eyes. “The tunnels go on fer miles—nearly to Stonehenge. There could be ten Horcruxes down there! It would take a team of men at least a week ter search the place. If the wards don't crush ya first.” 

“That's comforting,” Ron said hollowly.

“At least we have a few ideas how to destroy it,” Hermione mused. “If only it were a little bit bigger, we could fit an Ashwinder egg in it and then surround it with the venom. Ashwinders aren't as rare, so an egg would be easier to get a hold of.” 

“But would the fire be enough?” Harry thought out loud. “You didn't see that Norse spell, Hermione. It bloody well ripped the bathroom apart, even with the runes we had set up.”

“Maybe we can use an Ashwinder egg for something else,” Ron offered. “I bet Fred and George could get one for us. You wouldn't believe the things they find for the shop.” Hermione cut him off with a glare. The twins' use of questionable ingredients was a sore spot with Hermione—she saw the twins' success as ill-gotten and inappropriate praise for bad behavior. Good thing she had no idea Harry still contributed to the shop, financially. The twins were giving him great returns on his investments and he was helping out an excellent cause. There was no reason to let Hermione in on that little secret. 

“Didn't you have an appointment with them, Harry?” Hermione asked, picking up her tea. “I heard George mention something at the Burrow. This Friday? You can ask them about acquiring a few eggs, just in case.” 

“How're you meeting with a pair of Weasels on Friday?” Draco asked quietly. “Skiving class an' sneakin' outta Hogwarts with that damn cloak, I presume?” 

Oh, Harry's insides were going decidedly wobbly, stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his knees. It felt like his dinner had been replaced with layers of gelatin and tarmac, sliding around in a weighty, teetering mass of bad, bad, bad, screwed, fucking well and buggered, fuck, fuck.... Draco was looking at him over his tea cup, eyes sharp and boring into him like a shiny new set of Uncle Vernon's drills. He couldn't seem to speak let alone draw breath into his lungs, gasping or otherwise. Oh dear sweet merciful _God_ , why couldn't he breath? Was this what dying felt like? Because he was a dead man, dead, dead, dead and fucked, fucked, fucked. 

“Don't be daft, Malfoy,” Ron scoffed. “Harry's not going back to Hogwarts this year—it's just us three. You, me and Hermione.”

Harry watched Draco react; or rather, slowly shut down. His dirty blonde lashes blinked, catching the firelight. Gods, he was so ethereal and beautiful and about to get angrier than hell, enraged as a banshee in a windstorm, tempestuous as a blast-ended skrewt with a pair of knickers over its vision-end, more furious and raging than... than anything this miserable world had to offer, magical or otherwise. Harry was doomed—pitifully, achingly, grave-diggingly doomed. He'd rather face ten Voldemorts than one angry, hurt, _betrayed_ Draco Malfoy. He was done for.

“Not goin'...” his lover parroted, quiet and deadpan, his silver and amber eyes set on the threadbare hearth rug as he contemplated what those two words really meant. “Not....” 

_Apparate_ , Harry thought suddenly. _Where can I Apparate to and be safe? Viktor's place—or would that be too far? The Burrow?! No, Mrs. Weasley would send me right back to learn my lesson for lying to a person I supposedly care for whether she could give two drops of garden gnome blood for said person or not. Where was safe, neutral? Where...?_

He was on his feet and so was Draco, wand in hand, flicking out a non-verbal spell with classic Malfoy grace. Harry felt his stomach lurch for the Apparition. His target was actually number four Privet Drive, specifically his old cupboard under the stairs, but no one had to know that. Uncle Vernon would find him tomorrow morning when he went looking for his golf clubs. Sure, the man would bellow and shout himself puce but that would be nothing compared to Draco's wrath. Draco wouldn't find him there. Draco would go to Hogwarts and maybe in a few weeks he'd be over it. Yeah, that was for the best....

Except he wasn't spinning, wasn't disappearing into that innard-squishing void. Draco was on his feet, wand pointed at him, glaring fucking daggers. An Anti-Apparition Jinx. 

He was a _d_ _ead_ Wonder Boy. 

“Going somewhere, dearest?” Draco drawled in his Ice Prince of Slytherin voice. Sweet Merlin, it was ages since he'd used that tone with Harry. And “dearest?” He might as well have spat “Potter” for all the warmth that so-called endearment held. 

“ _ That's  _ what you had to tell him?” Ron muttered, gobsmacked. “You're dead, mate.” 

“I believe he is very much aware of that, Ronald,” Hermione mumbled behind a hand. “Hence the attempt to Apparate.”  _ And he deserves whatever he gets for being a no-good, dirty, lying sack of shit _ was, of course, implied by her thin-lipped, narrow-eyed expression.

“You intended to inform me... when, exactly?” Draco continued as though the stunned couple on the sofa had not spoken at all. His wand was trained on Harry's chest. Harry put his empty hands up, begging for mercy or appeasement or something, anything but the royal and well-deserved tirade he was about to face. 

“I—I tried,” he stuttered, ashamed at how young and weak his own voice sounded in his ears. He straightened his back but kept his hands up—in supplication, hoping against hope that Draco would hear him out in his state of shame. “You remember, before? The piano? I said it was important but you wouldn't let me finish.” 

“You're blaming me?” Draco interrupted coldly. “Clearly it's my fault. I'm so impossible to speak with, to be honest with.” 

“All you ever did was cut me off!” Harry protested, trying to keep any trace of accusation from his voice. “I wanted to be honest with you, Draco, really I did. I tried to tell you so many times....” 

“Yet here we are,” he snipped, acerbic. 

“I was afraid,” Harry admitted. Finally his voice was back to normal—maybe even a bit deeper, the way he talked to Draco when they were all alone, tucked in bed or tucked in each other's arms. He hoped the sound if nothing else would convey his sincerity. “Meet my inner Hufflepuff, I guess. I knew how much it would upset you so I just... kept putting it off. I was afraid of hurting your feelings.” 

“I'd say mission accomplished, mate,” Ron mumbled. Draco's wand swiveled menacingly to level at the red head. 

“One more word and it'll be your last, Weaselby,” he snapped before returning his attention to Harry. “Mission accomplished, Wonder Boy,” he repeated. “My fragile little feelings are smashed to bits. Good job. Fidelity, loyalty and honesty, huh? Gryffindors! I should've known better.” 

“Draco, I—”

“No,” he hissed, flicking his wand over Harry in a very frightening gesture. “You never possessed the slightest inclination toward telling me. Harry Potter would've been a man about it. Harry Potter would've come right out and said it to my face. You hid behind your nice little words and your pathetic emotions, 'not wanting to hurt me' like a fucking coward. You didn't take  _ me _ into consideration at all. This one was all about you, Chosen One. It was easier for you to lie, to string me along and then dump me off at Hogwarts like a helpless child instead of—oh, I don't know—treating me with an ounce of respect, as an  _ equal.  _ You took no care for my 'feelings,' such as they are. I was never really a factor, never really a human being, just a play thing for you to do with as you pleased. You were going to abandon me when I love—” 

Draco cut himself off abruptly, throat tightening as he backed into his chair. The heavy, wing-backed armchair clattered to the floor with a thud as Draco continued to retreat, putting as much distance between himself and Harry as possible. His jaw was clenching, that familiar vein at the side of his neck fluttering like it did when they made love. Because that's what he meant each time he tried to slow down, to savor and enjoy the intimacy of the moment. That's what it meant every time he closed his eyes, speaking his lover's name in a choked voice barely above a whisper. Draco was in love with him. Draco loved him, too. How could he have been so blind? 

Ron and Hermione were positively gaping at Draco. They still suffered under the misconception that Malfoys did not have feelings, or wants, or desires, or hearts to be broken. Evidence to the contrary stared them in the face, a rift in functional reality. The two were trying to piece their worlds back together as Harry scrambled to save his own from execution by fire. 

Harry did the only thing he could think of. He moved forward. He wasn't going to run away from this fight, much as he loathed fighting with Draco. This had to happen but he could at least try to temper the man's rage. Harry advanced until the tip of Draco's wand touched his chest. And then he pressed forward, hawthorn digging into his skin as he physically forced Draco to back down. Too stubborn to step back, Draco's arm buckled, bending at the elbow. Harry used it as an opportunity to dive forward, to capture Draco's lips with his own. 

The hand cracking across his cheek came entirely as a surprise... as did the sting of his skin being ripped open. Draco had backhanded him square across the face with his free hand, his left hand, the hand with the Gaunt family ring. The stone cut his cheek. And Draco was backing away, tugging at the ring and ignoring Harry completely. 

“Draco, please,” he said evenly, stepping around the downed armchair to give chase across the room. The blonde whirled, chucking the ring at him with all his might. It was only due to Seeker reflexes that Harry was able to duck in time. The ring bounced off the wall, clattering to the floor and rolling under the formal chaise in the corner. 

“No!” Draco insisted quite loudly, running a distracted hand through his hair as he continued to back away. “You lied to me. You've no right to speak to me, no right to fucking touch me.” 

“You're right. I don't,” Harry replied. “I was selfish and wrong.  I just wanted this bit of time to be perfect. For both of us. You know I hate it when we fight. We've wasted enough time that way. I knew if told you you would just get upset and pull away and believe me, that was the last thing I wanted—” 

“So you thought it would be better to  _ lie _ to me?” Draco snapped, incredulous, his eyes wide. 

“Not better,” Harry shook his head. 

“Easier, then,” Draco supplied. “You must think I'm real easy, Potter. Well here's a news flash: I don't have to put up with your shit. Fuck you, Potter. Your loss. I'm gone.” 

He spun on his heel, making for the door. Harry only had a second to dash after him, grabbing the wand arm at his side. Draco whipped around, his hand prepared to strike yet again. This time Harry was ready for it. His fingers loose, Harry spun Draco's forearm, twirling it up, jamming his arm at his back and disabling him with mirrored grunts of exertion and pain. Harry pushed the partial dislocation until Draco was practically sagging to his knees; only then would he stop struggling. 

“You don't have to put up with my shit, Draco,” Harry said quietly, “but you're not going anywhere.” 

“Gonna beat me up if I leave you, Potter?” he spat, barely able to hold himself upright. 

“No. I know that's what you're used to, though. People threatening you, intimidating you, making you fear for your life to get you to do what they want. Let me tell you: that's Voldemort, not me. But you'll still do as I say.” 

“Oh?” Draco gasped, struggling to draw his breath. His teeth were chattering. Harry had really struck a nerve because Draco's teeth only chattered like that when he cried from the gut. Harry could feel how hard he was resisting, fighting not to break down. He was starting to shake. “How do you figure that, Saint Potter?” 

“You said it yourself. You love me, Draco. And you remember the prophecy. That's my power, useless as it is. You'll do as I say because you love me. Merlin knows you don't obey when you're threatened or hurt or scared. But you'll damn well obey me. I have faith in you, Draco Malfoy. I know you'll do whatever I ask of you. And I wouldn't ask this of you if you weren't the most important thing in the world to me.” 

By the end, he was whispering in Draco's ear as he hunched, shivering from head to toe. Ron and Hermione probably thought he was hurting Draco, threatening him. They wouldn't understand this. 

“What do you say, Draco?” he whispered. “Am I your patron saint or what?” 

Unable to summon his voice, Draco simply nodded against him. 

“And what do you want?” Harry pressed with words, easing the stress on Draco's body. He wrapped his other arm around the man's chest, pulling him that much closer. For once, Draco didn't fight him at all. 

“You,” he muttered. “You. I don't wanna be alone.” 

“You'll never be alone,” Harry promised. “Ron and Hermione will be there most of the time. Plus all the other students and professors. And I'll be stopping by the castle all the time. There are things I need to do and you know that, but I'll never be far.” 

“Tha's different,” Draco whined, casting a dirty glance at Ron and Hermione. Their eyes and noses peeked over the back of the sofa, watching the two men argue with bated breath. Hermione's knuckles were white as she gripped the carved wood, as though she expected more bloodshed and violence at any moment. “They have each other: I'll be alone. It's not fair.” 

“I know,” Harry whispered into soft blonde hair, his chest flush with Draco's heaving back. “And I'm so sorry. I wouldn't ask this if it weren't important. Tell me what my other options are? I have to face Voldemort before he can get any more support; to do that, I need to destroy the Horcruxes and then develop a plan to lure him out. Do you want to come with me—to fight? Do you really think that's a good idea?”

At this, Draco actually collapsed with an anguished sob. He struggled to cover his reddening, screwed up face with his hand.  Draco knew all too well that in the field of battle, he was a tremendous liability—they both had targets the size of Reading painted on their rear ends. It would make any Death Eater's day to do-in the spineless traitor Draco Malfoy. He belonged on the sidelines. He sobbed so hard that Harry could barely hold him upright. He stumbled with Draco's weight, tucking him close, releasing his arms in order to really embrace him. 

“I don't wanna do this either.” Harry was surprised when his voice cracked. It only made Draco cry harder. Harry screwed his eyes shut. “It's so hard... but _mon beau, mon ange_ ,” he begged Draco to listen, “You have to know that Hogwarts is the only place you'll be safe. You know you're not safe with me.”

That last sentence made Draco's knees buckle. He went down like a sack of bricks. Harry made to scoop Draco up in his arms and did a fair job of it. He was no Rhett Butler and Draco was a poor Scarlett O'Hara, but it felt like one of the more romantic—if simultaneously heartbreaking—actions of his life. He sat swiftly on the nearby chaise, placing Draco tucked tight in his lap, tousled blonde head in the crook of his neck and just shaking. He looked up to see Ron and Hermione still watching him over the back of the sofa. 

“Um, would you mind terribly?” he said in a voice that would carry. “I think we need a minute.” 

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, rising to his feet. “About ten minutes ago if you ask me.” 

“We'll be in the kitchen when you're ready,” Hermione said passively, dragging Ron out by the front of his jumper. “Take your time.” The door closed quietly behind her, kicking up dust. 

Harry sat for a long while, just breathing and waiting for Draco to calm down.  He laid back and held his boyfriend close, stroking his back, his lengthening hair, his delicate face. He muttered nonsensical half-words, things to soothe, things to ease his tears and tremors. He remembered Draco crying in psychological pain in that trance-like state, the first time he'd attempted the Imperius Curse and gone too far. This was so much worse, perhaps because it was emotional pain. Or because Draco was completely awake, feeling it all. Draco seemed to devolve, losing coherent speech, losing his grace and airs, losing everything until he bawled openly. His childlike neediness was honest—a sincere worry and longing... and something Harry suspected was real, actual love. Or so he dared to hope. Everything was so fresh with Draco, so mysterious and new. He hoped this was love. He ached and prayed that it was. 

Harry's shirt collar was soaked through with tears—it was Draco's fancy black dress shirt with stately black embroidery all along the collar and cuffs. It would have to be laundered now, a reason to hang on to it while Draco was away. They were like yin and yang, black and white, neither behaving as the world said they ought but still balanced, evened out by the other. Draco Malfoy was having a righteous cry over the injustice of the war and its effects while Harry Potter, his despicable, remorseful coward of a boyfriend, did everything within his power to comfort him. 

“I'm sorry,” Harry whispered after a few minutes, Draco's wrenching sobs reducing to hiccups and lethargy. “It's bad enough that you're leaving tomorrow. I'm sorry I got you like this.”

“Gods,” Draco muttered wetly, sniffing. “I'm sorry I got  _ myself  _ like this! I tell ya not ter treat me like a kid an' here I end up in yer lap. I'm the very model of a functional adult.”

“It's okay,” Harry threaded a hand through silky blonde hair. “I recall being in your lap a few hours ago. This just makes us even.” He smiled. “And I'll only treat you like a kid when you want me to, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Draco sighed against his chest. “I think I can live with that.”

After the last two weeks they'd spent together, his slender frame had found a way of fitting just perfectly against Harry's. There wasn't a shred of awkwardness or uncertainty left between their bodies. Draco—with his bony hips, long arms and head-to-toe-tingling lips—was Harry's perfect match. Even his bombast temperament kept Harry pleasantly on his toes. Where others might see only a spoiled brat, Harry found a sharp and discerning mind seeking a deeper understanding, comfort, compassion and above all, love. 

“I don't think I wanna be without you,” Draco whispered, forlorn and yet fierce. His arms tightened around Harry, bony fingers gripping his shoulder and side, more painful in intensity than physicality. 

“This isn't goodbye,” Harry countered with as much normality as he could muster. “I'll come for a visit in a few days. Professor McGonagall set up a way for me to floo into her office from the house, here. I'm working on getting a floo directly to your room but she's being rather stodgy about it. She'll come 'round, though. Faster if we work on her from both ends, eh?” Draco gave a little nod against the crook of Harry's neck. 

“Sweetheart, look,” Harry jutted his chin to the nearby Black family tree. Draco propped himself up a little, turning his head to look where Harry pointed—at their names linked in silver on the dusty tapestry. “'Domestic Divination,' remember? Has it ever been wrong?”

“Not tha' I'm aware of,” Draco sighed. “But I'm a distant branch a' the original family. I could be misinformed. I could easily be wrong.” That was a huge admission for Draco. Harry took it as a testament to how out-of-sorts he was.

“I don't believe you, Draco,” Harry said plainly. He reached down to retrieve the Gaunt Family ring from where it had landed under their chair. He toyed with it, running fingers over the band as he stroked Draco's back with his other hand. 

“Do you remember when I gave this to you?” Harry asked. Draco just nodded, wiping at the tears coursing down his face. His eyes and lips were a puffy, angry red. Just the forlorn cast of his features broke Harry's heart into a million sharp and thorny pieces. “You may think this is terribly dumb, but muggles have these things called Promise Rings. They give them on different occasions but it's supposed to represent a promise made. It's on your hand so you see it every day and remember to keep the promise, or remember that it's being kept by someone else.” 

“Tha' _is_ terribly dumb,” Draco muttered cheekily. “Right up there with wedding rings an' ugly skull-an'-snake tattoos. But... go on 'bout the stupid muggle thing.”

Harry couldn't help the half annoyed, half loving smirk spreading across his face as he went on. “When I gave you that ring, it was a kind of Promise Ring. I promised to protect you, no matter the cost, as long as you wore it. That promise is part of why we have to be apart for a while. Whenever I'm away and you look down at it, I want you to remember that I'm keeping my promise to you. Alright?” 

“Easy enough,” Draco sighed, head buried in his neck once more as he gazed at the ring in Harry's hand.

“And I want you to make me a promise.” Draco only latched on tighter when Harry tried to pull apart to look at him. He was forced to turn his head and speak to the top of the man's head. Soft white-blonde locks tickled his nose and caught in his eyelashes. He loved it, wanted to breathe and bathe in the contented feelings Draco evoked in him. “I want you to promise never to take it off again.” 

Draco gave a twitch of shame. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't a' thrown it at yeh. I didn't mean it. I really dinna mean it,” he babbled in a tear-soaked whisper. 

“I know, love, I know.” He walked fingers up Draco's back to run them through his hair. Through his shoulder, he felt Draco's jaw begin to unclench as he really relaxed into Harry, really let go. “It's okay. Just don't take it off whatever you do, or let anyone take it from you.”

“I get it,” Draco snorted pleasantly. “I figured there was somethin' odd 'bout the ring. I mean, ya told me it had been a Horcrux but every time I put it on I get this stupid feeling. It's just... warm, peaceful. I didn't think Shield Charms acted tha' way.” His thin fingers found their way to Harry's hair at the other side of his head. Draco had a way of tangling his fingers in Harry's hair that made demons deep inside him purr. Draco was doing it now. “Can ya tell me wha' else ya did ta it?” 

“That's the thing—I'm not sure,” Harry was lost to Draco's petting. He whinged. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing and I wasn't really thinking. Endopathotic magic, I guess. I had my wand on me but I don't recall using it. And I can't remember using an incantation, either. I have a few guesses but I need more information to be sure. I want you to keep an eye on it for me, let me know what it does.” 

“Sure,” Draco nodded. “It already protected me once.” 

Harry was able to pull away from Draco enough to fix him with a look. 

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. 

“The day ya gave it ta me, when Rookwood came after me,” Draco explained. “He cast a non-verbal spell. It was Dark Arts but I've never come across it before so I couldn't tell ya wha' it was. Felt like it was gonna kill me, though. Made the Mark burn somethin' awful,” Draco blinked away the unpleasant memory. “I felt yer shield block at least some a' the spell. Tha's when I started ta suspect.” 

“Why didn't you tell me right when it happened?” Harry stroked the back of Draco's head with the backs of his fingers, getting pleasantly tied up in his lengthening hair. 

“Because I was confused. An' angry. I was just startin' ter feel attracted—an' still furious with ya fer being Scar Head The Great, Chosen One _Du Jour_ , comin' ter my rescue all the bloody time. I didn't wanna trust yeh. And... maybe I thought yeh would see me as weak if I complained 'bout bein' hexed a little. So I jus' forgot about it.” 

“That's fair,” Harry replied, the protective panic that had raced through him dispelled by Draco's explanation. He sat up a moment, pulling Draco's arm from under his shoulders. “Get over here,” he muttered, laying hold of Draco's hand. He slipped the Gaunt ring, with its heavy setting and dusty black stone, back onto Draco's finger—his index finger, because Harry was romantic but not suicidal. He suspected Draco wouldn't welcome an impromptu proposal and that wasn't what he was after, anyway. He wanted Draco safe, protected, and knowing he was loved. That was all that mattered. He reached up, stroking Draco's cheek and looking into his eyes, willing him to understand that everything would be okay.

He couldn't stop touching Draco's face. He traced his thumb over Draco's soft lips, wanting very much to kiss him senseless. Draco pressed a kiss to Harry's fingertip then sucked it into his hot and talented mouth. Harry moaned loudly.

“Ron and Hermione are still here,” he protested, eyes screwed shut in arousal.

Draco released Harry's thumb rather begrudgingly but not without one of those lasting, sensuous licks he was so God-be-damned good at. 

“They've already had their free show. You know I charge after tha',” Draco joked. Harry was just glad the man's darkly perverted humor was returning. It meant he was going to be stubborn and shoulder this along with all their other problems. Harry wanted to kiss him for so many reasons, fortitude high on the list.

“Let's go show them we've made up,” Harry suggested, setting Draco on his feet before rising himself and pulling the blonde to the door by both his hands. “Then we'll say goodbye.” 

“Then we can _really_ make up,” Draco added. He cast a quick Episkey at Harry's cut cheek. The flesh wound healed over almost instantly. Good Gryffindor, Harry loved that adorably adoring glint in his stormy-sky-colored eyes.

 

 

**\- - -**

 

 

Draco had already gone up to bed and so Harry faced off against Hermione with her hands on her hips, not quite glaring death and destruction at him but sincerely panicked. Seeing that he and Draco had made up was little consolation to her frazzled nerves. The firelight and the dust of the disused parlor made her bushy hair glow around her head.

“I know you have feelings here, Harry,” she cautioned, “but are you sure it's the brightest idea sending him to Hogwarts unattended?” 

“What do you mean 'unattended?' You and Ron will be there and all the professors. And he's a grown man and not a child, contrary to popular theory. He doesn't need to be monitored. I trust him to behave.” 

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look between them—a look that said Harry's brains were clearly addled. 

“I'm not asking you to trust him,” Harry clarified. “I've never asked that. All I'm asking is for you to trust my judgment. Draco isn't his father. And he's not his aunt; he hasn't committed the level of atrocities they have. Sure, he's made some dumb calls in the past, but none of them were done out of malice; maybe a weird sense of righteousness and some very warped morals, but he's never wanted to kill anyone and that counts for something in my book. It counted for something with Dumbledore, too. But Draco's not his cousin, Tonks, either; he doesn't want to fight and we have no right to force him. He can be neutral if he wants... and I'll still protect his hide. I'll still be with him. It's not fair to lump someone with their family—or their house. You're ready to lump Draco with the Slytherins, Death Eaters, criminals and murders because they're his family? Then lump me with the Dursleys—because that's just as fair. I'm a Gryffindor and yet I've done some things I'm not proud of, some things that would turn other Gryffindors' stomachs.” 

“Harry, everything you've done has been for the good of others!” Hermione pleaded. “You can't blame yourself for—” 

“No, 'Mione, I've done some things I'm not proud of. Some childish and self-centered things. You dress it up as being 'for the sake of the world' but I can still see it. I've stuck my nose where it doesn't belong on countless occasions and needlessly risked the lives of everyone who cares about me. I'm not proud of the way I've conducted myself. My actions have been just as self-serving as Draco's, maybe more. I'm not gonna lie to myself and say they're not. I take advantage of being the Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived—I do it to save lives but I also do it because it's easier than fighting fair, than stating my points and getting everyone to see the merit of the argument. I don't have time to play fair, though. I don't want to put the people I love in any more danger than they're willing to take... and that means having some secrets and doing more things I'm not proud of before this is through. Do you see that, Hermione?” 

“I... I do,” she sighed, leaning against the mantle with a handful of floo powder. “I may not like it, but I do see what you mean. Like Malfoy said: sometimes we just need to let go of everything and trust in you implicitly. I wouldn't want face the things you're facing, Harry. No one would. But just... let us help, okay? Don't shut us out if you don't have to.” Ron stood behind her, quiet and nodding.

“Okay,” Harry agreed, the smallest smile twitching his lips at the sight of them both, ready to fight and—most importantly—trusting him again.

Hermione gave him a peck on the cheek. “We'll see you soon, yes?” 

“Yes. As soon as I'm done with training, I'll come up to Hogwarts. We'll have a big planning meeting in Gryffindor Tower and everything. You bring the books, okay?” That made her smile before she nodded and disappeared into the green flames.

“You really...?” Ron muttered, still choked by disbelief. Harry shuffled him towards the floo.

“Yeah.” 

“And he...?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Blimey,” Ron blew out a huge breath, his shoulders slumping. “And it's... he'll be okay?” 

“He might kill me if I'm not upstairs in the next two minutes to pay my due fucking penance—but yeah. He'll be okay.” 

“That's good, I guess.” 

“Yes, Ron,” Harry sighed a little at his best mate's hesitancy to accept... anything about this relationship, even though it made him happy; it made him ache, but it made him happy. “With all his honesty enforcement, getting me to step on people's feelings and do what I have to do... well, he may make a Gryffindor out of me yet.” 

“Mate, you're the one who pulled Godric Gryffindor's sword out of the Sorting Hat, not... not him,” Ron reminded him sullenly. 

“I know that,” said Harry. “He just reminds me of who I am. In a really good way. I know it's messed up that I need a Malfoy to remind me who Harry Potter is but... well, you saw. It's really intense and crazy and something else—but we kinda balance each other out, too. Give and take. It's a good thing.” 

Ron looked a little dubious as he reached for the floo powder. 

“What, Ron?” Harry groaned. “I'm still me, so out with it.” 

“Well... school,” the red head sighed heavily. “And Gryffindor.” 

“It'll be fine,” Harry promised. “Malfoys can survive a nuclear holocaust with their dignity intact.” Ron's face scrunched up, not processing the muggle analogy. “They're like cockroaches or something. You can get 'em out of your house for a while but they're never really done for. He'll be fine. I'm not worried about it.” 

“Yeah, me neither,” Ron smiled a little wryly. “It's Gryffindor I'm worried about.” 

Harry burst out laughing. 

“I'm serious!” Ron pouted good-naturedly. “A third of the school not coming back and Draco Malfoy the ruddy cockroach as our poster boy and leader? We're doomed, mate!” 

Harry clapped his best friend on the shoulder, giving a quick squeeze of assurance before grinning up at him. He waited until he had Ron's gaze. 

“Everything's gonna work out. I promise you, Ron. Maybe not in the way people think or expect. But it  _ will  _ work out. You just have to trust me.” 

“Yeah, okay,” Ron said, returning the confident smile. “I think I can manage that. Easiest thing I've ever done.” 

“Glad to hear it, mate. I'll see you later.” 

And, with a flash of green and the mention of home, Ron was gone.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry encountered Draco in the hall, Harry's dressing gown casually wrapped around his lean frame, making his way to the bathroom. His path was interrupted by a swift arm catching his midsection, propelling him to walk backwards with Harry down the hall. 

“Wha?” the blonde protested. “Can I not take a shower? I smell like sex an' sweat—not exactly tempting.” 

“Quite the opposite,” Harry offered in a low tone, steering Draco through their bedroom door and slamming it shut. Silver eyes at once went wide and darkened. Harry hooked a hand under the lazily knotted belt, pushing it aside to get to Draco. His skin was clammy, almost sticky with a dried mass of sweat. If you got close enough you could smell it on his skin—the byproduct of exertion mingled with lemons and herbs, Quidditch lawn and dry autumn leaves, perspiration and ejaculate muddled together in that musky, impossible something. He found himself reaching for it, mouth watering. He wanted to absorb the tang of their lovemaking into his tongue, keeping it forever there so that even food and drink tasted only of Draco, of rolling about and grunting, whispering, moaning. He wanted to remember this. Draco's scent was a gust of wind, flipping Harry's senses about like a cloak in the breeze. It took a moment before he regained his senses. He promptly pushed the blonde against the nearest wall, kissing him senseless. 

 

 

Harry tasted sweet, like white wine and cream and slightly burnt sugar. He'd be content to kiss forever but Harry was being rather insistent tonight, tugging the robe from Draco's shoulders before slipping out of his own shirt, a hand constantly on Draco. The fevered contact was amazing. It was like Harry couldn't let go, couldn't stop touching. One calloused hand stroked Draco's growing length even as he shimmied out of his trousers and pants. He pressed their groins together, the heat melding them together like pieces of metal under a torch. Then they were falling toward the bed, tripping over each other's feet and discarded clothing. 

Harry kept his wand in hand, nearly stabbing Draco in the thigh as they descended to the mattress rather gracelessly; indeed, they were a rutting, groaning heap. Harry's lips were greedy, tongue hot and forceful as he gave Draco his weight, grinding against him. His wand flicked, a barely perceptible fluttering against their thighs. 

“Wait,” Draco whispered thickly. 

“What?” Harry asked, flushed. His lips glistened in the dark, parted invitingly. Draco let his head fall to the mattress, summoning courage. 

“I thought, since I'm leavin' tomorrow,” he let out a long breath. This had to come out confident, casual. He couldn't sound like he was begging. “Maybe... yeh'd wanta...?” The words leaving his tightening throat, he raised his brows. Harry got the message. 

“To fuck you?” Wonder Boyfriend looked a little pale. Perhaps he was just stunned? 

“Wha' do yeh say?” 

“Er,” Harry sputtered. Definitely stunned. “Draco, I... I can't.” 

Draco dug his heels into the mattress, sliding away across the bed. 

“Wha' do ya mean, ya can't?” he shot a meaningful look down at his boyfriend's screaming erection. “Can't or won't?” 

Harry only gave him a stern look, crawling after him. 

“Ya pussy!” Draco went on. “Why won't you fuck me? Or don't ya wanta?” 

“Of course I want to,” Harry said, pinning Draco to the bed with his stunningly heavy body, hands braced on the mattress above his shoulders to prevent his escape. “I just don't think it's a good idea.” 

“I'm leavin',” Draco reminded him sternly. “Tomorrow. How could it possibly _not_ be a good idea?” 

“Draco, stop it,” Harry said forcefully. “I'm not arguing with you about this. I don't want you giving yourself to me just because we're going to be apart for a few days.” 

“ _Givin'_ myself?” Draco spluttered, suppressing a haughty laugh. “It's hardly my first time, ya twat!” 

“I know that,” Harry replied in a voice that shut him up in no uncertain terms. Harry was speaking and Draco would shut his mouth if he knew what was good for him. “It could be your first time or your thousandth—it's irrelevant. I know why you're insisting and I won't have it.” He barreled on before Draco could worm in an objection. “You don't just offer it without a reason, Draco. I know you too well. And while I appreciate the offer, really I do... I'm not ready.” 

Draco's mouth hung open at the complete and utter girlishness tumbling from his boyfriend's lips. 

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head very slowly, side to side to side. “I thought I was in bed with Harry Potter. Yeh still have a cock, right?” And he peered down, just to make sure. Yes, that was a penis touching his own. And a delightfully thick, veiny one at that. Oh, why wouldn't Harry fuck him with it? Did he want it wrapped in a Gryffindor bow, delivered by that damn phoenix of Dumbledore's? They didn't have time for hesitation now. They had only a few short hours. 

“Stop it, Draco,” Harry scolded. Still, he let his body down to tease with little brushes of hair and skin, his biceps standing out clearly in the dim light. Draco was tempted to lean up and lick the divot of that muscle, feel it twitch and shift under his tongue. “Maybe it doesn't mean much to you but it's important to me. It's a big fucking deal. And I'm not ready to have you trust me that way. Does that make sense?” 

“Did Granger scramble yer personality before she left?” Draco snipped. “Or jus' substitute her own?” 

“You're a right git sometimes,” Harry muttered. “It's a damn good thing I love you, to put up with you the way I do. I hope you know that. And if you could never mention Hermione when I'm hard, that would be great.” He bent down to deliver a kiss to Draco's cheek. Then he whispered, lips brushing skin, hot breath racing out. “I'm not gonna fuck you—yet. I'll keep it on the table, if that's alright, but you're gonna have to wait. Thing's are good the way they are. There's no need to rush.” 

“Fine,” Draco rolled his eyes. “ Yer being a complete muggle girl, by the way, but fine. Call me crazy. I jus' thought we were a two-way street: I throw a curse, yeh counter an' throw one back. I almost thought....”

“What?” 

“I thought I'd be beggin' ter do a bit o' thrustin', not the other way 'round,” he slurred, unable to help his accent. Harry always made him talk like a country fool and he couldn't exactly explain why. It was one of those mysteries surrounding Harry—like how he could be Harry Bleeding Potter, Savior of the Fucking Universe in one instant and just Harry the next. Harry, his sweet, handsome, funny, sex-crazed lover. He was mind boggling, constantly rearranging and yet constant in who and what he is. For years, all Draco had seen was his aggressive, defensive side; The Boy Who Lived's tenderness remained slightly overwhelming. Or was it The Boy Who Loved?

“Are you disappointed?” said boy asked, face now buried in Draco's neck and delivering slow, wet kisses. He seemed to be smelling Draco's skin, inhaling powerfully, over and over again, purposeful, cataloging details as Draco himself often did. Harry was memorizing him, his smell, his feel. 

“No,” Draco sighed. “Jus' surprised. I like the way things are but I'm greedy—ya know tha'. I want all of ya. But I'll give yeh time if tha's really wha' ya want. I canna believe yeh don't wanta do me inta the floorboards before I go—” 

“Who said I wasn't doing you tonight?” Harry smiled, so devious a smirk he could have only learned it from Draco. The fire in his eyes spread out through their bodies as Draco was once again pinned to the bed by a wall of muscle, flesh and thick raven hair and impossibly sweet, breath-stealing weight. Harry cast his spells quickly and non-verbally before tossing his wand. The man was nothing if not a quick study. Hot, insistent hands roved his body, grabbing here and sliding there, touching every place that sent spikes of lust directly to his groin; the backs of his thighs, the swell of his arse and hips and the tender insides of his forearms all received lavish attention, bringing him to a level of arousal he rarely achieved on his own. Harry had learned his body perhaps too well. Harry had him mewling and bucking his hips within minutes, needing more press, more heat, just... more. Harry had learned to tease, giving him excitement bordering over-stimulation, inciting this impossible dance along the edge to perfection beyond belief. It wasn't magic—it just felt like it, the way Harry kept him hanging there, shaking with desire, out of his mind with it all. 

“Harry,” he begged, squirming under the tongue working his chest. “Harry, _please!_ ” 

Fingers tightened, teeth descending on flesh, slithering down Draco's body. Those thick fingers would leave bruises on his hips but he didn't care. Not when Harry was biting his thigh, fondling him, stroking his shaft and then... sucking him. His tongue swirled. Draco's eyes snapped open with a gasp, back arching clear off the bed. He watched Harry's cheeks hollow, pouty lips puckered as he employed his mouth quite dutifully. And Harry kept right on going, his throat relaxed by magic. Draco felt the back of that sweet heat as he slipped past it, down the rabbit hole, sucked as far as he could fit. His eyes closed as Harry hummed his satisfaction, dark hair soft under his hands. 

“Yes, baby,” Draco gasped. “So good. Wanta fuck you, want, want,” he struggled to breathe, sliding in and out of that slippery wet heaven. “Fuck, fuck, wanta come in ya. Please, inside you, please!” 

Harry murmured his ascent, pulling off quickly to squeeze a firm hand at the base of Draco's cock, keeping him on edge but not quite falling over. Harry moved to straddle his hips, forced to lean down because of the hand wrapping him, fingertips gently tugging at his scrotum to keep it loose and relax him. Harry knew that the first few thrusts were the most intense for him and was doing everything to prevent his orgasm while prolonging his pleasure. He was calculated but careful, loving, always putting Draco first. 

He felt Harry's opening, slick and tight, pressing the head of his dick. That puckered little muscle was deceptively strong. And Draco knew its taste, its texture, every ridge and valley and bump tucked carefully away in his mind. His fingers knew, his cock knew. Harry was a little too tight, actually. He brushed against that hole, gathering a healthy amount of conjured lubricant but not quite gaining entrance. Harry's eyes were closed, shoulders slumped and relaxed. Did he not know the spell to prepare himself?

And then Harry released his weight, gravity forcing Draco into him. Breaching, he could feel the burn, see it written on Harry's face. The air was taut as Harry struggled to keep himself in check, to breathe through the pain. Little puffs of air left his nose, teeth clenched. 

“Wait, wait,” Draco whispered, careful not to move a single centimeter and make it worse. “I can do the spell. Yeh don't have ta....” _Suffer? Feel pain on my account?_ The Gryffindor was really rubbing off on him. “Relax, calm down. I could—”

“No,” Harry exhaled, pushing himself farther. He was already a good third of the way and a spell wouldn't help much at this point but he didn't know that. There wasn't much Draco could do but stroke Harry's thighs, keeping him calm. “We're doing this.” 

Teeth squashing his bottom lip, Harry took Draco balls-deep in a rush. The heat was overwhelming, the press of Harry's body at once accepting and rejecting him, fighting him and working with him, wanting him more than anything.

“Oh, oh!” he groaned helplessly. “Too much! Not gonna last.” 

“Then don't,” Harry said with an almost playful, offhanded shrug. His breath was quick and light, his chest rising and falling, hand braced over Draco's racing heart. The other took to the mattress, steadying himself. He locked his elbows to keep his arms from shaking. Smart man, that Harry Potter. He wasn't about to show weakness, even now. Maybe he was a little too proud mixed with stubborn and illogical. The result was nothing short of enchanting. And then Harry was moving, slowly at first. The lubricant was a God-send. It was still a raw kind of contact, intensely physical, achingly intimate, this knowledge of pain and pleasure that they shared. 

Draco took a moment to really observe his lover—his screwed-shut eyes, the long column of his dry-swallowing throat, the contrast of his pale skin and black hair in the darkness of their bedroom. This was what he wanted to think of every time he heard Harry's name, this vision swimming before his eyes, strong arms flexed, legs like a stallion and creamy, touchable skin. He was passionate. He felt so deeply. You could see it in the set of his jaw, the way he moved his hips through the discomfort, the way his upper body rocked with his rhythm. It was all too much coming at him through the dark. He was so good, so perfect. Draco trailed fingers down his chest, loving the way he moved. His fingers closed around Harry's sex, the skin reddish purple and firm, so hard under his hand. 

His first strong tug earned him an unconscious, unguarded smile. His second tug garnered a pair of sparkling green eyes opening wide. His third tug earned him a shocking slap to the face; his head whipped, neck popping. His head rang, his cheek burned. 

“ _Don't you fucking dare,_ ” Harry hissed, hovering over him. He had Draco's wrist in his hand, trapping it against the bed. 

“But—” 

“No,” Harry insisted. He twined their fingers together, gripping Draco's hand for everything he was worth. And Draco would have his fingers broken thirty six more times rather than let go. Harry's other hand came to his face, palm to the hollow of his cheek. He leaned close, fingertips brushing the blonde hairs at his temple almost reverently. “This is for you, Draco. So you'll know. You're always mine. Doesn't matter whose fucking who. You're mine and I'm yours.” 

Draco could only nod in time to the rocking of their bodies. Harry's body was still resisting, clenching in wave after wave. The sensations were overwhelming. Draco felt his orgasm rising up like a fist in his gut. He wasn't going to last. He flexed his stomach taut until every muscle screamed. Muscles he didn't know he had were protesting from the strain of holding back what had to be. Harry pulsed with him, lips closing over his with a thick, pleasant groan. 

Harry started to come. It came from his shoulders first, a sort of helpless hitching. His thighs clamped, rigid, unforgiving in their force. Then it was in his stomach, muscles somehow caving inward, tightening his body as he imploded, hot jets flying in the tiny space between them. Harry's muffled shout against his lips was what got him, of all things. He thought the reality-smashing tightness or perhaps the ungodly undulations would've done him in but it was Harry's voice, his guttural, grunting, masculine scream that tingled against his lips and set his heart on fucking fire. He lost it inside Harry, coming for ages and just shivering, shaking. He kissed back, repeating the sound back as best he could, a sort of dying trill that just went on, wordless. They really didn't need words. This was enough—more than enough. Everything. He really was in love.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Achy and sore, they Apparated in silence to the third floor master bath. It had a massive tub. They hobbled around, setting out towels and filling the tub. Once settled in, they washed and laid back together, Draco's back to Harry and all but perched in his lap, arms up and toying with the wet hair at the nape of his neck. 

“May I say something base?” Draco asked, voice scraggly from screaming. 

“It's me, dragon,” Harry said, voice like sandpaper but laced with love. 

Draco snorted at the emergence of yet another pet name. Then he sighed. “Um, when yeh... in bed?” Shy, tentative. Harry nodded his encouragement. “It was... well, I don't really know wha' it was but I liked it. I've never liked tha' before.” Fancied the receiving end, that is. It was different to be the aggressor. That was normal for him. Wanting it back? Making the physical rage a two way street? That was new. 

“Why did you like it? I mean, it couldn't have felt good. It hurt like crap when you smacked me before. And your face is swollen. I'm going to spell it right before we go to bed.” 

“Well...” Draco splashed at the bath's milky surface. “It did feel good, in a way. Not physically, but... I guess, because it was you.” Harry not just asserting himself but _exerting_ himself. The power, physical and magical, was still something of a wonder. And an aphrodisiac, apparently. 

Harry smiled broadly. “That's how I felt the first time you had me.” 

“ _Gods_ , tha's so sexy,” Draco shivered with new lust. “Say it again.” 

“What? That you had me?” 

“Yesssss,” Draco sighed, scooting and sliding down Harry's body to rest his head against the man's strong chest, listening to his steady heart beat. 

“And one of these days I'll have you back,” Harry cooed to damp blonde tresses, his breath sweet and impossibly warm. 

“I know. I'm jus' impatient.” 

“I know. That's part of why I love you.” 

“I...” Draco fought down a strange lump in his throat. This was the first time he'd ever said this—really _wanted_ to say it. To anyone. Ever. Not even his parents. Not even Philippe. But this was Harry. Love wasn't a weakness to Harry; if anything, it was where he drew his strength. There was nothing left to be afraid of. 

“I love you too.” 

 

 

 

  



	26. Serpent In The Lion's Den; or, The Remnants of The Noble House of Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco returns to Hogwarts a Malfoy in disgrace—or a Malfoy reborn. It depends on how you look at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** some vaguely sexual content, coarse language and what passes for Slytherin banter

 

 

  
It was too soon. He was dressed in his best suit, Harry's arms around him and that damn cloak flung over their bodies, the jar and clang of Side-Along Apparition followed by the chaotic noise of Platform 9 ¾ and it was all just to damn soon, to real, too much. He was actually squeezing Harry, fingers scrambling to grip the fabric of his muggle tshirt, tugging, pretending they were still Apparating and the closeness was necessary. Harry held him back just as tight, inhaling heavily against Draco's hair, breathing his scent. This was it. 

He'd known the second he woke up that he would hate today. The bed was that special type of cold—the cold that communicates on a bone-deep, painfully omnipotent level that the body you're seeking isn't here. There's only the shadow of that form's terrible warmth, the ghost of its scent, fledgling memories left in cotton and goose down; vicious, teasing fucking memories. He'd opened his eyes to find Harry stark naked and leaning against a post at the foot of the bed, just looking at him. Really looking, green eyes fixed and intense, boring into him, memorizing details. And he was rock hard, stroking himself as he stared.

“Touch yourself,” he'd commanded in that impossibly low voice and Draco pulled the sheets down before he tented them any worse. Harry was watching—watching him—always watching, now. Orange light from the window caught in his hair, highlighting strands around his face and down his torso, dragging Draco's eyes up and down his frame in a merciless tug of war between arms and thighs, chest and inky hair, eyes and sex.

Oddly enough, green eyes won. “

 

  
You remember this, Draco. Every second that we're apart, you remember this. Every time you close your eyes, every time you think of me, think of this. Think of us.”    


He tried so hard not to cry out when the Mark burned on his arm. He tried to ignore it, tried to put it aside. He couldn't hide anything from Harry. The man was back in bed immediately, cradling Draco to his chest, soothing with his hands and hot, open mouthed kisses. He whispered nonsense, hissed in Parseltongue, lips ghosting over the Dark Mark as he held Draco tight. They'd rutted against one another, bodies locked, the old plan forgotten in favor of this last sexual congress, this need to touch and be touched, to be together in that last hour or so before they faced their very separate worlds.

Harry had watched him in the bathroom afterwords, naked before the sink and cutting his hair with practiced wand flicks. White blond strands fell, landing in splashes against green-veined marble. Green like Harry's eyes, observing from the doorway. Harry always liked watching him.

Now Harry kissed him beneath the Invisibility cloak, witches and wizards moving all around them unawares. Draco prayed they wouldn't feel Harry's magic flare, hoped to Merlin they wouldn't hear the rather pathetic sound coming from his own throat at that kiss. Harry's breath hitched, their chests so close it was a wonder either of them could breathe. They weren't, Draco realized. Harry gasped for air when they prized their lips apart at last. A very confused witch looked straight through them at the desperate sound. Harry held him tight, one arm around his waist and the other still trying to tangle in his hair. He'd cut it awfully short and there wasn't much for Harry to hang on to. He wound up running his fingernails over Draco's scalp, stroking back from the temple, sweaty palm slicking back the soft strands his fingers displaced.

“This isn't goodbye,” he whispered, their foreheads together.

“I know,” Draco replied very quietly. “Stop bein' a weepy prat 'bout it.”

  
“Why?” Harry teased. “Gonna make another set of those badges? 'Potter Cries,' 'Support the    


 

 _  
real   
_

 

  
bloke in the relationship?'”    


Draco couldn't help but snort. “I jus' might.” And, against his better judgment, he brushed the end of his nose against Harry's. The man liked it. He was only being companionable.

“You play nice,” Harry warned in a would-be stern voice. The expression on his handsome face was tired, worried. “And watch your back.”

“I'm not a first year, nor am I some hapless Hufflepuff,” he muttered. “But thanks.”

Harry nodded. “I have a couple of appointments but I should make it up in a week or so.”

“Appointments yeh put off 'cause a' me?” Draco surmised with a twinge of guilt.

“Yes and no,” Harry sighed, fingers tracing circles against his scalp. “It's just stuff I have to do. But I needed to get my head on straight first. I... I know why I'm doing this now. I—”

“Save it,” Draco cut in, silencing Harry with a quick kiss. He ran his fingers through that unruly mass of dark hair, always surprisingly soft to the touch. Harry was a mess of sensations and textures, so very real and present, a kind of condensed calm and power sliding out of him through his skin. Draco didn't know how he hadn't noticed years ago. Maybe Harry hadn't always been like this. Maybe this was new. “Ya know I couldn't give a fuck 'bout yer bloody Gryffindor morality, always needin' a sermon ter justify yer actions. Jus' do what ya have ta do an' then get yer ass to Scotland, yeah?”

“Okay,” Harry agreed against his lips. “I think I can manage that, love.”

Harry's mouth closed over his in the dreaded goodbye kiss—the first of many uncomfortably emotional kisses and other such gestures that signaled the demise of something. Gods, he hated change. And he hated goodbyes. But he kissed back, kissed Harry for everything he was worth, knocking his boyfriend off-balance with the intentions radiating from his body and surging into the other man through lips and tongue, chests and thighs and heavy breaths and hands. Oh yes, hands. Harry bent back in his arms under the assault, yielding and inviting more as his head tilted back. As soon as Harry had some semblance of balance, Draco laid a hand on his trunk—Harry's trunk—and Apparated out from beneath the cloak. Invisible, Harry was left tonguing thin air, suddenly quite bereft of their beautiful, warm press.

  
The crack of his Apparition was met with a few glances. Then the casual eyes processed who he was. A witch nearby actually screamed, another woman clamping a hand over her mouth.    


 

 _  
Yes, scream,   
_

 

  
Draco thought bitterly.    


 

 _  
Because you know exactly who and what I am   
_

 

  
.    


A ripple went across the platform. Now everyone was turning to look. Younger students peeked out from their parents' protective arms, wanting to see what the commotion was about. Draco felt his composure slam down like a castle's storm gate, clanging loudly in his mind, so much commotion adding to the many feelings swirling in his head. He relaxed his jaw, holding his head high. His father was still in Azkaban, he was a blood traitor wanted dead or alive and he was bearing his broken, Dark Marked, love-bitten body back to Hogwarts, the only place Harry said he would be safe. It felt a little like walking into Azkaban. And in a way he was being punished—punished for not being good and noble like Harry, punished for not wanting to risk his life for a bunch of Mudblood twits who wouldn't respect thousands of years of tradition if you spoon fed it to them over the course of the next three milenia. Once again, Draco Malfoy was punished for not being as good as Harry Potter. It stung much worse this time; now he knew that Harry's goodness, his utter perfection wasn't an act. And he, Draco Malfoy, filthy blood traitor, would never be that kind of person. He just didn't have it in him. Harry would have to be good enough for the both of them.

He levitated Harry's school trunk onto the train, depositing it in the covered space between cars. One foot on the stairs and the other gripping the hand hold, he hoisted himself up, feeling the fine wool, silk and cotton at his shoulders pull. He chanced a glance back at the place where Harry stood on the platform. Not even the smallest shimmer suggested that The Boy Who Blew stood there—undoubtedly gazing fondly at him. Draco could feel his eyes, though. Harry was making this infinitely harder than it needed to be.

“Go,” he mouthed. Harry was only making it worse for himself, watching Draco leave like this. The sappy Gryffindor git would stand there as the train pulled away, probably bawling his eyes out. It was best he got on with his Dumbledore-ordained quest and stopped thinking about whatever this was between them. They could have whatever they wanted if Harry succeeded. If he succeeded. “Please.”

  
Draco heard the reluctant    


 

 _  
crack   
_

 

  
and knew that Harry was gone. He could feel it in his chest, dragging himself further into the Express. His trunk floated ahead of him, doing a good job of obscuring his face. He went to a car with open seating and proceeded to the most sparsely populated section, settling his trunk on the storage rack. He took a seat and pulled a book from his blazer's breast pocket. The train quickly filled and soon, with a blast of whistles and a last few shouts from mothers and fathers to behave and wash behind one's ears, the Hogwarts Express pulled out of King's Cross Station.    


  
Draco didn't notice his companions for the first half hour of the journey. He mostly stared out the window, the book he'd packed no longer peaking his interest. It was a French collection of myths and he couldn't bear another word of his current section on the love story of Tristan and Iseult if his very life depended on it. He was in no mood for ill-matched, persecuted lovers; chivalrous, adulterers or otherwise. Simply reading the line “   


 

 _  
ni moi sans vous, ni vous sans moi   
_

 

  
” made him feel physically ill. He glanced across the way at a mousy Ravenclaw girl buried in    


 

 _  
The Daily Prophet   
_

 

  
. The headline made his brow furrow: “Arnett Didier Murdered In Paris, Death Eaters Responsible.” He leaned across the aisle to get a better look at the front page article.   


  
No wonder Harry had hidden the paper as they drank coffee that morning, holding hands across the table. This was bad. Apparently Philippe had taken his grandmother to the opera last night while Arnett remained at their town home to catch up on business. When Philippe returned, it was to find the Dark Mark set over the house, a fire burning up the main floor and his father's lifeless body strung up on the terrace for all of Paris to see. Hundreds of muggles had to be Obliviated, photographs tracked down and destroyed to keep all evidence from the non-magical public. It was proving a nightmare for the French Ministry; one of their most prominent citizens slaughtered in his own home by Death Eaters, the Dark Mark proudly set over the place, mocking the government's control and making every citizen question their safety. And Draco knew the Didiers had remained publicly neutral while quietly supporting the Dark Lord. Either Arnett had made a wrong move or there was something far more sinister at work. With Arnett out of the way, Philippe reportedly inherited his father's fortune and estates.    


 

 _  
The Prophet   
_

 

  
couldn't reach him for comment before the issue went to press early that morning. Draco sat back in his seat, pressing a contemplative two fingers to his lips. He closed his eyes, feeling the occasional shaft of sunlight play across his face. It looked like rain back in London but further north the sky was slowly clearing.    


Someone cleared their throat, bending down near his face. Who would have the gall?

“Malfoy. Are you asleep?” Ah, Granger.

“Resting my eyes,” Draco said passingly, inhaling as he propped himself up in his seat. The occupants of the car were casting them both funny looks. Granger had already changed into her robes, Head Girl badge pinned to her bosom.

“Well, I have the compartment set up for the prefect's meeting,” the witch said, straightening. “I did everyone the favor of scheduling it at the same time as Professor Slughorn's tea.”

“I'm sure the old Slug Club will be devastated,” he drawled, stretching his legs in a cat-like gesture before rising to unlock his trunk, drawing his school robe from where he had conveniently placed it at the the top of neat clothing piles repacked in the morning hours. He folded the garment over his arm before signaling for Granger to lead the way.

  
The large compartment was set up with quills and parchment, water glasses and convenient seating. When Granger closed the door behind them Draco loosened his necktie, pulling Harry's Gryffindor tie form where it was concealed in the robes. With his school robes buttoned, no one would be able to tell he wore a suit rather than the normal uniform. The luxurious, perfectly tailored fabric made him feel calm, confident, strong. Not to mention that every scrap of fabric in his trunk smelled like Harry.    


 

 _  
These are Harry's robes   
_

 

  
, Draco reminded himself, stroking a hand over the heavy garment. He was clothed in Harry; wrapped up in the man's scent, his memory, his intense passion and bewildering affection.    


 

 _  
Pull it together, Malfoy. Don't cry on the fucking Express—then they'll know you're batty.    
_

 

  
He made quick work of swapping his black tie for the red and gold one, a genuine smirk twitching his lips when he recalled the last time Granger had seen him and Harry with this exact tie. He slung the school robes over his shoulders, engulfed in a puff of air that smelled like myrrh and jasmine, cloves and that impossible tang of Harry's magic. He quickly took a seat at the table before Granger could detect his blooming erection through the muggle flat-front trousers. This was going to be a long meeting if he didn't stop rhapsodizing. A very long meeting, indeed.    


 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco was still grumbling when he took to the narrow train corridor nearly an hour later. It was a compunction of outrages that had him worked into a right lather. Slytherin house had one seventh year prefect—one! Tracey fucking Davis. The entire Slytherin seventh year consisted of her, Blaise Zabini, Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bulstrode. Sixth year had a few more students; notably, almost all the sixth year blokes were returning but the only seventh year male was Blaise. Lucky bastard would have a dormitory to himself. Then there was the issue of the transfer students. With Durmstrang in smoking ruins, Hogwarts had accepted several new students to the upper years. No seventh years, of course, but a sixth year girl, a hand full of fifth years and a good dozen to the lower years. Draco was summarily elected to have stern words with them about what would and would not be tolerated at Hogwarts. He suspected it was karmic punishment for the rollicking good time he'd had most of fourth year.

Justin Finch-Fletchley had announced that due to a scheduling conflict he would need another prefect to split his duties as Professor Flitwick's pianist for choir rehearsals and music classes. Finch-Fletchley laid out the schedule of times he needed covered. When no one volunteered and the silence became overwhelming, Draco had agreed with a violent huff—though he'd have to drop NEWT Herbology to do it. You'd think no one played the piano any more! He'd glared daggers at the purebloods Macmillan, Abbot and McDougal to no avail.

To top off the indignity of it all, someone had gone and made Longbottom a bloody prefect. Draco felt a muscle near his left eye twitch. Himself as Head Boy and Nevil The Cauldron-Destroyer Longbottom as a sodding prefect? McGonagall was surely scraping the bottom of the barrel this year. Nervous eyes had flicked and flittered over his red and gold-themed badge and Gryffindor tie, not sure what to make of the situation. A few faces thought he was playing a joke. Granger had presided over the meeting at his left, Weasley beyond her and the newly made prefect Lovegood on Draco's right, sandwiching him in estrogen as a reminder to watch himself. Granger's agenda had been meticulous and exacting, painfully so. Every potential issue was covered, schedules for prefects rounds distributed and the meeting adjourned. Draco took his time collecting the few notes he'd made, letting everyone slip out of the room ahead of him.

Walking the relatively un-congested corridor, he breathed the familiar scents surrounding him; pumpkin juice and pasties from the trolly, the leather and wood of the train, a titch of damp in the air and the warm spice of Harry clinging to his robes. He was caught up in the moment as the idyllic countryside flew by. He didn't notice the clump of Hufflepuff fourth year girls gaping at him in his Head Boy badge, muggle suit and Gryffindor tie, their noses practically pressed to the glass of their compartment as they whispered and pointed. He certainly didn't notice the gawking girls scatter as the vulturous form Daphne Greengrass descended upon him.

  
“Well, well,” she drawled, arms folded under her breasts as she leaned her weight to one hip. “What have we here? A blood traitor and a    


 

 _  
Gryffindor   
_

 

  
, too. Malfoy, you've sunk to new lows,” she tisked, shaking her head in feigned sadness at his fall. “Are you even a prefect?”    


“Head Boy,” he countered, not giving her the courtesy of eye contact.

  
“Oh, that's rich!” the girl let out a peal of derisive laughter. “That's what they're calling Potter's toys now? Just tell me,    


 

 _  
head-boy   
_

 

  
—who sucked who first?”    


The girl meant it as an insult to bait him into an outburst, a less-than-proper display or even to let some useful piece of information slip. It was the Slytherin game, poking at whatever might make your opponent rise to the occasion and embarrass themselves with a blithering, emotional response. The Boy Who Lived to Annoy had always been Draco's hot button. His sexual preferences weren't much discussed because, as Slytherin was predominantly pureblood, no one rightly cared. There was very little chance she was aware Draco actually went both ways. Greengrass was merely attempting to be vindictive. She wasn't the brightest creature but it was a well-honed barb. He wondered how long she'd been polishing it and whether she'd had help. He let a familiar cold sneer work its way across his face, turning to meet her glare with indifference. He remained silent, just to see how far the witch would go.

“No?” she crooned in a little baby voice, making Draco's blood run a little colder. “Then at least give me the basest satisfaction. What does The Chosen One's arsehole taste like? Surely that particular flavor is ever on your forked tongue.”

Draco glowered, scanning the area for firsties. The coast remarkably clear, he allowed his smirk to grow. He could play this game better than anyone: he'd been the king of Slytherin for a reason. Weighing his options, he decided to go for shock value.

“Like my come, Greengrass. I suck it out afterwords because it's too good for him. He's a filthy whore and he loves it. Is that what you want to hear? Hmm? 'Cause he's a dirty little bitch and I fuck him raw.”

She went red with outrage; no one spoke that way to pureblood women. Despite whatever they might dish out, they expected to be treated as princesses with virgin ears and cunts of purest white porcelain. It was a heinous and unfair double standard based solely on one's genitalia. Generally it was an unspoken matter of etiquette which Draco observed but he was feeling less than gentlemanly given the nature of her prodding. Her expression was at once mortified and dubious; she thought he was mocking her, playing the game at the male level. Little did she know he and Harry went that way. This wouldn't start any rumors about the two of them—if anything, it might spread that Draco Malfoy hadn't lost his acerbic forked tongue and wasn't afraid to use it. Whether he wore Slytherin green or the enemy's red and gold, he was a poisonous snake in the grass with a venomous bite.

“Greengrass,” he snapped, “there are first through third years approaching from the next car. Hold your tongue or I _will_ use my power as a prefect in retaliation.”

Cancerous bitch, she waited until the little ones were perhaps a meter behind her before spewing her bile.

“You, Draco Malfoy,” she vituperated in clear tones, disdain dripping from every syllable, “are a traitor to your family and to the heritage of all pureblood witches and wizards. I hope our Dark Master finds you to finish what was started in the sacred catacombs.” She spat at his feet, contempt filling her eyes. Oddly enough, the Weaslette has snapped about the same thing at him not even two months ago.

The firsties were cowering in a puddle in the car's doorway, not wanting to get involved in the heated discussion of the powerful seventh years yet unable to avoid overhearing the woman's dark rhetoric. Many of them flinched at the mention of “our Dark Master.” Greengrass was being careless. Why had her family allowed her loose, allowed her back to Hogwarts with that kind of mouth? With her self-assured and lofty manner, there had to be some major goings on at the Dark side of the proverbial pitch.

“One hundred points from Slytherin and two weeks detention served nightly with Headmistress McGonagall. Do I make myself clear?” He not only managed even but disinterested. So many weeks ignoring Weasleys put to good use, after all.

“Cock sucking traitorous whore!” she shouted at him, the students behind her flinching as one. Faces poked out of compartments, drawn by the noise and her language. “I always heard you were bent that way! And now we know it's true. Slytherin's Prince reduced to Saint Potter's bitch! Who bends over for who?”

“Three weeks, Greengrass, and another hundred points,” he raised an icy warning brow to match the temperature of his words. “Care to press the matter?”

“Oh, I think I've said my piece.”

She stormed off, frightened-looking little ones scattering in her wake.

Draco let his eyes travel the length of the car behind him, noting the wide eyes and potentially gossiping mouths. Good.

“Back to your compartments, then,” he shrugged casually, wearing the mantle of authority with practiced ease. It actually helped to sense Harry every time he took a breath, that comforting scent filling his mouth and nose and worming right up to his brain. “Show's over.”

With very little grumbling and fuss, bodies returned to their respective compartments to whisper amongst themselves. Draco's eyes fell to the cowering first years wearing only school robes and parts of their uniforms, not yet having house colors to ascribe to their ties or the edging of their jumpers. He let out a long, pained breath that would have once pushed hair from his eyes; now it billowed over his forehead, barely ruffling the fringe of platinum blond. This was the part of authority he hated—explaining himself when he had acted within morality, though not necessarily outside of self-interest. The situation could get dicey. He decided to take the high road and play it off as a responsibility to the school, Head Boy as an enforcer of school values and all that nonsense.

“I'm sorry you had to hear that,” he began neutrally, “not because you are young or impressionable but because the things she said were unkind and hurtful to Harry Potter, a man we all trust and believe in. Remember that these are difficult times and everyone deals with their emotions differently, as is their right; some worry or cry while others employ themselves with Quidditch, studies or perhaps a meaningful project. And some, like Miss Greengrass, spread lies and hate as a shield to protect themselves. Remember that here at Hogwarts we are tolerant of other people's points of view. Everyone is free to do and say what they please up until the point of hurting another person. Hurting one another will not be tolerated. We need to stand together if we wish to survive; no bickering or name calling amongst the ranks. Do you understand why house points were taken and a detention issued?”

A little one nodded and piped up. “Because she wished hurt and pain on you,” the girl said.

“That's right.”

“And the second time,” offered a small boy with unruly black hair, “because she said those things to make you feel bad about yourself. And sometimes feeling bad about yourself hurts more than anything else in the world.”

“That's very wise,” Draco replied, slightly taken aback at hearing that kind of wisdom from one so young. As a first year, the boy could have been as young as ten. “What's your name?

“Kieran Gweir, first year.”

Ah. The Gweir's were a pureblood family from Wales, not very well off and notoriously neutral. Draco recalled they'd mostly been Ravenclaws with a few Slytherins married in, not a Hufflepuff in sight for as many generations as he could remember—at least eight. Good family. With a name like Kieran, the boy must have an Irish mother.

“I wish you good luck in the sorting this evening. No matter what house you're placed in, they'll be lucky to have you. And... ten points to that house for a wise and discerning mind.”

The boy gave a polite nod, not quite smiling out of deference for the severity of the occasion. His companions' little faces clearly spoke of fear and awe for their dashing and dangerous Head Boy. It was probably best that way. Brushing past, Draco ruffled the boy's head of dark hair rather affectionately before he realized what he was doing. Startled, Gweir looked up at him with pretty blue eyes, Draco's fingers reflexively curled in his hair. No way out of it now. He tousled the boy's hair a bit, offering him a lopsided smile.

“Off yeh go, then,” he jerked his head toward the approaching trolly woman. “Fill up on sweets an' see if yeh don't puke 'em up on yer boat ride ter the castle. It looks like rain tonight.”

Grinning broadly despite the horrified looks on the kids' faces, Draco set off. It rained when he and Harry were first years, too.

 

 

Draco made it to the castle crammed in a rainswept, Thestral-drawn coach with no less than three giggling Hufflepuffs and a hoyden of a Ravenclaw fifth year bloke who kept staring at the Gryffindor-colored Head Boy badge on Draco's chest with his slatternly little mouth open. It took a moment to piece together that this was the cheeky fellow who'd groped him on the Express last year. Draco offered the boy a complimentary Malfoy sneer before gazing out the window at the lights of the castle. He cast a quick Repelling Charm before jumping from the carriage and making his way up the steps through the howling wind and rain.

The Entrance Hall was pleasantly warm compared to the mounting gale outside. The weather hadn't looked this bad when they'd left London but here it rained with a vengeance. The first years were likely chuffed to bits about being ferried across the lake by Argus Filch and Professor Grubbly-Plank in this bloody raging storm. Anyone who entered the hall without the protection of a Repelling Charm was pelted with bits of fluff and sawdust by Peeves the Poltergeist. Students shot curses and oaths, scampering for the Great Hall and trying to spell away the debris clinging to their wet robes. Draco quickly found an assembled group of teens

 _sans_

house colors huddled near the stairs and looking about at the carnage. Draco approached the knot of transfers, his expression fixed with neutrality and a touch of impatience. He stood before them a moment, one hand on his hip as he surveyed. A few more bints than blokes, mostly twelve to fifteen years old, all looking a little unsure except for a pair of big fellows at the back of the group. Draco shrugged.

“Well, come on then,” he said at last, resigned and slightly impatient. He jerked his platinum head, signaling them to follow him down the hall to a nearby empty classroom. He held the heavy door and the students filed in, quietly taking seats and then looking to him to speak. At least this group was orderly.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” he said coolly, striding up the center of the room.

 _Or New Azkaban, as I may begin to call it_

. He turned in an attractive swish of billowing robes. Then he reclined, rear against the sturdy instructor's desk at the head of the class. “For those who don't know—I'm Draco Malfoy, your Head Boy. I'm not sure how much you've been told, so permit me to provide you with a brief insider's view of the place.”

“Hogwarts has its four houses. If you're the sort who uses your head you'll end up in Ravenclaw or Slytherin. If you stuff your head between your legs, it's Hufflepuff. And if you ignore your head all together you may rightly find yerself in Gryffindor... like me. Yeh'll each be havin' a discussion with the Hogwarts Sorting Hat. Make yerself clear an' yeh'll probably get wha' yeh want. Any wishy-washiness on yer part an' it'll be Hufflepuff, mark my words. The house yer sorted into will determine yer friendships an' socializing fer the remainder of yer time at Hogwarts, so do choose carefully. Our houses harbor extreme rivalries—none more so than Slytherin an' Gryffindor, I'm afraid. Ya won't find intramural Quidditch leagues; instead, house teams play a handful of matches a year an' competition is intense. If any of yeh fly worth a damn, I suggest ya inquire to yer future house captains fer further information. We need some new talent 'round here, so don't be shy... unless yer a Hufflepuff. Then shy and awkward will out.”

“I reckon ya oughta learn yer way 'round the castle. There are plenty a' trick stairs, hidden passages an' walls tha' pretend ta be doors fer a day out a' boredom. Quaint, I know,” he rolled his eyes and got appreciative chuckles from several students, “but there ya have it. Until ya know with certainty where yer goin', follow someone from yer house. It won't look unusual an' it's better than costin' yer house points fer tardiness or perhaps wakin' up in the Hospital Wing

 _gratis_

our dear poltergeist, Peeves.”

“As fer the grounds,” Draco ran a hand through his shortened hair, getting used to the feel. His hair hadn't been this short since second year. “The Forbidden Forest is, say it with me...

 _forbidden._

” A few melancholy voices chimed in. “Good, yer catchin' on. I highly recommend ya steer clear o' the place. Last I heard there was a horde of angry centaurs running amok, some foul thing addicted to unicorn blood,” that earned him a few shudders, “an' a flying car Potter crashed a few years back tha's gone native. I also suggest avoidin' the Whomping Willow. Yeh'll know it when ya see it. The rest of school grounds are accessible before nine o'clock curfew. Be sure ta check reservations fer the Quidditch pitch before ya go waltzin' out there. House teams have priority before matches an', as I said, competition is always fierce.”

“You may be comforted to know tha' meals here are also communal an' served in two hour durations unless otherwise noted. Yeh'll receive class schedules from yer Head of House tomorrow morning at breakfast. Pay attention in classes an' yeh may earn yer house points toward the annual House Cup. Slack off an' yer housemates may have yer hide. As a prefect as well as a student, I must state in no uncertain terms tha' truancy is not tolerated; if yer gonna do it, be smart enough not ter get caught.” A few good-humored chuckles went up. “If I catch any of you lot on my rounds I'll not be pleased. I believe we understand each other there.” The room seemed to be warming to his casual persona and so he went for his real point.

“When in doubt, follow the lead of yer classmates,” he said slowly, making sure to meet every last set of eyes in the room. This was rather Slytherin advice to be coming from a Gryffindor Head Boy but see if that bothered Draco Malfoy any. “Yeh may notice tha' the teaching style could be called... selective. Don't comment, yeah? Wha' might be considered Neutral Magic is unspoken here. Protego only fer shields, basic non-verbal spells, an' don't even mention Legilimens or Rune Fortifications unless ya want yer head taken off. Ya might study some theory in upper years but theory will be the end of it. Anything ya know ya keep ter yerself. Am I clear?”

Slowly, heads nodded. A few gave him understanding, even appreciative grimaces. There would be Slytherins in this group, he was quite sure of it. Slytherins and Ravenclaws. They'd taken his words seriously but with a grain of salt. He couldn't ask for much more.

There was a tapping at the door. Draco touched a hand to the pocket of his robes, opening the door non-verbally. A shaky looking Creevey stood with his fist poised to knock, flummoxed as the door opened by way of old magic. It was only the old pureblood families who believed in that type of showmanship, after all. Creevey wouldn't have encountered those types in his lifetime were it not for Hogwarts, the melting pot of wizardry.

“Malfoy?” the boy spoke quite tentatively, inching into the room; apparently Gryffindor colors rendered Malfoys unrecognizable from a distance of less than ten meters. Draco gave a solemn nod, pushing off from the desk to stand tall at the front of the classroom. “Headmistress McGonagall says she's ready for them to come in.”

“Excellent,” Draco said, gesturing for the group to follow him as he exited the room. Creevey reached out, handing Draco a folded sheet of parchment bearing the exact location and password to his chambers. He incinerated the parchment with a flick of his wand. “Look lively, you lot. We're off.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Not feeling much like the pageantry of another welcoming feast—and the blatant stares of his classmates while he listened to another tired limerick and pushed food around his plate—Draco made his way up six flights of stairs to Gryffindor tower. No wonder Longbottom had lost most of that puppy fat from first year! And the way Gryffindors, especially Weasley and Harry, dug into breakfast most mornings made sense now. Draco feared he'd need new trousers by Christmas to accommodate all the thigh muscles he'd be building while making this trek several times a day. Wouldn't you know his quarters were on the far side of Gryffindor Tower; not quite as far as the Professor Flitwick's office but damn near. On the bright side, the view from his bedroom promised to be fantastic. There were no windows in the dungeon, making the initial weeks of first year a near claustrophobic experience, trapped in that foreign, underground space with the children of purebloods he otherwise socialized with a handful of times throughout the year at the right parties and galas. He had his own rooms now and felt no need to socialize with his new house. It was a sort of new beginning.

He reached the bust of Paracelsus and spoke the password, wondering if the house elves knew to bring the trunk labeled as Harry Potter's to the Head Boy's suite or if he'd have to go over to the boys dormitory and retrieve it. A large wooden door materialized beside the statue, a heavy-looking door with iron girders and hinges nearly the size of his wrist. He spelled the door open, noticing a very small picture frame tucked behind the bust. Very clever—it supported the portrait network so that the occupant of whatever painting hung in his room could run down and check who was knocking for admittance. When he stepped into the anteroom, several torches along the walls sprang to life. The stone floor ran in a slope instead of stairs and Draco began to climb, detecting the pleasant sound of gently rushing water ahead.

The foyer itself was a respectable size, made cozy by several red velvet banners with gold tassel trim hung upon the walls at regular intervals. He prayed the Gryffindor theme wasn't echoed in his bedroom. A large fountain sat in the center of the room, the design a male and female lion with the female crouched low protecting her cubs and the male reared on his hind legs, rising over her back to frighten an unseen foe. The jets of the fountain were the male's bared fangs, his mane at once grand and wild. It was an interesting piece—show-stopping to be sure, set against glass French doors leading out to a large terrace. There were two sturdy doors, one to each side of the fountain. He sent a probing spell to the door on the right. The spell came back that the room belonged to Granger so he was the door on the left. He opened his door, casting a spell to light whatever candles, lamps or fires he'd been provided.

The room came alive with soft light. He couldn't help the awed hand that traveled to his chin. These couldn't be his chambers; they looked... already occupied, lived in. By someone with ruddy excellent taste.

  
So the walls    


 

 _  
were   
_

 

  
red, but a very tasteful deep burgundy that offset the molding and made the room like a cathedral hidden inside a cave, the ceiling high and composed of large stone slabs with countless cracks of age. The furniture was sturdy; two overstuffed leather armchairs, a puckered love seat in beige and a cherry wood sleigh bed in place of the standard four poster with a dresser to match. His trunk sat at the foot of the grand full-sized bed. Seating was set in an arc around a large stone fireplace with a door to one side, presumably leading to his private bath. The wall opposite the fireplace was all windows with lovely, chocolate brown draperies. A quick peek in the bathroom showed gold-veined marble, a large shower and his own linen supply. The cupboard was stocked with anything he might ask for—bottled Headache Potion, Pepper-Up, quality soaps, shaving supplies and Italian talcum powder. There was even a familiar jar of chamomile lotion that soothed his windblown skin after too many winter Quidditch practices. And the towels were luxurious, just lovely. It was like a carbon copy of his washroom closet back at Malfoy Manor. Unnerved, he extinguished the light and headed back to the main room.    


  
He went for the bed, an inviting mass of white eiderdown and squashy pillows in every shade between blood red and brown, silk and brushed suede and cashmere. He threw the comforter back. The sheets themselves were pristine white and flowed like water under his hand, nine hundred or perhaps a thousand thread count and    


 

 _  
certainly   
_

 

  
not school issue. And now he saw a low table by the windows stocked with glassware and liqueur, wines and even a bottle of champagne. Someone had certainly gone through a great deal of trouble to insure he felt at home.   


He unbuttoned his robe, turning back to the warmth of the fire. His view had been blocked by an armchair when he came through the door but now he had a head-on view of the blaze. It was quite an excellent fireplace. And then his gaze fell to the ottoman.

No less than three dozen red roses sat there in the firelight, bundled together with a bit of string that looked about to burst with its bounty. They were perfect roses, candied red and impossibly plump, every last one in a fragrant state of bloom. And they'd been carefully de-thorned he noted as he picked up the bouquet. Unable to resist, he buried his face in the sea of red petals, taking a hearty sniff.

And suddenly his heart was lodged in his throat, beating a chaotic rhythm to choke him, ridiculous feelings stabbing at the backs of his eyes like thousands of needles even as he screwed his eyes shut, silken petals pushing at his face as he slumped to the nearest chair. It was a good thing they'd had their thorns removed or his hands would be bleeding, the way he gripped at those stems with fingers tight and clammy.

The roses smelled like Harry. Every time the man cast _Lusum Arboris_ , the product retained his scent. It was a simple mistake that Draco had never bothered to correct; a very dark, quiet part of him liked that the occasional house plant bore his lover's scent. It was a quiet reminder that The Boy Who Lived wasn't entirely perfect. And it was fitting that the dreary old house should contain something of its owner—his scent, even, and his name on the wall.

Out of curiosity, Draco lifted one rose from the rest and released the Transfiguration. He'd taught Harry on bits of cellophane, old quills and tissues but the spell could turn any small object into a piece of flora. Sure enough, the rose shriveled down to a slip of parchment in his hand—a scrap decorated with Harry's spiky, untidy scrawl. Draco stared at that penmanship, wondering how in the hell he could have chosen this flower first, this flower of all bloody flowers.

  
  


 

 _  
I promise to love you,    
_

 

  
the parchment said. The words were dashed off, as though in a hurry to get the thought down before he lost his nerve. Draco reached for another flower.   


 

 _  
I promise to make you smile.   
_

 

What a sap. He plucked the next flower from the bundle; it was longer, well-thought. Draco focused on breathing through his nose, flattening it against his palm as he read the words scrawled across the bit of parchment.

 

 _  
I promise    
_

 

 _  
not to expect you to act like a muggle. You're    
_

 

 _  
  
a wizard through and through and I love that about you. Even when you're trying to hex me! Chances are I deserve it.   
  
_

_I promise to kiss you hello and not goodbye because apparently you hate that._

 _I promise to protect you._

 _  
  
  
  
_

 

  
If he kept going like this he wouldn't have any roses left that smelled like Harry. He couldn't help pulling just one more from the collection laid across his lap.    


  
  


 

 _  
  
I promise to shag you into the floorboards one day.   
  
_

And that was too much. Shaking hands drew up over his eyes, thumbs pressing his temples. The fire had warmed his skin and was working on the fronts of his legs. The heat was nice when he felt so cold, so alone.

He would sleep without Harry tonight—an undoubtedly alcohol-induced sleep wrapped in the man's pajamas and cuddled in the bed he'd so clearly had outfitted with Draco's happiness and comfort in mind. It wouldn't be a good bed until he had his lover in it, shagged out of his mind and sweat soaking the sheets. When had he become so codependent, so disgustingly needy? It was unbefitting of a Malfoy. But was he a Malfoy? He didn't know what he was anymore.

Harry's. He was Harry's. And that would have to be enough.

  
  
He got up and made himself a bourbon rocks,    
  


 

 _  
  
I will protect you   
  
_

 

  
  
Transfigured   
  


 

  
  
back into a budding red bloom with the stem snipped off and fixed to his lapel. Perhaps Harry would protect him from Hogwarts, from whispers and looks, from his Gryffindor brood. Perhaps Harry could even protect him from himself. He was willing to give it a shot.    
  


 

 

\- - -

 

 

He'd donned a uniform jumper against the rainy chill but kept his blazer, red rose displayed for all to see. He let himself into the house commons by way of a passage hidden behind one of the red banners strung up in his fountain foyer. Gryffindor's common area was comfortable at least, with squashy armchairs gathered around the fireplace and many tables and chairs for studying, carpets draped all over to cushion one's feet from the cold stone floors. The walls were adorned with house Quidditch paraphernalia, an occasional painting and many photographs of previous students and professors, all placed haphazardly along the walls with absolutely no sense of order. He supposed the Weasley's pig sty would look something like this, patched and frayed and scented with woodsmoke, cinnamon and tea. It would do in a pinch but Draco vowed to keep to his own well-appointed quarters, just the same.

He found the exit—a portrait rigged on hinges to cover the massive hole in the stone wall. He swung the portrait out, it's subject squawking at him. He ignored the painted woman, positioning himself at the mouth of the passage. He leaned against the inside of the short tunnel, folding his arms across his chest and crossing an ankle as he waited. He kept his chin up, face placid and unreadable, the slightest arrogant smirk allowed to curve his lips. He needed to look calm and in control, slightly imposing, as Granger and the first years rounded the corner. The little crowd was due at any moment if Draco had timed his own ascent correctly. He swallowed, brushing an infinitesimal speck of dust from his front and adjusting the rose, caressing a soft petal with his thumb.

Granger rounded the corner, the unmistakable noise of awed firsties in her wake. She held her lit wand aloft, blueish light traveling down the walls to land on Draco in the passageway. The witch gave a start, as did several others. A thick knot of older students were only a few meters behind and they began chattering amongst themselves as soon as Draco's lean form came into view. From their worried looks, they seemed to think the Prince of Slytherin had infiltrated their house and commandeered some poor sod's tie. Granger shushed them, assuring it was no prank.

“Delightful,” he muttered, looking out over the stunned faces. Way to start a tenure of authority. Granger explained to the first years that they must provide the password to this painting, called the Fat Lady, to gain entrance. The Head Girl lectured on the importance of keeping the password secure; indeed, she prattled on until nearly the entire house was waiting out in the drafty hall, some listening to Granger but the majority staring slack-jawed and slobbering at the platinum blond standing calmly at the mouth of Gryffindor territory. No one dared enter while he stood in the passage way.

“Finished, Granger?” Draco snapped after a time. “I suspect the entire house has caught cold standing out here. Everyone in. Take seats for announcements—which I promise will be brief,” he concluded in a business-like tone, turning and stepping down into the common room. He stood by the fire until as the Gryffindors trooped in.

“Smaller ones up front!” insisted an auburn-haired fifth year girl. Draco recognized her as Robins, a Chaser on last year's house team. He watched the first and second years come through the parting crowd, noting a certain dark head amongst them.

“Oh, Gweir,” Draco sighed heavily, shaking his head at the boy. Black hair and blue eyes sparkled back at him as the first year shrugged, tugging at his his collar. “This is what ya get fer lion-hearted bravado, my young friend. Slytherin won't touch either of us after this.”

“That's alright,” Gweir replied with a quiet shrug. “I didn't fancy following in my Dad's footsteps, anyway.”

Draco laid a hand on the boy's sturdy little shoulder, looking into his face. He couldn't think of any Gweirs who had been in Slytherin. The pieces slipped into place, then; the raven-haired boy was a bastard, an illegitimate child come to Hogwarts bearing his mother's surname. The Sorting Hat couldn't have placed him in Slytherin even if the boy belonged there—Slytherin house didn't hold with that type of riff raff. Gryffindor was the boy's best option.

“Tolerate Gryffindor, then,” Draco advised, a hand slipping up to the boy's cheek a moment before drawing away. Merciful Gods, this boy looked like a young Harry. He had to get hold of himself before he did something stupid—like call the boy the wrong name or try to hug him again. His situation was precarious. He could feel the eyes of his new housemates upon them. “It might not be tha' bad. Now off! Find yerself a seat. I'll be quick 'bout this.”

The students were already settled, Granger seated in a chair a few meters to his right with her arms folded, Weasley standing guard just behind her. Her expression read that start-of-term policy reviews weren't standard operating procedure in Gryffindor Tower as it was in Slytherin. Well, they had a thing or two to learn about their new Head Boy. Draco drew a thick scroll of parchment from his robe pocket and gave a comment-free read-through of house rules before tacking the scroll up beside the fireplace.

“Anyone with questions should bother Granger,” he concluded with a curt nod, sweeping aside the tapestry that concealed the secret passage to the Head suites. He heard the commotion of bodies rising, chatting, heading up two sets of spiral staircases to their respective dormitories. A hand on his shoulder halted his hasty escape.

“Mr. Malfoy,” announced the unmistakable tone of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall. “I should like to have a word with you regarding the negative state of Slytherin House points.” Draco turned to face her with an even expression, knowing the eyes of his new housemates were ever upon him. “Two hundred points from Slytherin and a month of nightly detentions all before the Sorting Hat has sung? I understand the desire to begin your new life at Hogwarts with a bang, but I'm not sure this is the right—”

“Professor, would you care for a night cap in my chambers?”

“Mr. Malfoy, you are extremely unorthodox,” she fussed, looking away.

“If you could spare a moment of your time, Headmistress, tha's all I need,” Draco insisted. “The business is not the sort of thing my young friends need overhear again.” His eyes shot between the Headmistress and the lingering clump of first years, Gweir's dark little head among them.

“If you insist,” McGonagall said slowly, gesturing for him to lead the way up to his quarters. She looked about curiously at seeing the fine state of his rooms but refrained from comment, merely folding her hands together as Draco fetched himself another bourbon.

“A glass of wine, Professor?” he offered over his shoulder. “Or perhaps a martini? I have gin, vodka....”

“Mr. Malfoy,” she cautioned with her voice. “While I am willing to overlook your collection, do not press your luck. I cannot abide by this type of punishment if I am not made aware of the offense.”

With a fortifying sip of liqueur that scorched beautifully on the way down, he turned to face the former head of Gryffindor house. Draco repeated, word for word, the words Daphne Greengrass had spoken to him in the presence of first, second and third year students. McGonagall paled considerably.

“I never thought I'd see the day when two hundred points and a month's daily detentions might be considered lenient....” she muttered, shaking her head sadly.

“What can I say? I was feeling gracious,” Draco shrugged. “I know her family. Just... don't let it get 'round that I've gone soft? There's a chance to salvage my reputation, here.”

“Mr. Malfoy, I don't believe either you or I shall ever be the subject of that malicious rumor,” she smiled ruefully.

“Madam, Hogwarts hasn't been so tightly run since my Great, Great, Great Grandfather on my mother's side,” Draco smirked back, swirling his drink with a consorting eyebrow raised. “And may I say that—between yourself, Granger and I—we may yet give old Phineas a run for his galleons.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations of Malfoy's French**  
>  _Ni moi sans vous, ni vous sans moi_ \- “Neither me without you, nor you without me” from the lai “Chevrefoil” by medieval poetess Marie de France


	27. Beretta: A Bird's Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry copes, adapting to life without Draco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is the launching point of the _Beretta_ off-shoot, a section of Harry-centric shorter chapters following our intrepid Wonder Boyfriend as he searches out Voldemort's Horcruxes and finds his way to being a man. I had originally intended to write only Draco's perspective, the original _Conscience_ ; however, after some prodding from a few insistent readers who shall remain nameless, I saddled up the timelines and set to work on this companion piece. _Beretta_ will add a previously unanticipated 200k+ to the piece's collective length, bringing our projected estimate slightly over 500k when all's said and done. For those of you who love taboo and a dash of sex in your violence... this is for you.

 

 

 _When I would play my song  
You used to sing along.  
I always seem to forget  
How fragile are the very strong.  
I'm sorry I can't steal you  
I'm sorry I can't stay  
So I put band-aids on your knees  
And watch you fly away_

 _I'm sending you away tonight_   
_I'll put you on a bird's strong wing  
I'm saving you the best way I know how  
I hope again one day to hear you sing_

 _You know we're not so far away  
Get on a boat, get on a train  
And if you ever think you're drowning  
I'll try to slow the rain _

 

“[A Bird's Song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8RSTSKmbpf4)”

Ingrid Michaelson

 

 

It was the sugar biscuits. They were just lying on the table, tucked in a wicker basket with a white kitchen cloth folded around them and draped over the top to keep them warm. Harry's hand ghosted over the fabric, not quite touching. They were still warm. Heat radiated from the little basket, condensing against his palm. Draco had made them less than half an hour ago. And now he was gone. He'd left the jar of currant jam on the table, too; a dirty spoon set atop the lid and a few crumbs on the table's surface. There was a swipe with no crumbs, as though Draco had cleaned up after himself in a hurry and missed half his mess. Harry was tempted to leave it there.

He could eat a biscuit. He could eat all the biscuits, devour every last one... but it wouldn't bring Draco back. And they would probably leave him with a stomach ache if he ate them all at once. So he fixed himself a small biscuit with plenty of jam and made his way into the hall. He'd figure out what to do with the biscuits later. There was always lunch.

He found himself wandering into the front parlor; or, as he thought of it, Draco's music room. Harry's shirt and denims were still on the floor by the piano and the room was stuffy and smelled slightly stale. He couldn't bring himself to air it out just yet; the smell reminded him of Draco, that the blonde had been in this room less than ten hours ago and exactly what they'd done. He went to the piano, licking jam and granules of sugar from his fingers. He played a few notes on the instrument's soprano keys before something caught his eye—a smudge on the smooth, lacquered lid. Several smudges, in fact. He leaned closer. There were fingerprints everywhere; and there in the very center was the precise, greasy imprint of his ass.

Harry checked his watch. The Hogwarts Express didn't leave for another three whole minutes. If he Apparated right now....

No. Hand shaking slightly, he stroked the smudge on the piano where Draco's knees had rested last night, rested between his thighs as they made love on the lid of the piano courtesy of a few rather outstanding Sticking Charm applied to the instrument. He remembered the look on Draco's face, head thrown back, eyes screwed shut and worrying his lower lip, hips pistoning, giving it everything he had. Then he remembered the look on Draco's face not ten minutes ago when he'd mouthed for Harry to go, please go, and not make things any harder than they had to be. Draco wasn't very good with goodbyes. Harry going back now, watching the train pull away, would only make it infinitely harder. For both of them. Harry knew it but the knowledge didn't make his ache to Apparate any less.

Draco brought out his impulsive side. And this very new, tender side. It felt like a part of his chest had been ripped out when Draco got on that train. He kept telling himself it was for the best but a small, nagging, very weak part deep inside still wanted to go with Draco, go to Hogwarts and pretend there was no prophecy, no Dark Lord to defeat and no world to save—only him and Draco, their last year at school, Quidditch and NEWTs and weekends to go drinking in Hogsmeade. It was cruel and unfair that he'd finally found something he wanted to fight for only to have to turn around and fight. Two weeks with Draco hadn't been enough. But what could he do? He'd sent the man to where he'd be safe, sent him off with a couple bags of gold and what felt like half the contents of Harry's wardrobe, half the contents of his heart. Draco would be alright. Harry wondered if he could say the same for himself.

He hauled himself up the stairs to his room, unsure of what to do with himself. He'd thought to get out of the front room with its smell of sweat and passion; if that was his goal, he was headed in the wrong direction. Their bedroom smelled much the same except this room boasted their tangled sheets still damp from that morning and a pair of Draco's pants that had missed the hamper. The white pile of fabric stared up at him from the floorboards, an unspoken challenge. _Are yeh gonna lose it, Potter? Gonna throw yerself on the bed an' have a good cry?_ A good cry-out didn't sound half bad. He was so clearly miserable. He looked again to the bed, reaching out to take Draco's pillow in his hands. It smelled like him. 

A sudden impulse ran through him and he acted without thought.

“Kreacher.”

The house elf appeared with a  _snap_ . 

“You're not to change the bed sheets until I tell you so, understood?” Kreacher nodded, looking between the bed and Harry with a small sneer, eyes narrowing. “I want you to clean the front parlor today and unlock the door to the dining room. Then you're to work on repairing the third floor bathroom until further notice. And you'll fetch Dobby from Hogwarts.” Kreacher looked at him, head quirked, processing that Harry was in fact issuing orders like Draco usually did. “Actually, get Dobby now.”

In less than a minute, Dobby stood before him and Kreacher was skulking down the hall, mumbling about his upstart dirty-blood master under his breath. Ah, normalcy!

“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby squeaked happily. “You is wanting me, most kind and wonderful sir?”

“Er, yeah,” Harry scratched the back of his neck, retrieving a small sack of sickles and galleons from the bedside table. “You remember Draco Malfoy, right?”

Dobby's eyes fixed on the floor. Hands behind his back, he shuffled his feet nervously but nodded.

“It's okay, Dobby,” Harry offered. “He's a friend of mine now. And he's going to be staying in the new Head Boy's quarters by Gryffindor Tower. Since you used to work for the Malfoys, I was hoping you could help me out with... well, a bit of a surprise for him. Why don't you come sit with me?” Harry gestured to the edge of the bed. Dobby's eyes went quite wide.

“Harry Potter is so immeasurably kind! Dobby is always saying so. Inviting Dobby to sit down like a wizard instead of an elf—”

“It's nothing,” Harry shrugged, seating himself on the bed as Dobby clambered up beside him. “I mean, I'm asking you to do extra work. The least I can do is offer you a seat while we talk.”

“Harry Potter is the best of all wizards,” the elf chirped, mostly to himself. He wrung his fingers in his lap before looking up at Harry in that sickeningly adoring way.

“Er, don't mention it,” Harry gulped. “Anyway, you know the sort of things Draco likes, what he used to keep in his rooms at Malfoy Manor. And you can have a look at his room in the castle. I was hoping you could take this,” he handed over the sack, “and maybe make his school room more to his taste. Extra pillows or Quidditch posters or whatever he likes. And better sheets,” Harry added, looking at their crumpled bedding. Draco dove into their bed most nights, sighing as the soft sheets touched his even softer skin. School sheets were a tad less than luxurious. “Don't worry about how much they cost; get whatever the Malfoys would've gotten—better, if you can find it. I want him to be comfortable. I want him to feel like he's at home.” Hogwarts had always been his home; now it could be Draco's, too.

Dobby looked a little worried, holding the sack of gold with both hands.

“The young Mister Malfoy is liking spirits, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby said slowly.

“Oh. Well yeah,” Harry shrugged. “Can you get those?”

“Dobby can, sir,” the elf nodded. “To please Harry Potter, Dobby would— ”

“That's okay,” Harry offered quickly, holding up a hand to quiet the elf. He remembered Dobby bashing a lamp against his head at Privet Drive and wasn't in the mood for a repeat. Or worse. “Just your doing this is taking a huge weight off my mind. He's... he's real important to me.” Suddenly Harry's throat was tight—too tight to go on.  _Gods,_ he chastised himself,  _don't break down in front of the barmy house elf!_

“Mister Harry Potter?” Dobby inched closer, gazing up at him as Harry blinked rapidly and looked away. “Is you being alright, sir?”

Harry tried to answer. All that came out was a soft grunt and a sniff. Dobby gasped, a knobbly hand over his mouth. The sack of sickles and galleons fell to the floor.

“Harry Potter sir is in love!” he squawked. “He is, he is! He loves the Malfoy boy!” This seemed to make Dobby unreasonably happy. Fat tears gathered in his greenish, bulbous eyes.

“You can't tell anyone, Dobby,” Harry warned, voice as constricted as his throat. “It's a secret. He'll be in loads more danger if people find out, do you understand? No one can know!”

“And the young Malfoy returns Harry Potter's feelings?” Dobby pressed, leaning forward with a very wistful look on his face and hands pressed together with hope.

“Yes,” Harry admitted, only slightly embarrassed to be talking about his secret affair and deep feelings with anyone, let alone a house elf. “We're... I don't know exactly. I guess we're seeing each other. He's...” Harry couldn't bring himself to say the word “boyfriend” no matter how hard he tried. “We're together,” he offered lamely.

“Then the young Mister Malfoy is a very smart wizard, that he is, to return the affection of the most great and gracious Harry Potter!” Dobby nodded approvingly, rubbing his hands together in glee. “We will have a very big wedding at Hogwarts and—”

“Wait, what?!”

“A wedding, sir! Harry Potter's wedding!” the elf said as though he were daft instead of the little creature in a tea towel and several knit hats. “The Boy Who Lived is in love! He will marry his love, of course.” Then Dobby's expression fell quite dramatically. Maybe he realized they were both boys? That seemed to have escaped the elf's notice. Then again, Dobby wasn't the most rational magical being Harry had ever encountered since learning he was a wizard six years ago. Dobby's tiny face became stern and he shook a warning finger up at Harry. “Harry Potter  _does_ intend to marry this Malfoy, yes he does,  _doesn't he_ ?” The last two words were practically growled. They weren't much of a question, either—more like a demand.

Harry wasn't sure whether to be frightened or laugh wildly. Draco would jump off the Astronomy tower if he knew his father's barking ex-house elf was guarding his honor.

“Uh, Dobby?” Harry began carefully, gingerly moving the skinny finger out of his face. “I don't think Draco exactly has marriage on his mind right now. His father's going to disown him when he gets out of prison and I'm sure there are a few Death Eaters who'd like to kill him. It's really not a priority. And we're both boys so... is that okay?”

Dobby gave him a pained look before his little chest deflated and he sighed quite morosely, feet swinging off the side of the bed and bumping against the mattress. “Dobby was looking forward to a wedding, he was. But Harry Potter will get married later?”

“Er,” Harry swallowed against his dry mouth. What could he say to that? The tapestry downstairs said he and Draco would end up together. And when he really thought about it, he wasn't at all adverse to the idea of him and Draco together, patching up number twelve and going on dates in London, picking out robes at Madame Malkins or stopping by Flourish and Blotts. It actually sounded rather wonderful; perfect, even. Endless days of Draco's cooking and piano playing, taking him to Quidditch games and discussing the match for days, learning to play the piano and spending evenings reading by the fire. There wasn't anyone he'd rather spend his time with, rather sit around and be lazy with, rather make love to and cuddle up with every night.

“If he wants to, I guess,” Harry offered in a quiet voice. “It's not all up to me.” And wasn't that the story of his life.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

He couldn't stay in the bedroom and Kreacher was cleaning the parlor. It wasn't lunch time yet and he'd put the sugar biscuits in the ice box before they caused him to implode in an absolute mental collapse. He stood in the doorway of the dining room with his hands on his hips, surveying the damage.

The room was a disaster. What had once been an elaborate dining table was in splinters. The largest piece intact was a thickly carved leg and it protruded half-way into a nearby wall. Bits of chairs littered the floor with their fabric and stuffing pulverized. Sections of wall paper were scorched, others ripped right off the walls. There were also holes that poked through to the wooden posts, displaying the house's innards. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the room. Perhaps it had been Walburga Black—no, there wasn't enough dust. It must have been Sirius, furious with Dumbledore for keeping him locked up in his own house. That was the only thing Harry could think of. Sirius must have destroyed the room in a rage. Why hadn't anyone repaired the damage?

A project was a project.

He conjured a few heavy tarps on the entryway floor and a few more in the unused parlor. Anything worth salvaging would go in the entry. Everything else went to the tapestry room to become kindling. He stripped off his shirt, set a Cooling Charm and went to work.

It took him close to five hours to clear the room. He was panting and drenched with sweat by the end. He'd also perfected the charm to remove splinters. And he had fire wood to last several winters. He discovered a few bits and pieces of Black family silver in the rubble; having escaped the paws of Mundungus Fletcher, Harry decided to at least polish them and display them in the kitchen or something where he and his guests could enjoy it. He also found a small room accessible only through the dining room. It held a mostly empty book shelf and two big leather arm chairs, all very dusty. The room had the lingering scent of cigar smoke. A small cupboard in the corner proved his suspicions. It had once been a gentleman's room in which to partake of brandy, cognac and after-dinner cigars. Very old fashioned, very posh. Most of the liquor bottles were still half full or better. He wondered if they were any good. Getting pissed wasn't a good idea in his state but it would be nice to know if he had some stellar brandy bumping about just as it was good to know he had extra towels stored in the linen cupboards. He was getting to know Grimmauld Place. It was his house, after all. He lived there.

Now the dining room was gutted and cleaned. Harry fixed himself a quick lunch as he surveyed the pieces of silver to be polished. A few small candle sticks, two dozen silver chargers and a few ornate serving bowls. It was something to tend to once he wore himself out. The cleaning had left him winded but oddly energized. It took him a moment to figure out why. He and Draco were always having sex—he'd become used to a fair amount of exercise over the course of the day. If he had energy, he might as well keep moving. He cleaned his dishes by hand before heading upstairs and finding a pair of sweat pants, a tshirt and trainers. A jog in Regent's Park would be just the thing. He snagged his hooded nylon jacket on his way out the door. It looked like rain.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** “A Bird's Song” music and lyrics by Ingrid Michaelson, self-released in 2005.


	28. The State of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco settles in at Hogwarts. Once he's is comfortable, a wrench enters the works. Professor McGonagall observes the dynamics of the boys' relationship and finds herself oddly pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Ron being a mighty ginger pillock with Harry away; Draco suffers a slight existential collapse, unnecessary after-fluff to make up for it

 

 

Harry wouldn't give him a drink; he had that entire bottle of rum and he wouldn't give Draco one bloody sip. Draco lunged for him again and again, and every time the raven-haired boy dodged, shedding articles of clothing as he forced Draco to chase him down the halls and stairs of Grimmauld Place. Kreacher wandered by, a candle stick in each hand, glaring daggers at Harry—some things never changed. But Harry was being a bloody prat. Draco wanted a drink and Harry wouldn't give it to him. He discarded his own shirt, working up a sweat pursuing his laughing chosen lover. Draco threatened; he whined and whinged and moaned and threw the occasional hex, all of which had no effect. Vince and Greg stood in the entry way, laughing as Draco wrestled with Harry up on the landing. Why did Harry have to be so stubborn, so _fucking_ difficult? Why couldn't Draco have what he wanted? 

He woke sharply to the pathetic sounds he was making in his sleep, careening dangerously off the edge of the mattress, both hands reaching out into the darkness, fingers outstretched. He only had time to throw his hands down before he fell out of bed, landing hard on his side. He'd almost chased a phantom Harry all the way to a cracked skull.

Draco heaved a mighty, harrumphing sigh, scrounging for his wand case at the side of his bed. A quick Tempus Spell revealed it to be half five—a wholly ridiculous hour to be up as he'd only passed out near two o'clock. The bottle of bourbon still sat on his bedside table along with an open book. 

He had a devil of a head so going back to sleep was right out. Perhaps a visit to the prefects bathrooms and a nice long soak in the tub? The thought was summarily dismissed by the time he woozily sat up. Sitting up had not been a good idea at all. He wouldn't make it down the first flight of stairs without a Hangover Potion; besides, Moaning Myrtle always said what a gossiping slag that mermaid was and he didn't want anyone knowing a thing bout his physical condition. Sure, he was a bit leaner than in years past but not on the wrong side of skinny. It was the Dark Mark on his arm, the scars lacing his body. Then there were the purple bruises mottling his collar bones—beautiful, chosen-mouth-shaped bruises. The ones on his upper arms were yellowish green and shot through with brown, a criss-crossing network, the outlines of strong fingers decorating his pale skin. And the reddish, tooth-shaped scabs around his left nipple—those were the most amazing. Sacred, even. He couldn't have the world knowing about them. He could've spelled the marks away but then he wouldn't flinch every time a person other than Harry went to touch his arm, sneer whenever a hand got too close to his face. Thank the Gods none of the Gryffindors were crazy enough to attempt clapping him on the shoulder. He'd practically dislocated it throwing Harry on top of the piano two nights ago. But it was worth it, the little aches and pains. These minor injuries, cuts and colorful bruises were tangible reminders that he hadn't imagined the last two weeks. It made his toes curl on the cold stone floor, just thinking about those nights in their big, comfortable bed... or afternoon surprises in the hallway... or the time Harry had made him coffee only—

A very long, hot shower would be necessary. Along with the wank of a bloody lifetime. He found himself a quality brand of Hangover Potion in that most merciful medicine cabinet before losing himself under jets of hot water for the better part of an hour, washing leisurely, shaving most meticulously to pass the time. He watched the sun rise before trimming his side burns and styling his hair, brushing his teeth and applying lotion to his face, neck and hands. He packed his school satchel with extra parchment and quills, double checked his textbooks and miniaturized one of Harry's roses so that he could tuck it under his Head Boy badge. Today he wore _I promise to make you smile_. 

At last it was a respectable hour for Draco Malfoy to show his face at breakfast. It was a meal he rarely attended but, as Head Boy, he needed to be there in case students had any problems with their schedules that Professor Firenze was unable to see to or unwilling to be bothered with, the lucky sod. Draco took his private exit and made his way down to the Great Hall, ignoring the confused looks that were shot his way. 

Chatter died down to a whisper when he set foot in the Great Hall, dozens of heads swiveling his way with hands rising like the sun to shield their gossiping mouths. Let them. They had nothing on him. He was striding for the Gryffindor table when a swath of orange and a cackling laugh interrupted his path; Peeves, just the joy of Hogwarts he had the patience for this fine morning. Hand to the wand in his robe pocket, he cast a certain spell the Poltergeist would  _feel_ . It had taken him ages to adapt the hex to work on more than disobedient house elves but he now found it to be the best waste of a summer to date. 

“Did you have something of interest to say, Peeves?” he asked evenly, twisting the hex vindictively. 

“Only...” the Poltergeist gasped, clutching at his pudgy little hips and making it look like a courtly bow. “A good morrow to Ganymede. Where-oh-where is Zeus?” 

“Oh, my little Peevsie Weavsie,” Draco cooed, leaning forward dramatically and pitching his voice low. “Yeh shouldn't a' said tha'.” A final swirl of the spell sent the Poltergeist whirling, rebounding off a nearby window and bouncing out of the hall, holding his rump and yowling in pain. Draco brushed his hair from his temple with a perfectly manicured hand. No one called him a catamite, a boy concubine, purchased from his father by a rich nobleman to be carted around, decorated and fucked and set on display; at least, no one called him a catamite and got away with it. 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Hermione accepted her  _Daily Prophet_ from the delivery owl, feeding the bird a scrap of toast from her breakfast plate as she unfurled the paper and set about scanning the headlines. That story about the Didiers yesterday had her reading with extra care. Perhaps Harry had been right that there was something going on with that family. She of all people had experienced that when it came to Dark wizards and secret plans afoot, no one had a better nose than Harry. There wasn't much about the Didiers in the newspaper today but she scanned every article just the same. Harry was training with the Aurors and might not have an opportunity to read the paper thoroughly. 

Ron elbowed her when Malfoy entered the hall and she gave him a snort of ascent. The best tactic was, of course, to pretend like Malfoy wasn't there; after all, that was what the boy did to everyone else. She still had trouble thinking of Draco Malfoy as an adult, a man capable of making his own decisions and his own way in the world. He still acted like a spoiled brat—except now his protector was Harry Potter instead of his monied, Death Eater father. Most people didn't know how intimately Harry and Malfoy were involved. Malfoy hadn't done anything incriminating yet but Hermione wondered how long the petulant child could keep his smart mouth shut. 

Ron tapped her shoulder and she ignored him until he moved on to whisper to Neville and Seamus. 

“Wanna see something hilarious?” Ron offered the other boys, leaning conspiratorially and waggling his eyebrows. Seamus nodded enthusiastically while Neville shrugged. “Okay, watch this.” Ron puffed his chest with a large breath, watching Malfoy across the room and seeming to time his next words. They were pronounced quite loudly, meant to carry over to Malfoy walking by the foot of the Hufflepuff table. 

“Oi, Harry! You're here early!” 

Malfoy gave a violent start, his head darting around so fast and in every direction that he overbalanced and slammed into the Hufflepuff table, going down hard on his bum. The blonde was on his feet a second later, righting his robes even as a vivid blush bloomed in his pale cheeks. Malfoy's teeth clenched as his crazy-eyed gaze settled on a chortling Ron Weasley. Half the Gryffindors were laughing as well as a few Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws.

“Twitchy little ferret, isn't he?” Ron gasped between giggles, Seamus slapping his arm as he laughed along. “Oh, come on, 'Mione! You have to admit it was pretty fucking funny.”Ginny nodded her agreement from further up the table, her face pink from laughing along with her girlfriends.

Professor Sprout was passing by. She looked between Ron's guffawing and where Malfoy had fallen on his ass, putting two and two together. “Three points from Gryffindor, Mr. Weasley,” she chirped, hands on her hips. 

“Wha' for?!” Ron whined.

“What for?” Professor Sprout parroted, displeasure clearly written on her face. “For nearly giving Mr. Malfoy a heart attack!” She fixed Ron, Seamus and the laughing Gryffindor girls with a stern look before walking off to the staff table.

“If we weren't both prefects I'd be docking points, too,” Hermione sniffed. “That's unacceptable behavior, Ron.”

“You're saying we can't pick on Malfoy?” Ginny spluttered.

“I'm saying it's defeatist to pick on the Head Boy,” Hermione corrected, pitching her voice low so Malfoy wouldn't hear from the seat he'd taken. “It sends the wrong message to the other houses.” Not to mention that what Ron had done to Malfoy was especially cruel.

Malfoy, eves dropping from further down the table, discretely flipped Ron the bird.

“Damn it,” Ron growled, chewing his bottom lip. “You don't think he'd tell Harry?” 

Hermione shrugged, sipping her tea before turning a page in her newspaper. “How should I know? Eat your breakfast and leave Malfoy alone. What's he done to you recently?”

“I've never seen the younger years more orderly,” Neville put in in the blonde's defense. “I think Malfoy scared the right piss out of them last night. Prefect duties are looking pretty easy with him as Head Boy. He'll do all the intimidation for us.”

Ron, very begrudgingly, had to agree.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco reached for the pumpkin juice, knowing it to be Harry's favorite. He drew his hand back with a sharp intake of breath—Harry's little promise ring had shocked him! His left hand still smarting, he went for the pitcher with his other hand. Again, the ring sent a bolt of pain up his arm, growing more and more intense the closer his hand got to the pitcher. _Alright, I get it,_ he thought. _Time to make an ass of myself._

“I think there's something wrong with the pumpkin juice,” he announced. Quite a few people looked at him. Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley turned around in their seats the next table over and Longbottom gazed curiously down the length of the table. “Anyone feeling off?” 

A mousy-haired girl raised her hand, her head on the table and pillowed in her arms. 

“Natalie, what's wrong?” another girl asked, laying a comforting hand on the brunette's back. 

“I feel so tired,” the girl said in a weak whisper. 

“I'm awful drowsy,” said Peakes, the broad-chested Gryffindor Beater with a head of blonde curls.

“Me too,” added Coote, the other Beater. The pair of them looked as though they could hardly keep their eyes open. 

“ _Putain de bordel de merde,_ ” Draco muttered to himself. “Then there's something in the juice. No one drink the bloody juice!” he called down the table. A few students echoed the alarm. Granger stood and moved toward Draco's end of the table, worry etched in her features. 

“You,” Draco pointed to Demelza Robins, “get Professor Slughorn. Ask him to meet us in his office. Go!” The girl was up and off in a flash, dashing for the staff table. 

“Malfoy, what's going on?” Granger asked, standing behind him as he directed students to remain calm and not to touch any of their food for now. 

“Pumpkin juice, I think,” he replied. He hovered his left hand over a plate of toast before picking up a piece—nothing. He reached for a tray of bangers. Nothing happened when he touched the serving tongs. When he tried to lift Natalie's glass from across the table, his hand gave such a jolt that he cried out, pulling it back to his chest. 

“Just the juice?” Granger confirmed. He nodded, rising. 

“That one there,” he pointed. “Let's get it to Slughorn's office, let him have a look at it.” 

Granger stared at him a moment, confused. Draco rolled his eyes, still shaking the lingering ache from his hand. 

“I can't touch it, Granger. You'll have to carry it.”

“I never thought being Head Girl would provide this level of excitement,” the witch said under her breath, huffing as she leaned over the table to retrieve the pitcher. A few students held their breath as Granger lifted the pitcher and took off with it, Draco in her wake. They made their way to the dungeons, finding Professor Slughorn's rotund form waiting at the open door to his office, worrying a sleeve of his robe in pudgy fingers. 

“Is that it?” he called as Granger drew near. “Bring it here, then. Let us have a look-see.” He indicated a work table set up inside the room. Granger placed the ceramic pitcher on the table, backing away quickly as though glad to be rid of it. 

Professor Slughorn set to work, extracting a bit of the juice into several vials and testing each with a bit of potion or, in one case, a bezoar. The juice in the vial didn't react, so at least it wasn't poison. Slughorn's tests went on for another twenty minutes before he reached a conclusion. 

“Veritaserum,” he announced. “And Lettlock berries. An unusual combination—I confess I'd never thought of it but the sedative effects might work in a questioner's favor....” the man mused. 

“Lettlock berries are fairly common but Veritaserum is quite difficult to brew and very expensive to buy,” Granger said. “Whoever did this, they weren't messing around.” 

“Whoever did this doesn't know us very well,” Draco sighed. Granger poked him in the sore shoulder until he elaborated. “Fine! We both have a tremendous tolerance for Lettlock berries. I'll bet that entire pitcher wouldn't be enough to knock us out.” 

“If I might ask,” Slughorn spoke over his shoulder as he cleaned his work station. “How did you know the pumpkin juice had been tampered with? Veritaserum is quite undetectable. Was it the Lettlock, then?”

“Uh, no,” Draco said slowly. He wasn't about to tell a Professor that his sense of smell and taste were still off due to a night of depressive binge drinking. He held up his left hand, instead, showing the black stone ring on his index finger. “It was this, actually. A gift from Harry.” Shit, the Christian name was out of his mouth before he could stop himself. Slughorn turned, brushing his hands off on his voluminous robes as he regarded the ring on Draco's finger. 

“You mean Harry Potter?” 

“Yes,” Draco was forced to admit. “I believe he's placed quite a few protective charms on the thing, though he wouldn't say which ones.” 

Granger gave a little snort—whether because she didn't believe Draco or because that kind of abject stubbornness was a trademark of The Boy Who Lived, Draco couldn't tell. 

“That boy's a very bright wizard,” Slughorn replied amiably. “Going to make even more of a name for himself, you mark my words! I see great things happening for him.” The man was clearly thinking of Harry as another shiny object to add to his garish collection. A retort came to Draco's lips before he could stop himself. 

“I'm not so sure, Professor,” he drawled with the tiniest of shrugs. “Harry's shy. He likes the quiet. An' his privacy, too. I think after all this business with the Dark Lord is over, he'd be just as happy ter go off somewhere in the country an' be left alone.” 

“What makes you say that, my boy?” 

“He told me,” Draco said dismissively, turning slightly away to avoid the man's gaze. 

“He confides in you?” Slughorn questioned. Draco didn't answer, eyes on the open doorway. “I've read the papers but something tells me I'm missing something. Am I right, Miss Granger?” Slughorn's gaze rounded on the witch, his hands on his hips. She cracked immediately. 

“He and Harry are together,” she blurted. 

“Granger!” Oh, he could have hit her. It was a miracle he restrained himself or he'd have detention for weeks. “What part of the phrase 'dangerous secret' do you not understand?” 

“I beg your pardon?” Slughorn interjected. Granger flushed, folding her arms across her chest and leaving the situation to Draco. 

“Potter and I are together,” Draco sighed, carding a hand through his hair with his eyes fixed on the Professor's knees. “Harry... he's my boyfriend.” 

Sweet Salazar, why was that so hard to say? It was a very silly word, “boyfriend.” It didn't say a thing about what was between them, everything they'd gone through and how both of them were so utterly changed by it. How his heart had stopped in his throat when Weasley shouted Harry's name—his heart was in his throat whenever he thought of that stupid prat with his thatch of unruly hair and fiery green eyes, thick skin and strong hands and secretive, devious, churning mind. _He saved me from torture and certain death; now I bone his brains out_. The thought was silly. As though he could pay back a life debt with sex, no matter how mind-alteringly good! And Harry would rescue just about anyone, he cared that much. He was just that type of person. He wouldn't want repayment for something like that. He didn't want praise or adoration or glory—doing the right thing just kept Harry going, put that cheeky, dimpled grin on his face and made his eyes go all sexy and far-away. He was sweet. He cared with his whole being when Draco couldn't care at all. That was just who Harry was. 

“Oh!” Professor Slughorn let out a puff of air, taking a step back as his head shook ever so slightly, processing this piece of rather stunning information. 

“Of course we'd appreciate your discretion, Professor,” Draco offered with a little wave demonstrating an understanding between them. Slughorn's eyes followed the ring on his hand, brows furrowed a bit. Yes, the ring was on his index finger—though Harry was _that_ kind of sentimental prat and never hesitated to mark Draco as his property in equally physical ways. That evidence remained secure beneath his robes. “Headmistress McGonagall is aware of our...” Arrangement? Predicament? Oh, hell! “Relationship. My re-sorting into Gryffindor has eased the situation but, with the threat of the Dark Lord, Harry felt we'd both be safest keeping our involvement a secret. If word got out, things could become quite dangerous for Harry. And for Hogwarts.” 

“Certainly,” the professor replied with a steady, knowing nod. “Yes, certainly.” Slughorn bumbled about, retrieving an envelope from a stack of parchment on his desk. It looked suspiciously like an invitation. “I'm having a dinner next Thursday, seven thirty. Nothing special, of course, just a few students joining me in my private quarters. I'd be delighted if you could attend, Mr. Malfoy.” 

“I would be delighted,” Draco simpered, an ace up his sleeve. “Unfortunately, I'll be assisting Professor Flitwick's choir rehearsal that evening,” Draco said smoothly, even managing a convincingly put-out expression for the professor's benefit. “But I'm honored by the invitation just the same. Thank you for thinking of me.” _Because you never thought of me before_ , Draco added mentally. Slughorn only invited him because of what—or, rather, _who_ —he put in his mouth. It was a low compliment.

Draco dismissed himself with a quick bow, Granger trailing him out the door and into the corridor.

“You got off lucky, Malfoy,” Granger said with a put-upon sigh. 

“Lucky?” Draco drawled. “Hardly. Have you heard school choir recently?” 

“Come to think of it, no. I haven't,” the witch mused, falling into step beside him on the trek back to the Great Hall.

“And there's good reason for it. Auriculo Absum, Granger. A slight but important step away from Auriculo Amittö _._ You may need it.” Draco increased their pace. He hadn't eaten a thing and his stomach was growling. 

“I don't know either of those charms,” Granger admitted, lengthening her strides to keep up with him. She was half a head taller but Draco still had longer legs. 

“Auriculo Amittö is a hex, actually,” Draco explained in a bored tone. “Makes a person's ears vanish. Permanently. Auriculo Absumis a variant that serves as an earplug spell, muffling one's hearing without the ears actually disappearing. The counter-curse is Auriculo Refero.” 

“Quite useful,” Granger replied. “Thanks, Malfoy. Sometimes I wonder why we don't learn more practical spells. An Earplug Charm would be tremendously useful.” 

“Yes, well,” Draco sighed. “Perhaps you should've gone to Durmstrang.” 

Granger stopped, staring at his robed back as he continued up the dungeon staircase and into the Entrance Hall. 

“Malfoy!” she shouted. “Did you just teach me Dark Arts?!”

Draco snorted. “Neither here nor there, Granger,” he called over his shoulder. “Though breakfast is straight ahead. Are you coming or not?” 

 

 

Draco conducted a very interesting conversation with Peeves during his free period. He cornered the Poltergeist in his favorite haunt, the Trophy Room on the third floor, to see how much Peeves actually knew. Those cryptic remarks from breakfast took on a new meaning, Ganymede having been Zeus' pederastic lover who served as wine bearer to the gods. 

Peeves asserted that his remarks were meant only as a warning about the pumpkin juice. Peeves claimed to have seen a student at the entrance to the kitchen that morning, talking with the house elves. He couldn't recall who the student was, even under Draco's rather creative means of questioning. Peeves either wasn't human enough, alive enough or cognizant enough for Legilimens, Draco realized to his intense disappointment. The information was still useful and so he dashed off a report to Professor McGonagall with the details of the drugging incident at breakfast along with Peeves' ramblings. Her reply was for Draco and his prefects to remain on-guard as she and the staff investigated the matter further. 

Natalie McDonald, Ritchie Coote and Jimmy Peakes were released from the Hospital Wing after a few hours of observation and their juice-induced state of uncomfortable truthfulness caused quite the stir over lunch. McDonald's crush on Harry Potter was no longer a secret, while Peakes asked a pretty blonde third year girl on a date next Hogsmede weekend. It was all so Gryffindor, Draco thought he might lose his lunch and promptly excused himself, chuckling all the way back to his quarters.

Once he had his schedule memorized, Draco readily fell into the mind-bending lull of boredom that was life at Hogwarts. It was remarkably easy to attend classes as though the summer—as though all of sixth year—simply hadn't happened. NEWT classes were smaller and contained students from all four houses. He could easily sit with a Ravenclaw. They were the best of the lot, treating him exactly as they had before. The Ravenclaws were polite but reserved, distant. He often sat beside Terry Boot or Anthony Goldstein, no more than a request to borrow a quill passing between them during the intensive, hour or longer lectures. This was fine by Draco. He'd survived on less socialization last year. He found he could bear the solitude with the refuge of his private quarters and the knowledge that Harry would arrive next week. 

The staring, pointing and whispering still got to him, though he never let it show. It must have been like this for Harry when he first started school, again with the Chamber of Secrets second year and once more during the Triwizard Tournament. Draco had no idea how Harry ever put up with it. Draco supposed half the appeal was his having been ripped from Slytherin, the house which represented everything he stood for as a person, and crammed in Gryffindor—which made about as much sense as the circulating rumor that he was dating some Hufflepuff girl named Laura Madley. There was gossip that he'd faked having the Dark Mark, faked being a Death Eater—the logical Ravenclaws quickly quelled this one with the simple fact that the Ministry of Magic wouldn't be fooled by anything less than a genuine Death Eater turn-coat. Still, he put effort into insuring that his left arm remained covered at all times. Just because he had the Dark Mark didn't give anyone the right to see it.

The one rumor that still made him chuckle proposed that he was not Draco Malfoy at all but in fact the one and only Harry Potter, Wonder Boy himself under glamor spells or perhaps even Polyjuice Potion, returned to Hogwarts for some secret and undoubtedly noble purpose. A group of first years from every house had approached him Saturday afternoon on the grounds demanding to know if it was true. He flattened his shirt collar, clearing his throat rather grandly before revealing the best Harry Potter impersonation on Slytherin record. 

“I guess you've found me out, then,” he spoke in quite a fair impression of his lover. Two nearby Ravenclaws did double-takes. “I _am_ Harry Potter. Can I trust you all to keep my secret?” 

The group broke out in peals of laughter, falling on each other as they dissolved in fits of giggles and glee. “You really are Harry Potter!” a few exclaimed. 

“He's not Harry Potter,” a spirited little voice piped up. Draco looked about, connecting the voice to the dark head of tiny lad Kieran Gweir hovering off to his right. “You're just mates, like it said in _The Prophet_. Right, Malfoy?” 

Draco tried not to smile; a slight smirk snicked out just the same. “Alright, so I'm not Harry Potter,” he readily admitted. He pitched his voice a few shades deeper, adding a tell-tale blustery growl. “That's because I am Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic, at your service.” He made a grand bow. The kids laughed just as hard at this impression as they had at the last. 

“No?” he asked in the Minister's voice. A great chorus went up, asking if he could do this politician or that Quidditch player. He cleared his throat noisily, pinching his throat a bit right above his Adam's apple—the voice wouldn't come out high or nasal enough otherwise. He pitched his airflow up through the soft palate, affecting a familiar authoritative tone. “Then perhaps I am Minerva McGonagall, about to give you all detention this instant!” 

The students only giggled harder. A clump of third years joined in, pausing on their way back to the castle to listen. He even detected heartfelt snickers from a pair of Gryffindor girls walking by, arm in arm. Yes, his McGonagall was pretty damn good.

“Still don't believe me? Perhaps I'm...” he cast about for another easily recognizable voice he could impersonate for his young audience. He'd done this as a way to pass the time in Slytherin commons—snide parodies and prancing, overblown satires of so many people in his life! If he heard a person's voice enough, he could manage at least a passable imitation. If he practiced, he could often get it spot-on. He could do his parents, every Slytherin in his year, the Golden Trio and most of the Hogwarts professors—but his specialty was Severus Snape. This crowd of first years wouldn't recognize the voice, so he did another that would hopefully bring back fonder memories for the older students lounging nearby. “Albus Percival Wolfric Brian Dumbledore!” 

A great cheer went up. He basked in it—his Dumbledore truly was outstanding. The man had annoyed Draco so much in life, his had been the first voice perfected back in first year. 

“And now if you'll all excuse me,” he continued in the half-brained barmy little sing song he always heard when the old Headmaster opened his gob, “I must be off! Have a sitting for a new Chocolate Frog Card, you see, and they always make my nose look too pointy. Mustn't keep the photographers waiting!” he called over the fuss, Harry's Firebolt clutched in his left hand. He'd intended to go for a practice flight to stretch his muscles and perhaps start building back all he'd lost during the trials of the last year. That was before he was mobbed by the outrageous eleven year olds and their silly rumors. Now he just wanted to escape and Quidditch was an afterthought. With exaggerated groans, the children consented to release him. He swung the tail of his broom at a few rumps which got them moving along. 

“Is that really what Harry Potter sounds like?” Gweir asked, following Draco toward the pitch. “I've never met him, so I wouldn't know.”

“Most people think so,” Draco shrugged. 

“What do you mean?” Gweir prodded. 

Draco let out a groan. He was tempted to tell the raven-haired first year to piss off... but he looked so much like Harry, Draco found it literally impossible to back-sass. He'd have to look into why that was so. Talking back to Harry had been an excellent way to pass a summer! He couldn't lose that edge just because the sod gave him sultry savior eyes that made his knees weak. Even this mini-Harry put the brakes on his snide come-backs, imbuing him with an odd sense of patience. He'd really have to get that checked out.

“Harry doesn't always speak the same way, I suppose,” Draco said after a contemplative moment. “He's different in public than amongst friends. What I did back there—tha' was his public voice. Harry's a bit of an oaf when others are around. He gets nervous an' stupid things fly outta his mouth.” 

“Oh,” Gweir replied. “I know what that feels like. I say stupid things in front of my grandmother. She scares me, though. She yells a lot.” 

“I'm sure she's a very nice woman,” Draco said neutrally, approaching the pitch. Was he going to have to take to the air to be rid of his little shadow, this cloying reminder of his _poilu_?

The boy shrugged, trudging along. “I dunno. I've only met her a couple of times. Holidays.” 

“Had yer flying lesson from Madame Hooch yet?” Draco asked, changing the subject as he gestured skyward with his broom handle. 

“No. Not 'til next week,” the boy whined sadly. “I don't see what the big deal is, though. I'd say most of us have at least been on a broom before!” 

“It's for the students who grew up with non-magical families,” Draco explained, walking through the tunnel-like archway that led directly onto the grassy field. “They need ter be exposed ta flyin' if they're gonna fit in.”

“That makes sense,” Gweir said, hands in his pockets as he trailed along at Draco's side. “But muggle-borns can't really be as good at Quidditch as people from wizarding families, can they? Hassan Mostafa says that a player has to train his entire life, even from infancy, in order to be truly great.” 

“Mostafa's full a' shit,” Draco said plainly, setting his broom to hover beside him as he gave the first year boy a single raised brow. “I've been on a broom since I was three. Then Harry Potter walked in havin' used a broom ter sweep the ruddy floor his first eleven years o' life an' I got my arse handed ter me. Epically—royally handed ter me, kid,” he leaned, catching the boys gaze until he nodded, grasping just how annoying that defeat had been six years ago. “Flyin' can be an innate talent, something tha's in ya from yer parents an' grandparents, woven inta yer magic—the same way Longbottom missed the gift a' Potions.” 

Determined to destroy the castle, the bumbling fool had taken up remedial potions this term. True to form, he managed to smoke out half the dungeons the first week of term. And it had been a partial week: Longbottom was that hopeless. Draco didn't know why the twit even bothered at this point. 

“It helps if ya start early, it really does. But there will always be someone better than you, someone who makes wha' ya strive for seem effortless.” His voice went rougher. “Ya jus' have ter practice tha' much harder.” 

“Is that why you're out here the first weekend of term? To beat Harry Potter?”

“Or maybe I fancied gettin' away from nosy gits like you, eh?” Draco shot back, mounting his broom with a smile. Gweir took a step back, giving him room to take off. “Sit in the stands if ya like,” Draco offered. “Take notes.” 

Laughing like the kid that he was, Gweir took off, tearing up the stairs leading to the stands and then running along the benches, pacing Draco as he took a warm-up lap. If he threw in a few unnecessary swoops and dives, it was only because it set his captive audience to squealing and clapping so loud he could probably be heard on the other side of the grounds.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Draco slammed the door to his room with a mighty bang. It felt so good, he did it again. 

There was a woman in the painting on the wall beside his bed. When he slammed the door, the baby in her arms awoke and began bawling, assaulting his ears. 

“Fuuuuuuck!” Draco screamed, reaching in his school satchel for a text book to chuck at the painting. The woman and her baby were away by the time his book hit the canvas. He pulled another book and threw it, too. And then another. When he was out of NEWT books, he realized there was something in his room that shouldn't be. A large, suspiciously piano-shaped something. 

He yanked at the cloth covering it. Sure enough, it was the trunk piano from Grimmauld Place, already set up in his room. An armchair had been moved over by the window to accommodate the parlor grand, two meters long and a meter and a half across. What it was doing here bewildered him, his anger simmering under the cold wave of discombobulation. Draco did not like surprises; he hated feeling out of control, out of the loop. And this had him gaping like a slack-jawed buffoon, his lack of control so overwhelming it was palpable. He fucking tasted confusion.

Alright, there was a bit of sealed parchment bundled up in the scraggly cloth he'd tossed. He pulled the paper free, immediately recognizing the unruly handwriting dashed across it. 

Harry. It was always Harry these days. As he read the note, he felt the heat pooling in his stomach. It came up his chest in an angry wave like bile, nipping and burning at the back of his throat, begging for escape. 

“You fucking piece of _shit!_ ” Draco shouted to no one, the letter crumpling as he dropped fists to his sides, raging at the walls even as the sound of his own voice bounced back at him, harsh and ringing. “If I ever see you again I'm going to kill you my damn self—fuck the Dark Lord, _I'm_ killing you, Potter! You self-absorbed, weakling, cowardly,” he gasped for breath, raging, “can't tell me to my face _bastard_ son of a whore! End of the month my sweet miserable arse! Just say it! Tell me you're never coming back and get it over with! _I hate you!_ ” 

He threw the crumpled, wadded up letter across the room, letting it slice through his words which hung curdled in the air. He gave a scream of unadulterated rage, his whole body shaking. 

There was a knock at the door. 

Fuck, Granger. He'd forgotten she also had the hour after lunch free on Tuesdays and Thursdays. It was Thursday and there she was. Harry was supposed to be here tomorrow and now he wouldn't be. Draco had become unhinged and Granger heard the entire thing. Hell—if he was going to be perfectly honest, anyone in the seventh floor corridors this side of the castle probably heard him! He turned and opened the door to see her pinched, anxious face framed in bushy brown hair held back with a length of gold ribbon. Behind her, the fountain trickled placidly.

“Malfoy, is everything alright?” 

“He sent me the piano,” Draco spat, fingers clenched around the wood of the door. “As an apology. He won't be here until the end of the month.” 

“Oh,” Granger started. Then she peeked over his shoulder, getting her first glance at Draco Malfoy's bedroom. No one was invited into his private chambers with the exception of Headmistress McGonagall last week. That seemed like a long time ago now. “Your room is rather lovely, Malfoy, with the piano and everything matching. And are those roses? From Harry?” 

“Go fuck yourself, Mudblood,” he hissed, slamming the door in her quickly contorting face and locking it with a charm she'd never be able to disable unless her name was Bellatrix Lestrange and she, too, wanted him dead. 

Slowly, he sunk to the floor, collapsing somewhere between the door and the piano with a muffled, desolate “oouf.” Harry wouldn't be here until the end of September, possibly early October if things continued to go well. And Draco was _so_ happy that things were going well for dearest Golden Boy, that everything was working out for him while Draco's life was becoming shit, worse than shit, unbearable with the whispering and the rumors and now the pointing and the outright, utterly inappropriate questions. They wouldn't be doing this if he was still in Slytherin. And he knew it to his bones, to his seething, calculating core. And he blamed Harry for all this mess because it had to be somebody's bloody fault and it sure as fuck wasn't his. 

“Malfoy,” Granger's voice came sickly sweet through the cracks in the door. “If this is about that song....” 

Oh, the song. He'd completely forgotten about that waste of magical spark that went by the name of Peeves the Poltergeist. He'd attended his morning classes with the little menace in tow, throwing things at him only to bounce off the impregnable Repelling Charm he'd erected. But it wasn't the bits of parchment, broken quills and other miscellaneous garbage aimed at his person which had gotten to him. No, it was a new little tune Peeves had invented just for him. He had a feeling it would become the next “Oh Potter, You Rotter” which had worked its way to something like an astonishing forty three verses back in second year. Students were humming it in the corridors by lunch, sheets of parchment with lyrics making their way round the castle so that when Peeves arrived to serenade Draco as he marched with his head held high back to Gryffindor Tower, everyone he passed in every hallway was singing along. At least it felt like they were all singing along—and dreadfully off key, at that. 

“It's your song, Malfoy!” Weaslette had crowed over the noise of her girlfriends clapping along to the jaunty tune. The Dragon Song. Dear sweet and merciful Gods, he could still hear it in his head. He closed his eyes with a moan, resting his cheek against the cool stone floor as the waves of humiliation and horror washed over him. 

 

_Oh, he tried to kill the Headmaster_

_on the pitch there's no wizard faster_

_Called so by his mum_

_when he sucked on his thumb_

_He's the Dragon! And here he comes!_

 

_Out of the dungeons, sour_

_he ascends to Gryffindor Tower_

_With n'arry a hastle_

_He'll rule this fine castle_

_The Dragon—he comes, he comes!_

 

_The Dragon has still got some fight_

— _heard he bit his rescuing knight!_

_Oh, he'll lop of your head_

_until you are dead!_

_The Dragon, The Dragon! He comes!_

 

_In the lap of luxury he was born,_

_Now from true love, he's torn!_

_Shall we see him wed?_

_Or just taken to bed?_

_The Dragon comes, he comes!_

 

The fourth verse had developed between his second class of the day and lunch. He knew exactly who he had to thank for feeding Peeves such sensitive information. There were a handful of people who knew about his relationship status—let alone the tapestry at Grimmauld Place that all but screamed Wonder Boy's valiant intentions—and only one of whom would be willing to blow his cover, willing to destroy his semblance of peace and Harry's shot at relative safety all for a stupid schoolyard prank. _Auriculo Absum,_ the earplug spell, didn't even help because he could read the words on countless lips as he made his way through the corridors, Peeves proceeding him like a conductor of a pantomime band or the grand marshal of their twisted, two-man parade. He could hear the voices even louder in the silence of his mind. Nothing was safe—not his rooms and not silence and not Harry. They were all going to be found out and doomed. He looked at the legs of the piano past the heavy folds of the draping cloth, gathering up a corner and pillowing the coarse material under his head. The cold of the stone floor was seeping into him through his robes, making him content to lie there and become as stiff and unyielding as the stone. He looked at his beloved piano at which he'd spent so many peaceful, daringly happy hours that summer, Harry seated beside him and doing his bleeding-Gryffindor-heart best to let his blunt fingers dance over the keys as Draco's did. He'd fumbled and futched his way along, smiling so warmly at Draco the entire time instead of looking at the even landscape of black and ivory where his eyes belonged. 

He was such a sweet man. And he was going to die. They were all going to die. Slowly and painfully. So what did it matter if Peeves and Ginny Weasley were outing them—whatever they were? What did it matter that Weasley and Granger and even the heart-breakingly sly and effervescent Kieran Gweir were all going to die horrible deaths at the willing hands of his father, his aunt and uncle, his Lord whom he'd served and the man who'd been willing to torture him beyond the natural limit of his life, too? What did it fucking matter? If there was no Harry, there was no hope. Draco knew why they followed him now. It wasn't because they thought he would succeed. No, it was because they knew he would fail but needed to follow him anyway, chose to believe in him after everything was lost. Maybe Draco only felt it stronger because he was sleeping with the handsome walking tombstone. But he felt it now. Harry was goodness and kindness and love. And even when you'd never had a single one of those things in your life, you just had to believe that they existed somewhere. That out there in the vastness of the cosmos, there was something better. Maybe you'd never get it; maybe your children would never get it and your grandchildren would only dream of it, but the fact that it was out there was enough. It was like music from another room; just because you'd never play it, never take it as your own didn't make it any less real. 

Okay. He was a convert. He believed in Harry Potter. 

He was humming the song without a name. Humming and curled up in a little ball on his bedroom floor in the middle of the day, rocking slowly and clutching with tension-filled fingers, one hand holding the rough cloth to his face and the other coiled around his badge and the rose he wore today, _I promise to shag you into the floorboards one day_. Well, he was fucked and a right blubbering mess on the floor and it was all Harry's fault—promise kept, darling. Good job.

“Malfoy, if you're having some sort of mental collapse,” Granger called through the cracks in the door, all feminine sweetness. He wasn't having any of it.

“Don't pretend to care, Granger. It doesn't suit you.” 

“Over the summer Harry had reason to suspect you were suicidal,” the witch pronounced, her face likely pressed against the door judging by the muffled quality of her voice. “If you're having thoughts about hurting yourself it is my duty not only as Head Girl but as a human being to—” 

“Fucking hell, woman!” Draco shouted, casting the coarse fabric aside and flopping onto his back. “I'm not going to kill myself! I wouldn't be able to kill _him_. Counterproductive is what tha' would be. Logic, woman—try it some time. Not even gonna think a' leavin' this earth til I have my hands wrapped 'round his worthless throat, squeezin' the bloody pulsing life out of 'em.” 

“Alright, Malfoy,” Granger said in a warning tone. “I'm taking you on your word, here.” 

“Will yeh leave me alone or do I have ter start playin' tha' jazz opera the Chosen Bitch is so fond of?” Draco snapped. He heard muttered oaths before the witch's door clicked shut at the other side of the fountained foyer. 

At last he was a little more alone. And he had at least an hour until he was due for his next class. He would be assisting in Professor Flitwick's Muggle Music Studies course. He dragged himself to his piano bench, tugging the crumple of robes out from under his bum as he sat and cracked his knuckles, wiping briefly at his nose. He might as well warm up.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Minerva massaged her temples gently, looking to the kind face in the green flames of her fireplace. For such a good-natured young man he was infinitely stubborn. He was beginning to try her patience.

“I really think a leave of absence is best, Professor,” Potter repeated. “The Ministry has actually been helpful—and that's a first. They want to see Voldemort finished and they're willing to try just about anything. I may not even need the whole year to do what I need to.”

Minerva heaved a sigh. At least the boy wasn't withdrawing from school completely, as she'd feared. Order members had been in and out of Grimmauld Place these last three weeks, training the boy in Merlin only knew what—whatever they thought necessary before he went out into the field at their sides. She still felt this was all too much to be asking of a seventeen year old but Potter was an adult, legally, and nothing if not determined to throw himself into the fray. The least she could do was provide him with whatever instruction he saw fit.

“When do you expect to return to Hogwarts?” she asked, touching the side of her head where a migraine was swiftly blooming. 

“I'm not sure,” Potter gave an apologetic shrug. “There's a lot going on at the moment. If I had to guess, maybe in a week or two. But I can't give you any kind of regularity. I'm sorry,” the boy offered, his sincerity apparent by his expression and tone. “I know I'm not making things easy on your end.” 

“I understand. I'll have a suitable room in the guest quarters held for you.” 

“Oh, there's no need. I'll just stay with Draco.” 

“Potter, you know I cannot condone—”

“Headmistress?” he interrupted, voice quiet and firm. “Tough shit. He won't stand for my sleeping anywhere else—and I fear his wrath far more than yours. Why not turn a blind eye and let it be one less thing on your over-full plate?” 

“Sometimes I think you should've been in Slytherin,” she muttered, more than the heat of the fire on her face. When had Potter become so commanding, so suave? This was a very new side to the young wizard; a supremely disarming side, at that.

“Speaking of Draco,” Potter went on as though she hadn't spoken, “I wanted to recommend him for Quidditch captain in my place. He's the best-qualified in the house. It could also be a public vote of confidence from me but also from you and the rest of the staff. And I'm sure his ego could use it.” 

Silently, Minerva thought the blonde's ego was the last thing Potter should be concerned about. The balloon of hedonism and hubris surrounding the boy had never been bigger, by her estimation. It was a marvel he could fit his swollen head through single doorways.

“I'll pass your recommendation on to Professor Firenze.” 

“Thanks,” said Potter with a grin. “I do appreciate your looking out for him. I know he's a handful.” 

“Potter, you have no idea,” she rolled her eyes, checking the clock on the mantlepiece. Any second now. There—a jangling sound alerted her to the presence of a student on the staircase leading up to her office. “But while I have you here, there was one additional matter I ventured you would wish to discuss....” She stalled until a platinum blonde head poked around the door to her office. She waved the Head Boy in bruskly, gesturing that he should take her place by the fire. She slipped back to her desk to observe. 

Malfoy rushed to the fireplace, falling immediately to his knees and leaning as close to the flames as he could manage. 

“Draco!” Potter shouted. 

“Harry!” Malfoy said softly, happily. “It's too good ta hear yer voice, _mon ange_.”

Minerva observed them together. With the way Malfoy had been strutting around the castle, all bluster and charm, she'd expected this sexual relationship of theirs to be as juvenile as their social relationship had been while at Hogwarts. Instead, they were mature, affectionate; loving, even. Their soft expressions reminded her of newlyweds. It was very clear they missed each other, hated being apart. Perhaps Malfoy's confidence and bluster had been an act; if so, she'd certainly been fooled. She sat stunned. Both had grown into men beneath her nose. Their caring, easy banter hid the intense story passing between their fixed gazes. They looked only at one another, seeing nothing but the other.

She tuned back in to their conversation. Potter has informed Malfoy about his decision regarding Quidditch captaincy and they moved to discussing members of the house.

“How's Ron holding up?” Potter asked. Malfoy's shoulders stiffened. 

“How would I know?” Malfoy scoffed, snipping, “He barely asks me to pass the pumpkin juice.” 

“Draco, is he dealing with it?” Potter insisted. The firmness of his tone put her in mind of a patient, practiced father speaking with his difficult child. She found the characterization fit them both eerily well. Potter held out, silent and waiting, until Malfoy cobbled together an acceptable answer.

“He's still angry. But he misses ya,” Malfoy replied, looking away in embarrassment at the way he was being treated. Minerva suspected the blonde welcomed a level-headed authority figure after the bombast, occasionally cruel man he had for a father.

Potter nodded his understanding. “How about you, love? How are you holding up?” 

“He's still angry,” Malfoy repeated, “but he misses ya.” 

Potter laughed before inquiring about Percy Weasley, who had taken over as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts courtesy of the Ministry of Magic, of course, when not a soul—witch, wizard or otherwise—would take the cursed position.

“Oh, he's quite unbearable! Gryffindor's last _true_ Head Boy, as he reminds me daily!” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “He's tolerable as a professor, I suppose. The younger ones seem ter like 'em well enough, no complaints, so I can't fault him. But jus' the same... he's not as good a' teacher as the great Harry Potter.” 

Minerva suspected that phrase had some hidden meaning for them. Both boys blushed the minute it was said.

“What's this concern about the younger ones?” Potter asked, redirecting the conversation.

Malfoy explained that the younger Gryffindors were restless, especially upset by Potter's continued absence. Malfoy expressed his frustration, not knowing what to do or say to make them feel safe. 

“What was it ya used ta do?” the blonde questioned, leaning on one arm, free hand toying with the edge of the hearth rug. She never thought she'd see the day a Malfoy looked at home on the floor.

“Dunno. I hardly ever talked to them. Well, maybe the Creevey brothers, but only because Colin followed me around all the time wanting to take my picture.”

“Tha's a huge help, Scar Head.” 

“I'm sorry,” Potter offered up in honesty.

“It's fine, hun,” Malfoy shrugged off his concern. “I'll think a' somethin'.” 

Minerva was forced to interrupt. It was nearly curfew and Malfoy needed to return to his lavishly appointed suite.

She watched as Potter kissed his fingertips, ready to blow a kiss at the Head Boy in parting. 

Quickly, Malfoy cast a charm so the flames won't burn him. Sticking his face directly into the fire, he kissed Potter's fiery image. Minerva couldn't help shaking her head as she bid a blushing Draco Malfoy good night. Potter had achieved another miracle, and this was a first—melting a few too many years worth of ice which had encased young Malfoy's heart. Perhaps the future wasn't so dismal, after all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translation of Malfoy's French**  
>  _putain de bordel de merde_ – (vulgar) roughly "holy fucking shit" or "God damn it"


	29. Beretta: Snakes & Ladders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry discovers many secrets. Elements begin dropping into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** issues of non-consensual voyeurism, suggestion of Sirius/Remus, rather violent thoughts towards a house elf

 

 _So we played a game of snakes and ladders  
Gambled our mistakes, didn't know what could come after  
Threw away the cards—who thinks it could matter?  
Oh, who believes in fate, anyway?  
When only you could be the one  
To win out over me  
When it isn't just a game  
It's the way we come undone_

 _  
_

“[Snakes & Ladders”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qP4QGn-M178)

Basia Bulat

 

 

In the safety of darkness, Harry collapsed. Downy pillows and the feel of crisp, clean sheets met his nose as he landed face first on the bed. He'd finally allowed Kreacher to launder the bedding after three weeks of sex sheets. They'd come to an arrangement. Every Monday afternoon Kreacher would strip the bed—and every Monday morning, Harry would remove the case from a certain pillow and tuck the bit of fabric safely in the closet, placing it on the side that still held a few of the blonde's things in order to reabsorb the man's scent. He would sleep curled around that pillow every night. Some nights it was a light, fitful sleep and others it was the bone-tired sleep of the dead. Tonight would be one of those nights. He'd been worked to the point of exhaustion and then some.

Mad Eye Moody was a slave driver and Harry couldn't be happier. Almost every Auror at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had stepped forward, saying they had a trick or two up their sleeve which The Chosen One might be interested to know. Moody together with Kingsley Shacklebolt had taken up the task of sifting through the offers, divining those which might be useful to Harry and passing along their recommendations. But it was Harry's call and he learned what he saw fit, a great deal would have sent Mrs. Weasley straight to St. Mungo's if she knew the half of it. Fred and George were in states of jealous fits, insisting Harry was privy to the deepest Ministry secrets even when he denied it vehemently. Harry's lessons were often complex, practically as well as theoretically. Gawain Robards, the Head of the Auror's Office, had gifted Harry with a complete set of training text books. Harry spent many hours with his nose in those books, often curled up by the fire in the dusty old parlor and sipping wine or tea, depending on the hour.

Today's session had been especially intense, a practical demonstration of all known forms of the Incarcerous Spell and how to repel them. The witch teaching him was nimble and impossibly quick. She had no qualms about correcting his mistakes. It seemed that even without her wand, she could worm out of every charm Harry threw, divesting herself of her bulky robe in order to show him exactly how she twisted her delicate wrist or nimbly manipulated her long legs in order to escape. There was no magic to it at all, only flexibility and a certain genius for wriggling one's way out of trouble. Fred and George would've fallen head-over-heels for this woman. Her methods were forward and hands on—but always with a playful smile twinkling in her blue eyes. Harry found her charming and devastatingly pretty as well as awfully young to be so accomplished. She couldn't have been older than twenty six. Her name was Special Auror Margaret Gweir, yet she insisted he call her Margie.

Harry massaged the insides of his elbows, cool fingers glancing over the livid red rope burn there. It turned out the most effective way to restrain a body wasn't at the wrists, like muggles did with handcuffs, but at the elbows. With your arms pinned behind you thus, your hands couldn't reach up to the ropes and a decent swish and flick was nigh impossible. The only way out was wandlessly and non-verbally. Margie had stood over him, wand in hand, insisting that he attempt it whenever she bested him. Each time she refused to release him until he'd at least tried.

Harry wasn't sure if he was more tired physically or mentally. Ever since that first day without Draco, he got up and ran every morning. If his lessons were wearing him down, running was picking him back up, psychologically. Running was almost like sleep—he could lose himself in the steady rhythm of his trainers hitting the pavement, the rivulets of sweat running down his chest and back, the crisp fall air sharp in his lungs as he pushed himself, challenged and engaged his body in this entirely physical task. The first two weeks had been the hardest, forcing himself from bed and into sweat-clothes, sore and achy and knowing what he was about to do would only make the tingling burn a thousand times worse. He taught himself to ignore it. Now he rose mechanically, sometimes before sunrise, and jogged up to Hampstead Heath. It was roughly eleven kilometers there and back. The first time he'd barely made it, gasping for breath as he collapsed on the dewy grass, his muscles screaming and joints throwing a righteous fit. Now he regularly made it up Parliament Hill to Highgate Ponds at a respectable pace. He passed the same joggers every day, the same Indian woman with her dog and the red-haired man who reminded him a bit of Arthur Weasley, jogging behind a stroller with his two often sleeping toddlers. At first these muggles gave his panting, miserable form a pitying smile. Slowly, they became a part of one another's routine. The woman with her dog always waved as he passed on her left. The ginger man was Callum, his daughters Kendra and Alicia. He usually caught Callum at Willow Road Playground and saw the single father as far as the football pitch before going their separate ways with a “good morning” or a “see you tomorrow.” Only the most committed regulars came when it rained. Their silent nods approved Harry's determination the first few times he stepped out on rainy mornings, soon drenched both inside and out. He learned to enjoy the bad weather mornings. The rain washed away all the grit, all the sweat and toil and he could open his mouth and drink the rain. And it reminded him of getting caught in the rain with Draco, the first time he'd said “I love you.” He didn't mind the rain anymore.

He tried not to think of Draco when he ran. He tried not to think of himself or Voldemort or anything. It was his time to just be. He had one job in the world and that was to run, to press on, to put one foot in front of the other no matter what. He could fall apart in the shower, a mess of raw throat and jelly legs, knowing he'd accomplished something before toast and tea, accomplished something with only his body; no magic, no Order, no Aurors, no help—just him. He didn't think. He just did. And it felt good.

He thought about running again tomorrow morning. His body would hate him after the contortionist torture of ropes, leather and chains he'd suffered but it couldn't be helped. His body would forgive him. His mind wouldn't.

He freed himself from the last of his clothes, sliding under the sheets and pulling Draco's pillow close. He settled it under his chin, wrapping arms around the sack of feathers and drawing his knees up to spoon his little pillow doll. He breathed deep, breathed of autumn and apples, sage and salt, lawn and lemons and magic. And he dreamed, dreamed of storm-colored sunny skies lit with purple and pink clouds, twin sunrises and great flying gusts of wind that lifted him up and away.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The doleful hoot of an owl on his bedside table woke him. Harry's instructor for the day, an Auror named Williamson, had been called away in the night to investigate another incident of violence and vandalism in Diagon Alley and would likely be engaged with the matter for several days, leaving Harry with apologies and his day suddenly free. A quick Tempus told him it was still too early for his run and so he rolled over, holding Draco's pillow to his chest as he began to drift back to sleep.

“I miss him,” a woman's voice carried to his ears as though from very far away.

“I know, dear heart,” replied another female, equally far off. “Imagine how _he_ feels.”

“Indeed,” a third voice spoke, this one with a gravely purr to it. “I can only hope this one doesn't start crying his eyes out like that wolf.”

“You didn't have to hover about and listen,” the second voice scolded matter-of-factly. The woman gave a short bark of laughter that sounded oddly familiar.

“All over that mangy dog,” the woman with the gravel voice tutted. “No idea how that mutt could have sprung from your pedigree.”

Wait. That bark of laughter. A dog. They were talking about Sirius. Phineas' mistress and at least two other female portrait subjects were milling around inside the painting of a Quidditch pitch above his bed, talking about Sirius. And a wolf. A wolf who cried over him. It had to be—could only be Remus Lupin.

Harry sat bolt upright.

“Goodness!” the soft-voiced woman exclaimed, a hand pressed over her breast. She had white-blonde hair and pointy, delicate features, a bit like Draco.

“Didn't mean to wake you, dollface,” Sylvestra said to Harry, gesturing vaguely with her cigarette.

“You were talking about Sirius Black and Remus Lupin,” said Harry, shifting in the covers to squarely face the three women in the painting. “The dog and the wolf. What about them?”

The blonde woman blushed rather sweetly. Harry liked her gentile manners. She had to be related to the Malfoys—it would explain where Draco got his looks, the rest of the Black family being dark-haired with much heavier features. Then again, Sirius had grey eyes just like Draco. He'd never thought about it before but there was a slight resemblance between his boyfriend and deceased godfather, especially in certain aspects of their personalities—a certain precociousness, excitability, recklessness and boundless energy. Not wanting to be left out, short fuses and hot tempers, barks of laughter, cynicism and unerring wit. Yes, they had been family.

Sylvestra and the pudgy woman were exchanging looks.

“Out with it,” Harry pressed. “What do you know about them?”

“We... used to watch them,” the delicate blonde confessed.

“What do you mean, 'watch them?'” Harry's gaze narrowed. “You spied on Mr. Lupin when he stayed here?”

The rotund woman smoothed her elaborate robes with heavily jeweled hands, the rings like casings for her sausage fingers. Slowly, she shook her head, unwilling to really meet Harry's eyes. “We watched them as we watch you and your boy,” she clarified at last.

“My _what_?” Harry felt his guts shift as the information processed. They meant Draco. His “boy” was Draco. These women, shadows of their living selves, had sat there spying on him and Draco making love—probably got off to it, as much as portraits could get off.

“Wait,” he spluttered. “The same way....” The last puzzle piece dropped into place. They'd seen Sirius and Mr. Lupin having sex?

Frozen, Harry forced himself to consider it. Sirius had been out of Azkaban for two years before he was killed at the Department of Mysteries. Granted, the man had been living underground but he'd never made passes at Tonks or Hestia Jones or any other attractive witches in the Order. And Sirius had been so relieved that night in the Shrieking Shack, learning that Mr. Lupin had wanted to believe in his innocence when leveled with the worst imaginable charges. Harry remembered their embrace. He hadn't thought anything of it then, the way they clung with shaking limbs, laughing wildly. He'd thought they were dear old friends reunited. He'd never considered the two could have been lovers. Mr. Lupin was seeing Tonks now, though. Maybe he was bisexual, like Draco. It would certainly explain why he'd fallen apart after Sirius' death, throwing himself into work for the Order, completely disregarding his own health and safety in order to do something, feel helpful, feel like he was making a difference. The more Harry thought about it, the more his brain couldn't deny that it was feasible... and maybe even made sense.

“They...” Harry struggled to form the words around his swirling thoughts. “They loved each other, then. Like me and Draco?”

“It is difficult to say,” the pudgy woman offered stiffly, her weight shifting from one foot to the other.

“I think they did,” said the pretty blonde witch, giving Harry a gentle, almost reassuring smile. “I always thought they were lovely together. But not as lovely as you and yours.”

Harry blushed furiously, choking on an inhaled chunk of air that was like lead in his throat—a bullet lodged in his windpipe, strangling him. These woman, specters though they were, had watched them in the act, seen Draco at his most vulnerable. All those times he had brought the arrogant, disinterested and proper Malfoy heir to his knees, to a quivering Draco mess of tears and moans and pleas, all those times had been witnessed without his knowledge, without his consent. He felt violated. Worse, he felt as though Draco had been... molested, taken advantage of. Those moments were for the two of them, not these stupid, tittering shadows of souls. He felt the rage boiling up inside of him, the magic crackling at his finger tips.

“Tell me,” he seethed. “Does Avada Kedavra work on portraits?”

“We're sorry,” the blonde woman pleaded. “We didn't mean any harm—”

“ _Get out_ ,” Harry snarled. Snakes of blue lightning danced between his fingers, licking his palms with a wheeling, satisfying hiss. The sweaty sheets sizzled and steamed at the sudden heat. He didn't care if he burned a hole right through the mattress. “Now. And if I catch one of you so much as ogling Draco on his way to the shower, I've got a very nasty bit of Norse Dark Magic with all of your names on it, his ancestors or not. Are we clear?”

The three women nodded in frightened unison, faces pale and, in one case, jowls quivering. They darted quickly from the pitch, robes billowing, disappearing beyond the edges of the gold gilt frame. Harry lay back down, trying not to think of how many times those painted figures had watched him in bed as he slept, watched him wank or heard him moan sucking Draco off, watched each time they'd lain together in the Biblical sense. Had they been there that first time, when he was tied up and screaming his lungs out, accidentally disintegrating every pane of glass in the room with the force of his release? He shivered, pulling blankets and pillows closer until he lay in a sweet, spongy cocoon.

They'd done it to Sirius and Mr. Lupin, too. Remus. The two of them, probably in this very bed.

Maybe he should invite his former professor over for dinner or something. A part of it was his own sick curiosity. He wanted to know whether the two had really been together, been in love. But the bigger part of him wanted to know if the werewolf was okay, wanted to tell him about the violation of his privacy and offer some kind of apology on behalf of the musty, wretched old house. He needed to make things right. That was his curse, The Boy Who Lived to Love Everybody. It was probably just like Draco said: because no one ever loved him as a child. Draco would laugh at his bleeding heart altruism, saying it was only a sheep's wooly skin worn by the wolf in him that wanted to delve into someone else's secret life and splash around in their discomfort and misery to feel better about his own measly existence. He didn't want it to be about that, though. It was Remus' choice whether or not to confide in Harry. Harry found himself smiling as he drifted off to dreams, realizing that if he sat there and smiled his gentle, Chosen One smile, just about everyone wanted to confide in him. Gryffindor and Slytherin working as one. What a delightful combination.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco had taken most of Harry's quills and parchment stock with him to Hogwarts. Harry managed to find some antique writing supplies inside the desk in the windowless little library. He dashed off a quick owl to Remus, asking him if he was free for dinner that evening. He worded his request vague enough to sound as though he had questions related to his training but nothing so important that it couldn't wait to be shared over a casual meal that evening. He sat staring into the flames long after Hedwig had taken off.

He had so much to do. Hermione suspected that the mysterious R.A.B. was none other than Sirius' brother, Regulus Black. The three of them had long ago searched the moldy house from top to bottom with no luck uncovering the true locket Horcrux. They worried that it had been discarded over the course of many extensive cleanings the house had undergone. Harry even remembered Draco, two months ago, rounding on him in the dusty parlor. “How much have you and your filthy Mudbloods thrown out?” he'd snapped, grey eyes flaring dangerously. Draco knew there were dark and dangerous things in this house. They'd found a lot of the trash stored in the magically extended attic, mostly in great garbage bags undoubtedly dug through by Mundungus Fletcher and Kreacher. Thinking heavy thoughts, Harry glared at the stone around the fireplace carved with detailed snakes curling up the pillars holding up a dark wood mantle piece. It was hopeless.

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” Harry hissed, not realizing he was speaking Parseltongue as he stared at the stone snakes. They seemed to move, coiling tighter around their columns as if alive. He ignored it, thinking his eyes were playing tricks on him. He'd only had a few pieces of toast after his morning run and shower, a half-finished cup of tea gone quite cold at his elbow.

“ _What am I supposed to do, summon the ruddy thing? Just, 'Accio Slytherin's Locket,'_ ” he announced sarcastically. His hissing was met with a small, hollow _thwump_. Head perfectly still, his eyes roved the room. Number twelve was an old house. It made funny noises all the time. Those noises often came from the walls or the floor, sounding like bits of metal flying around, smacking into things as though summoned by magic. It was positively ludicrous to think that...

“ _Accio Slytherin's Locket_ ,” he repeated in snake tongue. And there again was the _thwump_ sound, as though the locket were beneath the floorboards, flying upwards and making contact the thick wooden floor. He got up from the desk and went to stand by the fire, repeating the spell a few times to pinpoint where the hollow noise was coming from. It was a section of floor right in front of the fireplace. He shoved the threadbare rug aside, testing each board to see if it was loose. No such luck. He was about to blast the floor open when a thought struck him. He looked to the snakes decorating the fireplace, concentrating.

“ _Are you hiding something?_ ” he asked them. The snakes didn't answer but they did move, slithering along the columns. “ _Go on, then. Open for me._ ”

Just like the hidden entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, the entire wall with the fireplace let out an almighty grating sound, expelling a horrid amount of dust before swinging open to reveal a plain stone staircase spiraling down into the cellar. Brushing dirt from his tshirt as he stood, Harry took a deep breath. And then, wand lit, he descended the stairs into the secret room.

The first thing he noticed was that it stunk like several dead, rotting trolls. The little room absolutely wreaked. The second thing he noticed was that it was full of trash—bits of broken furniture, rags, pieces of rotten food, newspapers and what looked like a bike tire were all jumbled together in a kind of grotesque, slovenly nest. At the center of the rubbish lay Kreacher, curled up with what could only be an antique floral-patterned dress of Walburga Black's.

Harry looked down and there it was: Salazar Slytherin's locket, Voldemort's Horcrux winking up at him through layers of dirt and grime. He crouched, picking it up. This was a little too easy. No traps? No poison? No Inferi? No crippling fear for one's life? The locket felt cool and heavy in his hand, nothing inherently evil about it. Perhaps the Horcrux had already been destroyed? He wasn't going to bank on it, though. He would set up a containment field like he'd seen Draco do, vacuum-sealing the locket in one of those glass bells until he could do something about it.

He trotted up the stairs, wiping his dirty hands on his denims. He needed another shower.

Where should he keep the locket? Here at Grimmauld Place, for sure. The house was under a Fidelus Charm and only a select few could even get in, what with the way he had the floo restricted and McGonagall's extensive wards on the place. He didn't want the locket in his bedroom. And the kitchen was a big fat no—he ate in there. Horcruxes and food preparation just didn't sound like a good mix. The old parlor, then. That's where the locket had been originally. He didn't use the room that often, except... oh, the fireplace was in there. He used the fireplace in the little library room for floo calls because it was a nice, private space. Most people floo-ed into the house through the fireplace in the otherwise unused parlor. If he put the Horcrux in there and someone from the Order stopped by, he'd be forced to explain what it was, why the seemingly innocuous piece of jewelry was under such heavy wards. They'd think it was another thing like the roses, think he was in danger. And if anyone went poking around in there, they'd see the tapestry. He and Draco were supposed to be a secret but there was that ruddy wall-carpet, proclaiming his intentions to anybody with eyes in their head. He would have to shut down the floo connection in there and seal off the room. People could floo with the fireplace in the library. That fireplace was the entrance to the secret room but, unless he had another Parselmouth over for dinner, he wasn't too worried. The only living Parselmouths he knew of were himself, Voldemort and the Serb, Nebojsa. Chances of a drop-in from the Dark Lord were slim and Nebojsa was with his partner Dmitry and the others, tucked in an Order safe house in Madrid. So he'd order Kreacher to clear out the secret room in the cellar and then seal off whatever loose floorboard or hole in the insulation the elf had utilized to crawl in there to begin with.

Harry paused. He heard muffled words from down in the room—Kreacher muttering in his sleep. He stepped back into the narrow, spiraling stairwell, focusing his hearing so he wouldn't have to endure the smell again.

“... married his way in, upstart Master did,” the elf muttered, tossing and turning, rubbish nest crinkling and crunching beneath his scabby little body. “But that doesn't matter now. No it doesn't, Mistress. Kill him, Kreacher can. Kreacher _will!_ Kill him dead and to the husband goes the house, to the Malfoy child. A Marked one, my Mistress. One of His own. Your house once again in cherished Dark hands....”

Oh God. Kreacher really _was_ trying to kill him with that awful stew weeks ago. Kreacher wanted him dead so that he and Grimmauld Place would go to Draco. Apparently Kreacher thought they were already married or something. Then again, the elf had practically walked in on them fucking. Maybe for house elves, that was proof enough. On the other hand, with Dobby planning his and Draco's wedding before he'd even proposed, Harry was beginning to wonder if house elves had only a remote understanding of human love and marriage. Did house elves even have marriages or did they reproduce asexually? Harry had no idea. Maybe he just had two of the barmiest house elves in England.

Either way, he couldn't wait until Kreacher snuffed it. Hermione be damned, he'd take that elf's head and install it in the bathroom. As a urinal.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMERS:** “Snakes  & Ladders” music and lyrics by Basia Bulat, released by Rough Trade Records in 2007.


	30. Beretta: Cherbourg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boy Who Lived To Stick His Nose In Things has an informative encounter with Remus Lupin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** mention of the Sirius/Remus pairing, an emotionally-charged altercation

 

 

 _I will lead the way, oh, lead the way  
When I know  
And I'll sleep away, oh, sweep away  
What I don't  
Well seize the way, oh, seize the way  
No, I won't  
I will lead the way, oh, lead the day  
When I know _

 

“[Cherbourg](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5BuZQGoJF4)”

Beirut

 

 

Dinner with Mr. Lupin was really quite pleasant. He kept asking Harry to call him Remus. They sat at the worn kitchen table, Remus complementing Harry's home made curry and Harry refilling their wine glasses every so often. Remus kept sighing and saying Harry was growing up before his eyes, looking so much like his father but acting more like his mother now he'd come into manhood. That one made Harry blink and lean back in his seat.

They spoke at length about Harry's parents, about James' success in the Auror training programs and his mother's mysterious work as an Unspeakable. They'd only been twenty one when they died. James had gotten his first big promotion and Lily was still on maternity leave when they'd gone into hiding. Ever the watchful Auror, James would prowl the grounds of their little cottage in Godric's Hollow every morning, checking on the wards and seeing that all was well and his little family safe. Lily would not be kept from her work by a silly nuisance like You-Know-Who; she continued her charms research, often with a Quick Quotes Quill scratching while she changed Harry's nappies. They were cheerful people, pleasant and kind, young and very much in love. They didn't let their persecution by the Dark side get them down. Lily especially felt that children could sense emotions in adults and she didn't want their happy child suffering from his parents' unease. His parents had fought like cats and dogs during their Hogwarts years—and then one day they found comfort in one another and decided not to waste any more time in shouting matches. All it took was one look from Lily and whatever smart remark had been on James' tongue was no more. He swallowed his schoolyard ways because he loved Lily, didn't want to upset her. He valued her good opinion over anyone else's. Harry couldn't help but thinking his parents' relationship sounded a bit like his and Draco's, each putting their shit aside to really see the other, value them as a person and hold them in highest regard. He hoped his parents would be okay with his choices but there was really no way of knowing.

 

 

He was surprisingly tipsy when he rose form the table. Remus wasn't much better off. Taking a step toward the man, Harry took the elbow of his tattered old robe and gave a gentle tug, saying, “I'd like to show you something.” He lead the way down the hall.

Remus stood slack-jawed at the sight of the gutted dining room. What had once been a disaster area was now spartan and heavily scented of cleaning products, soap for the carpet and walls, polish for the now gleaming wood floor. And in the far corner on a sheet of heavy canvas sat the frame of Sirius' flying motorbike. Harry had found the parts jumbled up in Kreacher's nest and brought them here, hoping there was a shot at reassembling the thing. He didn't think he could actually get it running without assistance but he was doing what he could, using spells to straighten out the metal frame where it was twisted, rags doused with cleaner applied to all the dusty, greasy gears and workings until they were recognizable. The pile resembled a vintage motorcycle instead of garbage. Remus gaped.

“Where did you find...?” he muttered.

“The cellar,” Harry replied, shrugging. “Kreacher was using some of the parts as mattress springs. I commandeered them, much to his disappointment. It doesn't run or anything but I thought, with a little help from Fred and George, maybe Alastor Moody, it might work again. Could be useful; you never know.”

“I think Sirius would've liked that,” Remus said tightly, nodding once.

Harry leaned against the door frame, regarding his former professor turned friend.

“Remus,” he began. “About you and Sirius. I... well, I was talking to some of the portraits and I learned something rather disturbing. Er, maybe disturbing is the wrong word—it just really bothered me, is what it did. Either the Black family had no code of ethics and decency, which is possible, or the spell animating their portraits doesn't include a conscience. Either way, I caught a couple of the women spying on me in bed last night. And it's not the first time they've done it. They mentioned... um,” and here he faltered, running a hand across the short hairs at the back of his neck and looking awkwardly at Remus' knees. The man's robes were awful tatty. It looked like Mrs. Weasley had been repairing the hems with thread that didn't quite match the faded color. You could only tell if you looked really hard. And Harry was staring uncomfortably.

Remus wasn't saying anything. Fuck, he really had to be curious, didn't he? He'd already stuck his foot in the pond—might as well dive in.

“They mentioned the two of you having sex. You and Sirius. So were you together?”

Remus's hair was a very dark brown in the poor light, his skin moon pale in contrast. It was the middle of the moon's cycle, though. He'd been caught completely off guard.

“We... I,” the man stuttered, gesturing listlessly before folding his arms across his chest.

“It's okay,” Harry said vaguely. “You don't have to tell me. It's none of my business, really. I guess what I really want to know is if he was happy. After everything that happened to him, my parents being killed and him sent to rot in Azkaban for something he didn't do, then cooped up in here... he's the one who trashed this room. It would be nice to know he had some comfort after all that.”

“It was nothing formal,” Remus offered quietly. “He... approached me at school, sixth year. I knew there were others. I knew there were. I tried not to take it as a compliment, that he would be interested in me despite....”

“Your furry problem?”

“Yes,” Remus chuckled. “Your father was always made light of it—they both did.” He kept looking into the room instead of at Harry, lost in his memories.

“Maybe it _was_ a compliment,” offered Harry. “He wouldn't jeopardize your friendship if he didn't have feelings.”

“His emotions ruled him after Azkaban,” Remus said harshly. “He was a different man after that.”

 _It's none of my business, it's none of my business,_ groaned the voice in Harry's head. Still, the words flew out of his mouth. “But you loved each other, right?”

“I don't know, Harry.” Remus sounded so... hopeless. Like he really didn't know, after all this time.

“How can you not?” Harry protested despite the voice of temperance in his head. “I mean, that's the strongest emotion there is. When you love someone, don't you just feel it?”

The slightest, saddest smile twitched Remus' thin lips even as he hung his head.

“You're young, Harry,” he replied. “You have yet to experience the many types of love that exist in this world; brotherly love, parental love, love for one's country, blind love, romantic love... it can be very confusing, even at my age. It takes a lifetime to unravel one's feelings.”

“Then how could you—” Harry cut himself off abruptly. He knew what it was to get physical with someone for whom he held only the most basic regard. Who was he to judge? So what if Remus and Sirius had fooled around, maybe caring for each other or maybe not? There was no law that people had to be in love to have sex—even really good sex. Hadn't Draco had great sex with Jack the muggle even though, as Draco would later confess, his feelings for Harry were already starting to grow, to become something more than respect and friendship? No, love and sex were hardly synonymous, as much as he'd like to believe they were. “Never mind. It's none of my business. But I apologize on behalf of this ruddy house that your privacy was violated like that.”

“They're just portraits, Harry,” Remus assured him, voice sounding more normal by the second. “But thank you.” He laid a hand briefly on Harry's shoulder. “I'll show myself out. Thank you for a lovely evening.”

Remus smiled gently before withdrawing his hand, turning to make his way down the hall. He stepped into the parlor to use the floo.

“Wait!” Harry called after him, tripping over his own feet as he made for the dusty old room before the door shut. If Remus went in there, he might see the Horcrux—or the little “addition” to the Black family tree. That wouldn't end well. Harry sprinted down the hall. “I disconnected the....”

 _Shit_. Too late. Remus was looking at the tapestry, his wand tip lit and head tilted to the side in close examination. The Horcrux of Salazar Slytherin's locket in its bell case was all of two meters away. Remus didn't seem to notice, his attention focused solely on the family tree. Maybe, if he remained distracted, he wouldn't notice, wouldn't ask questions. Harry braced for it.

“Harry,” Remus pronounced, voice pleasantly slow and even, a curious expression playing on his lips. If Harry wasn't madly in love with Draco, he'd say the werewolf's voice was melodic just then—sexy, even. “What's this?”

“The future, I'm told,” Harry shrugged, knowing full well it would infuriate his former professor. It was the type of flippant remark which a younger version of James Potter would've offered. He cringed when he saw Remus' face contort. At least when he turned to let Harry have it, he turned his back on the Horcrux.

“The future?” he repeated, voice going deep. “Or the present? This says you've gone and married Lucius Malfoy's son.”

Harry met Remus' honey colored eyes, his own defiant. “Maybe I will,” he drawled. “And he has a name, you know. It's Draco. He's not his father.”

“No,” Remus replied, his breath huffing at Harry's uncharacteristic show of adolescent irritability. “But he is his father's son, Harry. You can't ignore the tradition this young man comes from, what he believes, everything he represents—”

“What? What does Draco represent?” Harry shot back. “That no matter where you came from or who your family is, there's always a second chance to do things right? That people can turn their lives around if you show them a little kindness instead of judging and condemning them? That if you take the risk of believing in someone, they can surprise you?”

“Harry, are you in a relationship with Draco Malfoy?” Remus gestured to the tapestry, disbelief still etched in his features.

“Yes,” Harry said readily, chin up. “Not like it's anyone's business but _yes_ , we're together.”

“And is this your idea or his?” he waggled a finger at the silvery line of marriage twined between their embroidered names.

“Both, I'd imagine,” snapped Harry. “Why should it matter?” Despite himself, he was reaching out for this man's opinion. Was he that desperate for approval, like Draco always said? Did he need a father figure so badly that he'd accept any person twenty years or more his senior telling him what he should and should not do? Enough was enough. He may have been Dumbledore's man but Dumbledore was dead. The old wizard would always guide him, but Harry was his own man now. He took a deep breath, tasting a sudden sweetness of freedom in the air. He felt light, ready for anything.

Remus spoke first. “Have you heard of something called Stockholm Syndrome?”

Okay, he hadn't quite been ready for _that_.

“It's a psychological condition that can occur when a person is held captive either for long periods of time or under extremely stressful circumstances,” Remus continued through Harry's dumbfounded silence. “When their captor also becomes their caretaker, seeing to their needs and survival, the person can develop an affection for the captor they perceive as most gentle-hearted, most kind toward them.”

“I know what Stockholm Syndrome is,” Harry interjected abruptly. “So what exactly are you saying? That Draco developed a crush on me because Ron punched him, Ginny taunted him and Hermione gave him muggle books that drove him batty? That he's only interested in me because I tried to show a little compassion when his world was going to shit?”

“Anything is possible,” Remus went on with an irritating shrug, always in that pleasing voice that made him sound younger in the darkness where you couldn't spot his gray hairs and the weary lines around his eyes and mouth. “The Order has a rather sad history of shoving depressed and angry men in this house against their will.”

“Draco isn't Sirius,” Harry asserted quickly. “And neither am I.”

“Oh, Draco is very much like Sirius,” Remus chuckled, an almost mean-sounding laugh. “Perhaps he was placed in Gryffindor for you to keep an eye on.”

Harry let out a frustrated growl. “Make up your fucking mind, Remus!” The man took a step back at Harry's language—and likely his intense burst of emotion, too. He'd never spoken that way with the werewolf before. “First you tell me he's only interested because I'm some kind of benevolent jailer, then you're encouraging me to be his bloody keeper! It's almost—wait, I get it,” Harry slapped his thigh in mock-revelation before pointing up at Remus. The man was still taller than him. “You think Draco's going to run around on me just like Sirius did to you. You want me to back off before I get my sweet little Gryffindor feelings hurt? _You_ back off, Remus. You're not my father.”

“I'm glad I'm not your father!” Remus bellowed. “You'd be over my knee so fast, boy! You're in no condition to be thinking about marriage—you're seventeen! You don't know anything yet! And that Death Eater is all wrong for you! You don't know what you're doing, what you're getting yourself into, young man! I've half a mind to beat you silly!”

Harry suddenly realized that Remus wasn't just yelling at him. He was yelling at Sirius, too. Those two had had some serious unresolved issues. Having dealt with Draco's outbursts in the past, Harry was able to keep his own anger in check—barely. Screaming back wouldn't do any good here. And Remus didn't actually want to hurt him. No matter what he might say or how hopping mad he got, Remus wasn't the type of man to take his hand or belt or a switch to any person's backside. He was just angry and scared, lashing out at a friend who loved him because Harry was the only thing close enough to reach, to blame for the painful memories swirling in his head. Instinctively, Harry knew what to do.

He reached out, putting a hand against Remus' neck. The man was beet red and burning up, pulse racing against Harry's hand.

“It's okay,” Harry offered quietly, just tracing calming circles with his fingertips on flushed skin and meeting his gaze until things seemed to cool in those honeyed depths. “It's okay.”

“It is most certainly _not okay_ ,” Remus scolded under his breath, pulling Harry's hand away by the wrist. He turned his back to Harry and gave a very heavy huff, trying to reign in his erratic, marathon breathing. “Harry, you can't marry a Death Eater.”

“Draco's not a Death Eater,” Harry asserted firmly. “So if that's your only objection—”

“He's a Malfoy,” Remus pointed out, spinning around as he did, hands fisted in the pockets of his robes.

“You can't judge a person by their house, their family or even their friends. If those type of superficial assumptions were true, Peter Pettigrew would have been a right decent human being,” Harry snorted. “It's choices in life that make the measure of a man. What you're given doesn't matter—pureblood traditions or eleven years of Uncle Vernon's belt—what you do with it is the only thing that counts. And right now Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, is using every trick up his sleeve to preserve the morale of a bunch of twelve year olds. Does that sound like a man unworthy of love?”

Remus had nothing.

“It sounds like Sirius made some stupid choices along with the good ones. We can't all be perfect,” Harry said slowly. “The world's not just made up of good people and Death Eaters. Sirius told me that once. There's got to be something in between. Draco's in between and that's his right. You can't make people be what you want. You can change minds... but hearts? Not so much. I'd like to think those stay the same.”

“You do realize you're saying a Malfoy has a heart?” Remus remarked, a hint of a browbeaten smile on his face.

“Sounds crazy, I know,” Harry rolled his eyes grandly. “But I'm the bloody Chosen One. Go with me on this one.”

Remus' hands flopped listlessly in his pockets, his eyes flicking helplessly around the room. He didn't see the Horcrux at his back.

“Did he teach you to disarm people like this?” Remus accused quite suddenly. Harry laughed a little ruefully.

“No. Draco's the master of disarming. I think I've just gotten better at picking out what people are feeling, not just what they're saying. Everyone else is easier compared to Draco.”

“So he's an Occlumens?”

“Yeah. But that's not it,” Harry bit the inside of his lip so the frustrated sigh couldn't escape his mouth. “He never says what he means. And every other word has a double or triple meaning with him. Conversations are riddles. Two weeks with him was like a crash course in detecting hidden messages. Normal people are kinda... refreshing.”

“Normal people?” Remus parroted, an incredulous brow raised. He practically had a hand on his hip, like it was an insult to be grouped with the main population.

“Come on, Moony,” Harry leaned against the wall, giving the graying man an easy smile. “Draco's so fucked up he makes Voldemort look only mildly disturbed.”

“And that's what you want?” he questioned, not saying a word about the use of his old nickname. Or the use of Voldemort's name.

Damaged goods? “Yup.” Harry's grin only grew.

“Why?”

A good question. One that deserved a good answer. Harry thought a moment, not avoiding Remus' gaze in order to demonstrate he wasn't afraid, only contemplating.

“Simple,” said Harry. “I can make things better for him. I can make him happy.”

“And... he makes you... happy?” Remus sounded a little disbelieving, still. Harry offered the most confident, reassuring smile he could. He was probably showing dimples.

“So happy I could scream.” Sometimes he did, when he was running in the rain at half six and no one was around to hear him. He would just shout and scream into sodden wet nothingness because, in spite of everything, he was actually happy for the first time in his life. It was frightening, to be that joyful in the face of what some might consider his certain death. But he could feel it even now; a hot, fluttery weight in his chest bursting to get out, to break free and sprint all the way to Scotland like he had wings on his shoes and springs in the soles of his feet. Draco made him feel like he could do anything. And he would; for Draco, he would.

“I'm not sure I've ever been quite _that_ happy,” Remus chortled, shaking his head from side to side. He brushed a fringe of mouse brown hair from his eyes. “I'll just have to take your word for it, then.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

He showed Remus to the floo in the library room. With a puff of powder and a shouted destination, he was away. Harry collapsed back in the lone winged armchair—the chair where Draco had sat gibbering in French with the Sorting Hat on his head. Harry remembered the man's violent reaction to his re-sorting. He'd threatened to slap the blonde if he didn't get over himself right quick. Even then he'd had some small modicum of control over Draco; a respect born of mutual, begrudging admiration. He couldn't explain how natural it felt, looking out for Draco like that, knowing his state of mind before more than a few words could pass between them. He could understand Draco perfectly now; there was no awkwardness between them, no doubt or indecision. How many people had that?

Feeling indulgent, Harry pulled out his wand and summoned his pack of cigarettes. In short order he was lighting up without guilt. A glass of wine here or a smoke there wasn't going to kill him—Voldemort was. He could have this small modicum of comfort in the dark, empty parlor. He watched as smoke from his parted lips billowed out into the dusty, unmoving air. The only compass he had to follow was his heart and it was beating a steady rhythm; _drink a little, smoke a little, love a little,_ it said. _Know what life is, what love is. Before it's too late_.

He breathed, smoke in, smoke out, steadily building in a chalky cloud around him. This was his life, his war. If he was risking his life, he'd risk it for what he wanted.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMERS:** “Cherbourg” music and lyrics by Zach Condon, 2009.
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Much of this chapter and story in general undoubtedly deviates from information provided in Deathly Hallows. That's probably because I haven't read it and don't care to. I think it's more fun to imagine, anyway. I often found Rowling's characterizations a little flat; this is my attempt to round them out a bit, give them some tactile humanity grounded in the complexities of an adult reality. I could never write childrens novels—I'm too fond of sexuality, the human condition in all its grittiness and glory. “Happily Ever After” just doesn't do it for me. This chapter—indeed this story—isn't so much about darkness as it is about determination in the face of a disbelieving world.


	31. The Chariot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swing low, and carry this poor boy home. The Savior returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** sexual content, wanking, sexual fantasies, erotic asphyxia (breath play), kissing  & squishy stuff
> 
>  **PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: On Erotic Asphyxia**  
>  For a while now, I've been setting up Draco's preference for erotic asphyxia (Breath Control). We've seen him hold his breath while giving a blow job, hold his breath to hold himself off from coming, hold his breath while he's coming, and many other permutations. This is the first instance where we see him practicing Breath Control alone and I felt the need to butt in for just a moment.   
> Depriving the brain of oxygen is dangerous—there is no medically safe way to do it. You are risking damage to the brain, heart and blood vessels every time, regardless. If anything, it is even more unsafe to practice erotic asphyxia alone; statistically, your chances for accidental death are greatly reduced with another person in the room. Here, Draco has his magic to rescue him (it's a debatable rescue, as his magic got him into the situation to begin with). If we could all be so lucky. Medical studies show that depriving the brain of oxygen has no effect on staving off orgasm; the effect some describe is placebo or "imagined" feeling with no scientific grounding. Years ago, asphyxia was tested in the treatment of Erectile Disfunction and Premature Ejaculation, which is where the rumors snowballed. Oxygen deprivation has no effect on, nor will it improve, ED or premature orgasm.  
> People have died from this. Don't try everything you read about on the internet. There is a specific reason I have found this fetish in Draco and all will be revealed in time.

 

 

They were all down in the Great Hall, every last one of them, eating lunch. And here he was, the lecherous pervert, lasciviously naked in bed and having a good wank. 

He did this every day. He went to breakfast and dinner but never lunch. It became known about Hogwarts that Draco Malfoy spent the hour in his quarters, presumably having his afternoon meal sent up while attending to important prefect or Head Boy business. No one knew he spent the entire lunch hour and most of his free period thereafter tossing off. He did it during classes, too, excusing himself to the loo at the most boring part of the lecture only to go at himself in the nearest bathroom stall. He especially liked the loo on the third floor. For some reason the partitions were high and the toilets set lower to the ground. It made his prick look bigger, grasped in his furiously pumping hand, red and veined and ready to blow. Then again, just about anything made his prick look huge. He knew he was longer than the average bloke and proportionately thicker. He had to be careful because of it. Oh, he'd learned. He couldn't allow himself to get a hard-on in public; it would only tent his robes half way up his stomach, his prick sneaking up under his belt to leave a tell-tale dribble of precome on his shirt. It had happened during a Defense Against The Dark Arts practical second year. With a random boner and a rapidly spreading wet spot at the navel of his white shirt, he couldn't pull Vince and Greg in front of his person fast enough. Shielded from the class by a wall of hulking flesh, he spelled his shirt dry before slapping himself hard across the face. When that only exacerbated the problem, he quickly requested to use the loo. 

After that he began to masturbate regularly—perhaps a bit more than was necessary, but he was better safe than sorry in this tender predicament. His family's reputation had been on the line as much as his own. Twice a day seemed to stop the random erections but that hadn't prevented his teenaged mind from staring out the window and fantasizing during a particularly boring lecture. It was dangerous, toeing the line between tingling, very present arousal and all-out ready and rearing to fuck. He'd learned to time his request to use the loo, hardness still concealable under his robes as he strode quickly down the hall. Only locked in the safety of the W.C., the stall sealed by multiple spells, would he allow the lust to take over. And when he finally let go, all that pent up lust would go coursing through him, blood pounding in his veins and ringing in his ears, his piece swollen and nearly the length of his forearm by the time he freed it from the sweaty confines of his too-tight trousers. Being of a slighter stature had its advantages; his prick looked bloody humungous, dangling thick and heavy more than half way down his pale thigh or held up past his navel. Glimpsing Draco half-hard in the steamy Quidditch showers, Warrington had dubbed him “a bloody tripod.” Draco made a point of avoiding the burly man after that, not wanting to become his next twinkling meal. 

He couldn't count the number of times he'd beaten off in a bathroom stall or, on occasional whim, the Prefects Bathroom. That was how he met Moaning Myrtle. The dead witch thought him something of a show, twisting his nipples through his thin school shirt and fondling his bollocks at two in the afternoon, licking his lips and grunting as he came, painting the walls with his seed. Eventually she got brave, hovering so that his stream would fly right through her nacreous head. She never actually opened her mouth to take his load but it was certainly implied. He was one of the better looking blokes in school he was soon informed, certainly the best of the fair-faced and aristocratically bred. Women who liked silent-types with rugged, manly looks had Diggory to drool over. Those who preferred dark and handsome had Blaise to adore. Roger Davies covered the desire for clean-cut, academic and prudish; leaving him, Draco Malfoy of Slytherin, as the ideal dirty rake. He was the essence of seduction, temptation, forbidden carnal pleasure, Myrtle would coo as he stroked himself. He was sex personified. Rotten fantasies followed him like nifflers on a Gringotts deposit. All the girls talked about him, he learned, the combination of his sociopolitical power and unforgiving, sometimes harsh personality proved a potent aphrodisiac to inexperienced and impressionable young females. Before the slew of skirts Father paraded before him he'd had Myrtle drooling over his prick with little moans and helpless, wanting sighs. He'd perfected his simpering, half-lidded looks in the midst of his own passion, deep feral grunts and thick-lipped desire that would make any pussy wet. He could conjure lust from man or woman with only a look just as he could summon his own arousal in a matter of seconds. He was always ready. He often fancied that—had he not been born into one of the most respected and feared magical families in England, allowing him the luxury of avoiding an occupation or employment all together—he might have been a very successful pornographic star. 

Even in fucking or getting fucked for a living, Harry would always be his competition. On or off the pitch, it was always a contest between the two of them—only now the stakes were much different, sexually charged. Instead of losing house points it was losing your load. Tense and awkward detentions were replaced by those foreign, softer moments after they'd both lost their minds; quiet minutes spent lying in one another's arms, bodies tangled, not needing to do or say or be anything. They didn't even need the occasional “get off my arm.” They just knew, now, knew one another's bodies better than their own. And Gods was it bloody fantastic. Even the best wank of his life didn't compare to those lazy hand jobs from Harry, calloused fingers stroking him off, sliding up and down his shaft in practiced, tantalizing pulls. He had a way of plying the foreskin that was... like the way he kissed, steady and hot and sensual. It built like a fire under his hands, creeping outward to destroy everything in its path to shattering, shuddering orgasm. He was utterly present, completely in the moment and devoted to every gasp, shudder and groan he elicited. Harry sent fizzing whizbees sprinting up his spine. 

He was lost to the memories, now; the slickness of Harry's hot mouth, the tightness of his strong, powerful body, warm and wanting, greedily taking him again and again. Always wanting deeper, demanding it. And how good would Harry would feel doing the same to him, fucking him, _in_ him, fitted and fucked and so impossibly full? He wanted it, he realized, slicked fingers moving unconsciously to his entrance and plying that puckered little hole. It seemed impossible that Harry would fit and yet he wanted him to try anyway, to be spitted and split in half by that impossibly fat cock. His fingers weren't enough. They weren't what he wanted. 

“Harry,” he moaned, face buried in the man's shirt spread out on the pillow beneath his head. He liked to smell Harry when he did this. He kept a few of the most potent garments for this very purpose, only pulling them from the trunk in the afternoons in order to preserve their distinct aroma. This one was a favorite, the blue plaid material worn deliciously soft by time and undoubted fondness for its color. The very fibers wreaked of Harry. He'd sunk into the essence, been absorbed so completely and utterly that Draco suspected this particular shirt would always smell like Harry, even fresh from the wash. Still, he wasn't ready to test the theory. 

He felt magic sparking around him, twirling the arms of the old shirt around the back of his head and neck, engulfing him in it's pleasing softness. He wasn't about to complain. His magic rarely functioned independently—but he seemed to want this enough. He took a deep breath and then held it, held Harry in his lungs, tasted Harry on his tongue as his body writhed, bucking wildly into one hand as he fucked himself on the other. His mouth worked soundlessly, air too scarce to be wasted on words. 

The way that Harry wanted him, tangibly—he wanted to be that way for Harry, to demonstrate just how badly he wanted it, wanted him, wanted to be full of him and filled _by_ him. Claimed. Maybe then Harry would fuck him, if he could see. If he could feel this need—his body rocking, hole so greedy, all raw and tight the way Harry liked it. Pumping hard, his fingers flew, stretching, demanding, daring to see how much he could take. It was punishing but he wanted it, wanted to be thoroughly, fiendishly fucked—fucked until he tasted cock, screamed Chosen dick. _Harry_ , he whispered in his mind, the darkness closing in. _Harry. Harry._

The shirt slid from his neck at the last second and he came, gulping great wracking gasps of air as he shot his brains out his dick. All he could smell was Harry, all he could taste with every pitiful breath was Harry. Even the shirt sleeves trailing down his back felt like familiar calloused fingers, knuckles grazing his spine, soothing him even as he shook, emptying himself across the mattress. He was left panting, flushed as red as his pillows and skin positively tingling, fingers and toes numb and refusing to respond to mental direction. Then again, the only instructions he cared to give were “get out of my ass.” Gods, Harry made a randy, salacious pervert out of him. Mere thoughts of Harry reduced him to this. Or maybe this had been within him all this time and Harry had only unlocked it. That had to be it, he thought, extremities at last responding to orders screeched through phasing nerve endings. 

He tucked his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms in a childish curl of spine, calves landing in a cooling, sticky puddle. And he groaned, throat surprisingly hoarse. He missed Harry, that other equally warm and sated body he liked cuddling up to. He burrowed his face in his distastefully knobbly knees. Harry was always heavy and warm after sex, all lax, loosened muscle made slippery with sweat and languid from exertion. He rarely said anything unless Draco initiated some form of conversation—and sometimes it was only “shut off the light, ya cunt,” which always resulted in a low, obedient grunt. He wanted to turn off the lights and have a nap with Harry, letting the world melt away for a while so it was only the two of them together in this bed, in this toasty, peaceful nook between worlds. Only the two of them, together.... 

 

 

\- - - 

 

 

Oh, the clanging of the bell. It rung as ten mighty bells, rebounding off the hard surfaces of his shower. Draco flinched, mind still muzzy from his nap. He rinsed the last remains of soap from his body before stepping out and drying himself with a spell. The shower faucet shut off automatically. He combed through his hair with only his fingers before drying it, too, with the same spell as his now chilly, talcum-powdered body. He curled his toes in the fluffy ivory carpet before giving in to the whim of Summoning his school clothes. The washroom was deliciously warm and he couldn't tolerate the thought of setting bare feet to the cold stone floor between his small sitting area and opulent bed. 

He wormed into fresh pants, trousers, shirt, and socks. His silk necktie and robes would be the same. Harry only had one summer weight school cloak, after all. Draco was vigilant not to stain it with any stray food or ink in case the house elves couldn't have it out by morning. He re-secured today's rose, _I promise to get you stupid drunk more often. Maybe we'll go dancing_ , behind his Head Boy's badge. Dressed and coiffed, he made his way to the main corridor. 

It was still a fair while until he could arrive to assist Professor Flitwick or even just warm up at the old rehearsal piano that was in constant need of tuning. Honestly, exactly where did tuition galleons go these days? They were hiring centaurs and last years graduating class, for fuck's sake, so it certainly wasn't payroll eating away the budget. He was amusing himself with possibilities when he spotted a student up ahead. He quieted his steps, approaching the person from behind. 

The person was a girl, perhaps twelve or thirteen by her stature. She had glossy auburn hair and an admirable figure for a girl her age. Draco, ever the gentleman, cleared his throat to alert the tiny woman to his presence. He wouldn't leave leeway to be accused of leering at a young girl in a deserted corridor. 

She spun, shock suffusing her round face as she set eyes on him. She had very watery blue eyes and they'd gone quite wide. Hufflepuff, Draco noted to his slight dismay. This wouldn't be his witty repartee of the day; still, the chit was most likely doing something outside school rules to have a look like that upon her face at being discovered. Even Draco Malfoy wasn't _that_ frightening fresh from the shower and feeling pleasantly well-shagged. 

“Your name?” he asked neutrally, hitching his bag as it slid down his shoulder. 

The girl looked too frightened to respond. She was absolutely twitching. Draco stepped closer. She was only a wisp of a thing, very well bred, rouge daintily applied to her porcelain cheeks and her head barely reaching the middle of his chest. Yes, this was a pureblooded China doll, alright. 

“Where is it you are supposed to be, child?” he drawled, all but tapping his foot in impatience. “Out with it.” 

“D-divination,” she spoke in a quaking whisper. Her pupils were contracting as she leaned back into her heels, leaned quite desperately away from him. Draco snorted. 

“Why register fer the bloody class if yeh only intended to sluff?” he criticized, head cocked to the side as he stared down his long, pointed nose at the girl. “Better not to waste everyone's time. It's early enough in the term ta drop the class—which I recommend ya do, as ya appear ter have little passion fer the subject. But as Head Boy I am obligated ta escort ya ter yer class.” Draco's lucky day. 

When the girl began to protest, he cut her off with a sharp bark of a laugh. 

“Is yer name Harry Potter? No?” he sneered. “Then the rules apply to you. Get goin'.” 

And he marched the girl toward Trelawney's tower, hand laid imperiously to her shoulder to prevent her escape. He forced her to walk ahead of him, mostly so she couldn't see his face about to break out in hysterical fits of inappropriate laughter. This girl was really afraid of him! If only she knew the hand on her shoulder was attached to a Dark Mark-ed arm. If only she knew that arm was attached to a man who, up until a few weeks ago, was stuffing The Chosen One on a regular basis. The girl would've fainted, no doubt about it. If Draco so much as said “boo” she would've keeled right over. They reached the Divination classroom in short order. He climbed the swaying rope ladder first, not wanting there to be any untoward comments about the Head Boy looking up the robes of this pretty young thing. He felt her mount the ladder a few rungs before he reached the top, shoving the trap door open with a most audible, weighty _thunk_. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Trelawney spoke as soon as she spotted his white-blonde head emerging from the screw-ball entrance to her little bat cave. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Merely returning an errant student, Professor,” Draco replied, righting his robes before offering his hand to the girl scuttling up the ladder. He lifted her easily from the last two rungs, setting her on her feet with two swift hands at her waist. Looking about now, the rest of the class looked much older than this girl. Draco quickly amended his estimate of her age to fourteen or fifteen. She was uncommonly petite just as he was uncommonly well endowed. His lunch hour activities prevented that little daydream from going anywhere. 

“Thank you for escorting Miss Madley,” Trelawney mewled, gesturing the girl to an open seat. But the chit was unmoving, frozen to the spot. And Draco understood why. 

This was  Laura Madley, the Hufflepuff chit half of Hogwarts suspected him of cavorting with between his thousand thread count sheets? Oh, wasn't this dandy? He made an effort not to look at the girl stone-still with fear beside him.

“I assure you, Professor, it was nothing,” Draco replied politely, edging steadily toward the trap door that led out of the room. “I was merely out for a stole during my free period and happened upon a little truancy. Happy to say such offenses occur quite infrequently, of course.” He moved his stern gaze around the room until every student's face registered that Draco Malfoy had this period free and was delighted—nay, tickled bloody pink to catch them skiving off class, no matter how rubbish the subject they chose not to attend. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” Trelawney spoke before he could completely turn away. “Perhaps you might be so kind as to join us? I find we have an odd number for our tarot readings this afternoon. It would be a great help to me, of course.” 

Damn and blast! Trapped. If he insisted on leaving he would look like an ass, having already stated he had this period free. 

“Of course, Professor,” Draco found himself replying in agreeable tones. The woman directed him to a seat across from the Hufflepuff girl, depositing a deck of tarot cards in his pale hands. The professor was about to turn away in a flurry of shawls and smug when Draco spoke again. 

“Might I trouble you for a cup of tea, Ma'am?” he asked, indicating the tea service beside her high-backed armchair by the fire. 

“Oh!” she started, color suffusing her cheeks. “Yes. Do help yourself, Malfoy.” 

With a flick of his wand, Draco transfigured a quill from his pocket into a teacup and saucer. He levitated the china to the side table bearing the tea pot and accoutrements, sending off the magical instructions for how he liked his tea. He refrained from levitating any sugary biscuits onto his saucer. 

Madley provided him with directions for the tarot cards, her voice horribly meek. He could hardly hear her over the din of the other fourth years scattered around the stuffy room. 

Draco did as he was instructed, shuffling the cards with his mind clear and devoid of all thought for what felt an appropriate length of time before splitting the deck into three piles, going from left to right with his left hand as prescribed. When he was finished, Draco took a testing sip from the cuppa that had floated to his side. He found it heavily spiked with sherry, much to his pleasure. 

The girl surveyed the three piles, eventually selecting the center one and setting the other two aside. She quickly laid the cards in a standard Celtic Cross formation. Two cards at the center, one crossed over the other, one card each to the north, south, east, and west, and lastly a line of four cards marching upward to the right of the cross. She sat, observing the cards and mindlessly chewing her lip, for a good five minuted before Draco interrupted. 

“Go on, then,” he gestured to the spread of cards in mild annoyance. “Tell me what it means. I never followed the subject.” 

Madley bowed her head over the textbook, searching for the first definition. 

“The card representing you is the High Priestess,” she read out, “who sits between the pillars of Boaz and Jocham as the guardian of sacred and occult knowledge. It means that you are at an advantage to see the larger picture and possess a clear view of reality. As the High Priestess, you hold great power and can adeptly identify potential in others. You struggle with your separation from the active world because, while you are patient, aware and full of knowledge, you are trapped in your temple for your own protection.” Madley quirked a questioning eye over the text, as though to say it was an awfully intimate card—a feminine card, too. The thought was written on her face as she read on. “The High Priestess is the face of the secretive late Gemini and represents the ideal female, a precarious balance of light and darkness, fertility and mystery.” 

“Brilliant,” Draco muttered. 

“You're a Gemini, then?” 

Draco nodded. He was a Gemini by one bloody day. “And the cross?” he pointed to the card laid sideways over the High Priestess and her flowing blue robe. “Three of swords. That's supposed to identify my question?” 

“Or a problem you face,” she agreed, flipping to the textbook page that detailed cards of that suit. “It says the three of swords signifies emotional pain, loneliness or betrayal. It can also signify isolation from a loved one in times of great need. The number three is significant because three cards of the Major Arcana appear in your reading. The appearance of only two suits—swords and wands—suggests great contention. Swords represent danger and a pressing need, while wands signify social interactions or the state of the many,” she recited. “So perhaps your personal danger is more severe than that of others because of your social position. You may also be in contention with your environment, having wands at your front and swords at your back,” she gestured to the lay of the suits in relation to Draco's stupid, girly card. 

“Tell me about it,” he muttered darkly. 

“Position three signifies a waning influence. That card is the nine of wands, representing stamina, stubbornness and self-preservation. The figure is wounded but not beaten, suggesting a lengthy battle. Because this influence is fading, it suggests that your fight is drawing to its conclusion.” 

Draco wasn't sure that was a good omen. But he didn't believe in this bollocks, so why should it matter? Divination was a lot of smoke, mirrors and frantic arm waving which rarely resulted in any relevant truth. The fact that these cards made some small amount of sense was merely his intelligent and overactive mind reading into it, applying significance to random events. Sooner or later there would be something off and the eerie similarities would shatter in the face of common sense. He pointed to the card in position four. 

“So this one's a journey,” he postured, “leaving home, perhaps under duress. Yes?” It was fairly obvious. The card depicted a cloaked person huddled in a traveling gondola, six swords propped up in the bow. 

“The text says it can also mean survival, dealing with the effects of a traumatic event, or recovering from an illness or injury,” Madley chewed her lip in thought. “Maybe it has something to do with your being resorted into Gryffindor—the figure's cloak is red and gold.” 

“Or my sudden switching of sides in the war,” Draco said firmly. “Let's not be coy, girl. I'll not stand for dancing about the subject.” 

She blushed anxiously and nodded, darting back behind her raised textbook. A part of him felt a twinge of guilt for being too forward with the shaky Hufflepuff but the rest of his rational mind shouted that the whole house was a jelly-kneed mess and could do with a dose of Skele-Grow for their spines. 

“Well, position five is a coming influence,” she muttered, flipping back to the page detailing swords. “The Knight of Swords. The presence of other cards of that suit suggest this is a person in your life rather than an idea. And because your cross card is the three of swords, this man is probably someone close to you.” She peeked at him over the book. 

“On with it,” Draco rolled his eyes dramatically. Madley blinked, waving a thin cloud of incense away from her heart-shaped face as an excuse not to meet his agitated gaze. 

“The Knight of Swords is a rash wizard who tends to charge into situations thoughtlessly based on the firm belief that he is always right. He is frank, honest and outspoken—and has great difficulty holding his tongue in the face of injustice. He is fiercely protective, demanding at times and boarders on domineering. He can be stubborn and narrow-minded. He is often blindsided by nuance or the emotions of those around him. In his high-handedness, he often sets aside his feelings or those of others. He is loyal, brave, hard-working and honest. The Knight of Swords is fearless; a protector of the innocent and champion of those most in need.” 

“Ten points to Hufflepuff if you'll tell me who that is,” Draco offered in a snotty tone, leaning back against the poufy pillows and fixing the girl with a critical eye. Ever the Hufflepuff, she chose to say nothing. 

“Arithmancy suggests that position six, a future event, is a turning point,” the girl pointed between the cards, avoiding his generous offer of house points for rightly naming Harry Potter a hot-headed prick. 

“Glad to know you're taking a few worth-while subjects,” Draco observed, taking another draw on his tea. “What's the numerical form presented here?” 

“A Classic Acute Progression: the Priestess is Key Two, followed by three of swords and four of wands. This suggests the event is culminating; also, violently upsetting on a social level because of it's proximity to swords in the spread. But the four of wands is a celebration, so that doesn't make much sense.” She dove into her book to seek out further description of the card which depicted four witches dancing on the grounds of a castle, their wands raised with arches of silk and flowers shooting between the glowing tips. “Yes, the four of wands is a happy surprise or celebration. It can also be a reward or right of passage. Your graduation?” she offered. “Or maybe it means you do so well on your N.E.W.T.s that everyone is jealous. You _are_ Head Boy.” 

Professor Trelawney came to hover over the table, adding her two sense—or lack there-of. 

“The absence of pentacles points away from academic pursuits,” she lectured. “Wands are a social suit. More likely events would be a promotion, marriage, birth of a child or other significant milestone.” 

“His birthday, then?” Madley postured. “Or an anniversary?” 

“Maybe my father will drop dead and I'll inherit the Manor,” Draco said caustically, barely containing an eye-roll by brushing his hair over his eyes at the last minute. 

“That may be so, Mr. Malfoy,” Trelawney mused. “Events guided by the fire suit are typically public, but the four of wands is a joyous event. I'm not sure a funeral would be the most appropriate interpretation. Your graduation is a far more likely direction, or perhaps a professional opportunity. The contention with swords is notable, so there may be some mixed feelings at this upcoming soiree.” The postal professor gestured for the girl to continue with her reading. 

“Position seven is the questioner's personal position, often depicting a fear or internal struggle. In this case it's...” Madley balked. The card depicted a wizard lying face-down on a deserted beach, run through with ten swords to the back and quite clearly dead if the pool of blood beneath him was anything to go by. “Ten of swords. This card appears when things can't get any worse. Often representing hopelessness or violence, the ten of swords is an omen of great darkness before the dawn. The figure can represent a victim or martyr, suggesting that great sacrifice may be called for in order to bring about change.” It was a nastily accurate image of his fears—himself dead, Harry dead. Maybe there was something to this Divination business. Or maybe the heavily herbed smoke was getting to him. A little kush wouldn't hurt right about now. 

“Position eight is an external view, often showing how friends or family view the questioner's path. In your case, the card is the ten of wands, the numerical significance suggesting a strong correlation to your own fears. The ten of wands is...” she consulted the text, “overextending one's energy or resources. Or taking on the burdens of others. It suggests an uphill struggle in which everything must be done the hard way. It also offers that, with persistence, the task may be completed.” 

Draco nodded, his eyes already fixed on the next card. 

“Position eight is an external view, often showing how friends or family view the questioner's path. In your case, the card is the ten of wands, the numerical significance suggesting a strong correlation to your own fears. The ten of wands is...” she consulted the text, “overextending one's energy or resources. Or taking on the burdens of others. It suggests an uphill struggle in which everything must be done the hard way. It also offers that, with persistence, the task may be completed.” 

Draco nodded, his eyes already fixed on the next card. 

“Position nine is considered a culminating event,” Madley read out, “but can also be interpreted as an unexpected factor, an additional point for the questioner to consider, a personal demon or a truth not yet realized. The card is key thirteen of the major arcana, which means—” 

“Say it, girl,” Draco spat. “Name the bloody card.” 

She gulped, looking askance to Professor Trelawney across the smoky room. 

“Death,” Madley spoke timidly. “Which doesn't always mean that someone dies... I think.” She dove back into her book. “Here,” her face brightened. “The Death Card represents an unavoidable change, concluding unfinished business or putting the past behind you. It signifies a transition, moving from the known to the unknown. Death can signify the questioner being in the path of sweeping change or caught in the inescapable. The weapons represent suffering, purification and redemption; the waterfall, absolution.” 

Madley's auburn head popped up over the book. Her watery blue eyes were now fixed avidly on Draco. 

“Do you know what it means?” she asked him. 

“It means I'm going to die,” Draco sighed, “which is awfully funny. He always said he'd send me back to The Dark Lord in a Hufflepuff girl's uniform if I misbehaved. Poetic justice, really. Brava, fates.” 

Trelawney shook her head, tutting at him. 

“You will change, Mr. Malfoy,” the professor announced with much shawled arm waving. “Death, does not always mean an end to life—only to life as we know it. But he,” she continued in a hoarse whisper, stroking a jeweled hand over the danger-dashing Knight of Swords. “He will die. That is how it has always been. You, Draco Malfoy, live to emerge the victor. This is how it has been ordained, the way it was set down seventeen years ago. Your final card is The Chariot: victory. He is master and controller of his realm, single-minded and the source of all power.” 

“You sound awfully sure. Here's to hoping you're wrong.” Draco toasted her with his cuppa, draining it before rising to take his leave. 

“And the Knight of Swords?” Madley asked of him, pale blue eyes impossibly wide. “You said you know who he is.” 

“A friend who saved my life,” Draco exhaled heavily. “Apparently, I will be unable to return the favor.” 

The professor laid a frail hand to his retreating shoulder. She started violently as though a shock had run through her. Draco turned to find her with bony fingers pressed to her open mouth. She then scrambled, taking his left hand in both of hers. 

“Stay... stay clear of him,” she gasped. “Stay away. For your own sake, Malfoy.” 

Draco coolly regarded her hands clasping his, Harry's black-stoned ring glinting up at him between her gaudy jewels. She seemed to notice the ring on his finger, the power surrounding it. She avoided touching it as she slowly withdrew her shaking hands, wrapping arms around herself and nervously twining fingers in her shawl. She seemed to back away from him as though in fright. Draco couldn't place it, though. His stance and expression hadn't changed. Perhaps the bat saw something in her head that put her off him. He'd always heard she suffered from visions, like Harry. But he'd never witnessed Harry having a vision and so had nothing to compare it to. As it was he stood tall, addressing his reply only to her despite every eye in the room being trained unwaveringly upon him. 

“I think it's too late for that, Professor,” he said almost glumly. With a parting, jaunty wave—her eyes following the path of the ring on his finger rather than the movement of his hand—he took to the trap door and sweet, clear-aired freedom. 

 

 

~ * ~ 

 

 

Morning owls were so tremendously late, Draco began to suspect they weren't coming at all. He'd finished off his tea, poached eggs and toast and was wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin when it struck him. The ring on his hand was warming in a very pleasant way. No owls, McGonagall absent from the head table, ring warm—something bad had happened. Harry was alright because he was right outside the castle. Draco could actually _feel_ him. He didn't stop to question how he knew this at the marrow of his bones. He only dismissed himself from the Gryffindor table with all his normal airs and disinterest, making for the Entrance Hall and then wrenching open the massive front door. 

He stepped out onto the landing. It was a stunning morning, crisp autumn air and a smattering of crackly leaves across the grounds, birds chirping wildly, the Forbidden Forest sporting a blooming riot of orange, yellows and gold. It was that sort of fall day that sticks in the back of your throat after you retreat indoors. It smelled like fall and the distinct magic of Hogwarts. 

A figure was walking up the lane—a figure he would know upside down and backwards, strung up by his heels with his eyes shut tight. It was Harry, dark leather jacket outlining his form and morning sunlight glinting off his mess of black hair. He'd spelled the lenses of his glasses darker against the sun, suggesting he'd walked from Hogsmeade. There was a sort of canvas sack slung over his shoulder. It didn't appear to hold much, though, as it mostly slumped flat against his side, bouncing now and again against his rear as he walked steadily up the lane, his shaded gaze on Draco. 

What was the proper reaction in a situation like this, the correct salutation? Did he wave? Should he call out? Was he even capable of speech at present? He settled for standing stock still on the landing, the natural light quickly warming his pale skin. After dropping N.E.W.T. Herbology, his only excuse to venture out of doors was Quidditch. It was nice just to loiter in the sun a moment. Standing as he was, he felt like the lord of the manor welcoming a last-minute guest. In a way, Hogwarts was now his more than it was Harry's—which was a shame, because Hogwarts had always belonged to Harry Potter in a special way. He'd been Dumbledore's favorite, all the professors doted on him even as he did his best to stir up trouble and stick his nose in things; well, that was how Draco always saw it. Now he realized it was more that trouble hounded Harry like a pack of angry weres desperate for his flesh. The professors more than anything were taking pity on Harry, knowing the trauma he would undoubtedly endure each school year. Draco had been a part of that trauma, an agitator to Harry's often delicate predicament. At least now he was a part of the solution, part of keeping Harry alive rather than wishing him dead. Now that he knew Harry, it was as logical as breathing. 

Harry was mounting the steps now. He didn't look well. His hair was unwashed, denims and shirt rumpled as though he'd slept in them... or hadn't slept at all, Draco revised. His skin was sallow, bluish circles evident under his eyes even with his spectacles darkened. He'd been patched up and fed after a battle but the stress hung around him like a cloak. 

Draco held out his arm as Harry drew near. A dark haired mess fell into his waiting arms, slammed into his chest and knocking the wind from his lungs, clutching at him and breathing his hair, his robes, his skin, impossibly strong arms closing around his torso like a snake squeezing the life out of its prey. Draco was lifted off the ground in a bone-cracking hug. His ribs creaked. And he squeezed back just as hard, one hand taking up a fist of dark, disorderly hair and the other pressing the smalls of Harry's back, bringing them impossibly close. They hung there for many minutes, breathing without words. They were like animals, absorbing thoughts and status solely by smell and body language, energy fields playing off one another, giving and taking until everything was had out. 

Arm still about Harry's waist, Draco ushered him into the Entrance Hall. Thankfully there were no stragglers stumbling down to breakfast and they had a moment to duck through the castle door unnoticed. 

_Over there_ , Harry indicated with a jut of his stubble-shadowed chin. “There” was a supply closet Draco permitted himself to be shoved roughly into, Harry slamming the door behind them and setting all manner of Locking, Silencing and Concealing Charms on it. He lifted his glasses onto his head, giving Draco the first real view of his eyes. 

Even in the dark, it was clear. There had been a great and terrible battle. His handsome face was lined, weary, eyes red from orchestration of forces, nasty shocks and utter lack of sleep. He took Draco into his arms again, sighing as he leaned back, leather-clad shoulders making contact with the stone wall behind him. Filch's supply of mops and brooms didn't pay them any mind as Draco pulled close, burying his face just behind Harry's ear. 

“It was bad,” Draco surmised, keeping his voice low. 

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed. His warm, rough hands snuck easily into Draco's robes, freeing the clasps one by one before exhausted fingers took to walking up and down his sides, palm gliding over the familiar wool of his Gryffindor sweater vest. Draco leaned closer, one hand supporting himself against the wall and the other measuring the rise and fall of Harry's chest beneath the layers of leather, cotton and silken lining. He unzipped the jacket, needing to get closer. “The worst is over, though. The Minister let me out of our bunker this morning.” 

“The Minister?!” Draco's voice escalated in shock. 

“Mind if I explain later?” Harry pronounced thickly. His eyes were already closed. “I promised I'd see McGonagall and then I really need to sleep.” 

“Sure, sure,” Draco muttered. “Her password is Pogrebin. Mine's  _ m _ _artes zibellina_ .”

“Thanks.” 

There followed a solid two minutes of silence. Harry's chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, his forehead and nose buried in the crook of Draco's neck, lips brushing the knot of Draco's silk tie as he slumped further and further down the wall. 

“Harry, you can't fall asleep here,” Draco said at last, prodding the man's chest. 

“Not sleeping,” he muttered, breath hot against Draco's neck. 

“Then wha' do yeh call this?” 

Harry sighed before scraping his cheek along Draco's, pressing the sides of their faces together so as to whisper in his ear. 

“Being alive,” he offered. “Just keep breathing, huh? I've seen a few too many corpses. People I—” 

“Save it, Wonder Boy,” Draco drawled before silencing him with a kiss. 

Harry responded eagerly, lips opening hotly, sucking at him with teeth and heat. The simple act of kissing appeared to be the very thing he needed, an affirmation of life. Draco felt something come to life in Harry's trousers, pressing heavily against his hip. 

“Wanna fuck you,” Draco panted. 

“ _Yesss_ ,” Harry hissed his reply, nipping at Draco's lips before kissing up his jaw, tasting shaving potion and chamomile lotion. “Gods, yes,” he added in Draco's ear. He ground his hips, a hand slipping down to Draco's tailbone and holding him in place, pressing that much closer. Draco couldn't stifle a moan as Harry tongued and bit the shell of his ear. 

“It's been too long,” he muttered. The blood was rushing to his crotch so fast it was making him dizzy. Harry grunted his agreement, yanking Draco's shirt tails from his trousers. Belt and then zipper fell pray to Harry's quick hands. He was gasping, throat going dry with his mouth open helplessly. 

The world went blank when Harry touched him. 

“ _I missed you_ ,” came the husky voice in his ear. “ _I missed you like this._ ” 

Hands were everywhere—palming his shaft, fondling him, stroking up and down his chest with his shirt, jumper and tie ridden up to his armpits—or were they lips? He couldn't tell. It felt too good. He was sure if he opened his eyes he'd be back in bed up in Gryffindor Tower and this feeling would be nothing but a fantasy. These were phantom hands caressing his skin, imaginary lips and the memory of intoxicating temperature and scent. 

But there was a very real hand fisted in his hair, jerking his head back mercilessly, and a thick, wet tongue ministering to his throat. It _was_ Harry. This was real. Embarrassingly, his knees gave out. Harry was quick to slam him against the opposite wall, cracking his head. The stone was dreadfully cold against his damp skin but he couldn't be arsed. Harry was working at his own trousers one-handed, answering every moan and feral, keening sound. 

“ _I need you_ ,” he hissed achingly, gathering their sexes together in a calloused hand. They both gasped—gasped for the friction and the heat, the passion and unrestrained, animal need. It was tangible, rushing between them, surging between fingers and skin and lips so demanding and rich, full, begging. 

“Harry...” was all Draco could manage, tense from the deepest part of his gut. He shook, all but trembling in the other man's arms, losing his mind under the intensity of it all. 

“ _I love you_.” 

“Harry,” he choked. “I lov—” But they were coming, together. He felt Harry against him, nearly lifted off his feet by the force of his orgasm, shouldering Draco into the wall. For a second it was as though gravity didn't exist. No longer bound to the earth, they floated together, emptying balls and mind and heart, purging back what belonged to the earth and what belonged to the other. They bled out until the world fell away, leaving nothing but the two of them. 

“I love you, too,” Draco mumbled against a sweaty temple pressed to his lips. 

“Wait,” Harry still sounded foggy. “You understood me?” 

“Um... yeah?” he murmured, lips like lead and brain unresponsive. 

“But... I was speaking Parseltongue,” Harry tried to pull back but couldn't. His legs were as weak as Draco's and so he was forced to lean, returning his weight to his lover's chest. Despite the difficulty breathing, Draco found himself not minding in the least. 

“Mmhmm,” he half-groaned. 

“You're not a Parselmouth, though.” 

Draco gave his now disheveled white-blonde head a very small shake, barely moving. Warm, rough fingers stroked the back of his neck and it felt so nice, so calming, so indescribably peaceful. He didn't feel much like talking, just being. He wasn't coming down from his high just yet, thank you. 

“But you've understood me before?” 

A grunt of ascent. 

“Since when?” Harry pressed. With a sticky hand to the wall, he forced himself upright to give Draco a look. The little ring of emerald green around his engorged pupils blazed with that stupid, Wonder Boy glint. He was being curious again, looking for puzzle pieces only he could understand. Draco let out a sigh, considering. 

“Well,” he blinked, looking away, “the first time we were together. When yer little friends walked in an' ya blew out the windows.”

“Shit,” Harry cursed, then chuckled. “I think _you_ blew the windows by proxy, if you wanna get technical. Why didn't you tell me then?” 

Draco fixed him with an amused and exasperated look dampened only by the fact that his trousers were around his knees. “Would yeh have said half the things yeh did if ya knew I could understand?” Harry shook his head slowly. “It was like havin' a secret window inta yer head. I wasn't gonna give that up.” 

“So why tell me now?” 

“I jus'... wanted yeh ta know. Yeh'll still talk ter me tha' way?” 

“ _You bet your sweet arse I will_ ,” Harry hissed happily, squeezing said body part roughly. A rogue grin suffused his face, mirth flying directly to his eyes. 

“Good,” Draco sighed. “Ya know, somethin' else happened tha' day.” 

“Yeah?” 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Draco parroted teasingly, then turned quiet. “Tha's the day I fell in love with you. I didn't know it then but, lookin' back, I should've. First time I ever enjoyed givin' head.” 

“Really?” Harry laughed. “ _That's_ how you knew?” 

“I'm not wildly gay, contrary to popular belief,” Draco enunciated properly to communicate how impossibly thick Harry was being. “I never liked it before you. Hated it, actually. Then along you came—” 

“Pun intended,” Harry snorted. 

“Yes,” Draco gave the appropriate rolling of eyes and heaving sigh. “Then there was you an' I liked it very much. Even thought 'bout... well, never mind.” 

“Tell me in French,” Harry offered, nuzzling Draco's cheek. “I won't understand. And you'll feel better. Trust me—it worked for me with Parseltongue.” 

“Alright.” So he let loose, knowing Harry wouldn't understand. “ _I imagined taking it in the ass—that thick cock of yours buried in me. I probably_ would _squeal like a dying pig for that, honestly. I haven't been on the receiving end of anal since I was fourteen and Merlin knows I never fancied it but... something tells me that, with you, it would be amazing. Would probably feel like being fisted but amazing just the same._ ” 

“I didn't catch a word,” Harry laughed, breath hot down his shirt collar. “Feel better?” 

Draco cocked his head, really considering. He couldn't help the smile that curled his lips against Harry's sweat-matted, dirty hair. “Surprisingly, yes.” 

 

 

\- - - 

 

 

Draco bolted from N.E.W.T. Transfiguration directly to his room. It wasn't unusual for him to retreat upstairs after his morning classes but today he made no show of disguising his haste. People got out of his way—people always got out of his way but today he tore through the halls, practically sprinting up the last two flights of stairs. He barely remembered to jump the trick step in the side passage. At least Peeves had buggered off, making his journey a relatively quiet one. 

He wasn't thinking when he threw open the door to his rooms as he always did—with a tremendous, soul-satisfyingly loud bang. So he flinched upon seeing the dark figure curled up in a mound of eiderdown on his bed, clothing discarded in a clear path and the heavy chocolate draperies drawn. A few fragrant logs burned in the fire, suffusing the air like incense with their pleasant, natural smell. He shed his robe, tossing it and his school bag over the back of the sofa on his way to the bed. He kicked Harry's trainers aside before either of them tripped and broke their necks. 

Harry was sleeping soundly, an empty potion vial on the nightstand. Draco sniffed it: Dreamless Sleep Potion, probably from Headmistress McGonagall and brewed by Professor Slughorn. The Headmistress and Granger had more in common than they knew. Both were, apparently, constantly slipping potions to Harry. They were worse than the women fawning over Wonder Boy since fourth year. This time, Draco thought it fair to assume Harry wanted the potion on some level. He couldn't imagine McGonagall accompanying Harry to the Head Boy's chambers and pouring the potion down his golden throat. 

Draco smiled despite himself, perching on the edge of the bed. He reached out, touching the side of Harry's face with quickly warming fingers. Harry's skin was softened in sleep, his features relaxed without the frightful images that so often plagued his rest. Draco found himself tracing those familiar lines around the man's eyes, the strong shape of his nose, the dark stubble decorating his cheeks, the cleft of his chin and the full, thick curve of his lips. Harry leaned into his touch, curling torso and knees to surround Draco even in dreamless bliss. When he stirred a little, Draco brushed the fringe of inky black hair from his forehead, tracing the white line of his lightning bolt scar. 

He skipped lunch entirely, just holding Harry while he slept. It was entirely too soon when he had to rise and refasten his robes for Prefect's rounds. He was tempted to call in a favor—presuming he had any owed him—but ultimately it would reflect poorly on him if he shirked his duties. And, for some reason, he didn't want all of Hogwarts knowing Harry was back yet. He didn't like leaving Harry alone while he slept but it was better than arousing suspicion by asking someone to cover for him. 

He was checking the fall of his robes in the mirror when he noticed something out of place. There was something on top of the piano. He went to examine it more closely. 

A gift from Harry, the git. It was a book of sheet music entitled “The Beatles: The Complete Collection.” Only Harry would think to give Draco Malfoy something so utterly muggle. Because only Harry Potter could get away with it. 

He placed a final kiss to Harry's puffy, sleep-warmed lips before stepping out the door. 

He was met immediately by Granger. The witch was ducking out of her quarters with several library books tucked under her arm. She spotted Draco setting extra Security Charms on his door and raised an knowing eyebrow. She approached to within a meter, books balanced on her hip as she regarded him closely. 

“Harry's in there, isn't he?” she posed rather bluntly. 

“Yes.” Why deny it? Harry would seek out his friends when he woke. 

“I had no idea he was planning a visit,” she said neutrally. Draco resisted the urge to hex her for prying. 

“It wasn't planned. There was an attack. He needed to speak with McGonagall,” Draco explained. 

“Oh my God, Harry was fighting?” Granger paled considerably, leaving two bright spots of pink high on her cheeks. Draco noticed she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, like the Weasel had over his entire face. Thankfully the girl's weren't as pronounced. “Is he alright?” 

“Fine. He's just fine,” Draco quelled. He took a step forward, forcing her back. “But sleep-deprived. He needs to rest. Heading to the library?” he changed the subject abruptly, indicating her extra books. 

“Oh! Um, yes. I was,” she mumbled. “I wanted to drop these off before Arithmancy.” 

“I'll take them,” Draco deadpanned, holding out a pale hand for the books. Granger seemed reluctant to hand them over. “I have my rounds this afternoon, which will put me nearer the library. We can't have the Head Girl arriving late to class.” 

“Well, I...” Granger fumbled for words. When she could produce no logical reason to refuse his offer, she was forced to hand over the stack of books. Draco took them, slipping the texts into his satchel. “Thanks, Malfoy.” 

“Please, don't mention it,” he said with a mock courtly bow. He hoped the witch wouldn't but, if she did, who in their right minds would believe her? His healthy smirk at that thought lasted through to N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Latin**  
>  _Martes zibellina_ is the Latin name for sable, a cute little marmot populating much of the mountainous regions of Russia. Their pelts are sought after because their fur is soft no matter what direction it is stroked. It's the perfect password for Draco because, like the sable, he is luxurious, sought-after, and equally pleasant both ways.
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:**   
> _Yes_ , I am a tarot card reader, forth generation. Sometimes I say fifth generation but, although my mother knew how, she was never interested in practicing, so it depends on how you look at it. I read a Waite Rider deck. I also have a Zodiac deck which can be pretty temperamental and a French deck which belonged to my great-great grandmother. I don't touch it much for fear of the paper crumpling in my hands.   
> So when I talk about tarot in the context of the Harry Potter novels, I'm mainly filling in the huge gaps looming in what Rowling provided with my own knowledge and experience. I based Draco's reading more on the Waite Rider because it's so widely accepted these days. I also find that the inclusion of CG Jung's archetypes makes this deck more accessible than most earlier standards--my crumbly, ancient French deck included.  
> Chat at me about tarot if you're so inclined. It's a topic I'm steeped in and enjoy a good cuppa over. Or something stronger.


	32. Beretta: Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your popcorn, kids. The Dark Lord striketh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** magical battle, violence, violent character death

 

 

_I'm up in the woods,_

_I'm down on my land._

_I'm building a still_

_To slow down time._

 

“Woods”

Bon Iver

 

 

Try as he might, Harry was still crap at Occlumency. 

He was improving by leaps and bounds—he still wasn't as accomplished as someone like Draco, steeped in the neutral magics since the he was in nappies, but he never expected to be. Moody still got into his mind, stealing snippets of Quidditch practices and snogging Ginny but nothing more. As soon as the old man touched on the last two weeks of August Harry snapped, bucking the seasoned Auror out of his mind with a barrage of nasty hexes, all cast non-verbally and in rapid succession. It was concluded that Harry's best line of defense would be an aggressive offense. While he couldn't repel the mental probe itself, he could make its caster miserable for every second the connection held. He could strike while Moody's own defenses were down, attention absorbed in casting the complex charm. Harry knew his strengths and wasn't afraid to use them. Their practice left them both sweaty and aching—the older gentleman actually conjuring a cane to help support his weight as he hobbled to the wall where Harry crouched, relying on his thighs to hold himself in a sitting position with his back flush to the cool stone wall. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his spine like a shower of sweat, his white tshirt soaked through and the pits already starting to yellow. He smelled ripe and couldn't care less. He lifted his wand to his parted, panting lips, casting _Aguamenti_. Drinking greedily, he watched Mad-Eye hobble his tired way over. 

“Very good, boy,” Moody offered gruffly. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket, mopping his drenched, dripping brow. “Quite... excellent. That Malfoy chap been teaching yeh?” 

Harry nodded absently. Then his head fell back to the chilled stone, eyes drifting closed. Rivers of sweat were diverted by his eyebrows, missing his eyelids by centimeters. Physically he was alright: he pushed himself so much harder than this on his morning jogs, it wasn't even funny. This was like a warm up. He was used to being fawn-legged and breathless. He'd learned to work through that place a long time ago, graduating to a plane where he could tolerate a great deal of gasping discomfort and keep right on going like it was nothing. It was the expulsion of so much magic that had him psychologically drained. He was ready for the nice big pitcher of sweetened tea he'd left in the icebox at Grimmauld place. He was ready to fall into bed like a dead man. If he didn't set multiple alarms, he was in danger of oversleeping tomorrow's run. 

They were deep in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, unofficial guests of the Auror's Office, strictly after-hours and off-the-record. The department had big rooms set up for combat training, the floors padded with a rubbery material spelled to prevent any serious injuries from trainees landing too hard or falling the wrong way. Those spells were a God-send, too. Some of the larger rooms had walls reinforced with the stuff. Normally these rooms were all booked for trainings or spell re-application but Harry and Moody found themselves in one of the larger rooms due mostly to the lateness of the hour. This one was a long rectangle like a shoe box, exposed stone walls and its own equipment closet. The dungeon-like smell was familiar but the rubber was not; it's sterilized, muggle-hospital-like smell juxtaposed against the scents of stone, age-old dust and so much reinforcing magic it made the insides of your cheeks tingle the second you set foot in the room.

The well-honed muscles of Harry's legs were solid, holding his sitting pose against the stone, trainers gripping the rubbery mat under his feet. His hair hurt. His skin hurt. It felt like all the curses and counter-curses were still lingering outside him, the magic buffeting his skin like a tide that refused to move with the moon, refused to recede no matter what he did. At least it wasn't in his head, in the fluid of his joints or the marrow of his bones. He could sleep this off. He would. There was just one more thing he wanted to ask Moody and then they could call it a night. The wizard already had some idea, having been in and out of Harry's head like a crowd of cigarette-smoking uni students on a pub crawl—except every pub had been his poor mind, memories drug out into the street, stolen like souvenir tankards. He summoned the strength to push himself away from the wall, standing upright with a hand in his back pocket as Moody stopped before him. 

“Yeh wanted somethin' else?” 

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “It's complicated and I can't tell you everything but... I think it has to do with the night my parents died,” Moody gave a simple, silent nod for him to go on. “I know my mum cast some kind of charm that protected me. I'm starting to think Voldemort lef—” 

“You mustn't say The Name,” Moody growled, surging forward as though about to clamp a hand over Harry's insubordinate mouth. Harry quirked an eyebrow, stopping the older man in his tracks. The Auror elaborated. “There's trouble afoot. Things are 'appenin' on the other side, as yer no doubt aware. At one time there were powerful binding charms on tha' name. There may be again. It's best to be safe and alive than brave and dead.” 

“I understand,” Harry conceded, bowing his head ever so slightly as a deferential “thank you.”

“Yeh think You-Know-Who left something on yeh? Somethin' tha' got past whatever yer mother did an' is still there after all this time?” 

“Yes and no,” he shrugged one shoulder. “I know he's done this spell before. Always on inanimate objects, though—magical objects, sentimental objects. Things he finds important for one reason or another. I'm still debating whether or not he can do it to a living being. Dumbledore thought You-Know-Who did it to his snake, Nagini, which makes me think it's a possibility. Do the Aurors have a scanning spell for that, a way to detect Dark Arts inside a person used like a vessel for magic?” 

“We do for inanimate objects, o' course,” Moody confirmed. “I'll teach it ter yeh if yer interested. Living things, especially magical beings like wizards—tha's difficult. There's no way ter distinguish between the cast magic and tha' of the host.” 

“Could you try anyway?” Harry pushed. “Just to be sure? I've exhausted all my other resources on this one.” Hermione had speculated that having a Horcrux in a living thing would eventually corrupt the host, the Dark Magic of the splintered soul leaking into the being until it was consumed. It was a bleak scenario but one he was forced to consider. Her conclusion was based in part of the fact that, while the Tom Riddle of the diary and present-day Voldemort had possessed Ginny and Harry, respectively, the magic had had concrete housing—either the diary or Voldemort's own body. It seemed he could move his soul parts, shuffling them around quite liberally but he also tended to house them, tuck them somewhere safe when not in use. After much posturing and several feet of reasoned and researched parchment read out to him from the floo in McGonagall's office, Hermione offered her humble opinion that Harry couldn't have a Horcrux in him. It had to be some other type of spell or cruse, maybe just a strong magical connection to this primary spec of Voldemort's soul forged through the Killing Curse and housed in Harry's conspicuous bloody scar. He wanted Hermione to be right; he really, really did. But something in the back of his mind kept pushing for confirmation. Dumbledore had thought that Voldemort's snake familiar was something more. If Voldemort could wedge a piece of his soul in that snake, why not a squalling baby boy? And Voldemort was the kind of evil that would murder a happy young couple and then insert a part of himself in their defenseless child as a slimy sort of final retribution.

“I'll do my best, Harry,” Moody spoke slowly. He had his wand in hand but not raised just yet. “Yeh say it's a spell he cast on yeh when yeh were a baby? I'm lookin' fer residue, then?” 

“No,” Harry shook his head, not wanting to explain more than he had to. “The scar is residue enough. This would be more than that. I think he left something... inside of me. For safe keeping.”

Harry would have elaborated—Lord knows with what, exactly—but Moody was already reacting. And not very well. Disbelief washed over his mangled face, lips puckering and then out-right pursing in poorly disguised amusement. He thought Harry was joking.

“Well, that's kind of a poofter idea, innit?” Moody replied. His face lit up, an obscene joke coming on. “I mean, how exactly do yeh propose he'd get it in yer?” He mimed taking something in his hands—a bundle or perhaps someone's ass—and thrust it into his crotch a few times. The Auror then exploded in hooting laughter. When Harry didn't laugh one bit he looked up, flush-faced from giggles and a hand heavily braced on his conjured cane. At the stony expression on Harry's face, he stilled completely. “'Ave I said somethin', Harry?” 

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. He was going to say it again. He took a deep, calming breath before pronouncing the foreign words. They still didn't feel real, didn't feel right, but it was a scrap of reality and he was sticking to it. “I _am_ a poofter. Pillow biter, shirt lifter, faggott, uphill gardener—” At that, Moody cut him off with a wave of one gnarled hand. The expression on his face was ten types of uncomfortable.

“Okay! Dinna mean ter offend yeh. I had no idea!” He scratched the side of his head while his magical eye roved over Harry in a curious new light. “Yeh don't strike me as the type, is all. Yeh sure?” 

“I haven't thought about it, honestly,” Harry shrugged. “I'm just... stuffing one.” 

“Well!” Moody chortled again, glad to have Harry figured out. He gave his cane a good thump to the bouncy padded floor. “Yer not  _really_ a bender, then—the other bloke is.” 

“Actually, I lied.” Harry gulped. Was it always going to be this awkward and difficult telling people? “He's the one doing the buggering. I might be the real fairy in our... relationship.” 

“Then yer a poofter fer sure,” Moody said with finality. “No judgment or anythin'. I'm just sayin' yeh are.” 

Harry nodded, still learning to accept the words assigned to what was going on with himself and Draco, what he was. Harry Potter involved with another man—he was getting used to the idea along with everyone else. 

“Well, let's have a look-see,” Moody grumbled, raising his wand. “Hold still, then.” He ran his wand over Harry while muttering a complex incantation, occasionally frowning at things Harry couldn't see. His brows drew down and he observed the magic for several minutes before lowering his wand with a sigh. 

“Defiantly somethin',” the Auror concluded. “Couldn't tell yeh what it is, though, an' I thought I'd seen just about everything. Yeh be careful.” 

Harry nodded, his fears and suspicions confirmed.

“Will do. Whadaya say we get outta here?” he offered hopefully. 

“Smartest thing yeh've said all evein',” the old wizard teased, voice raspy. He Summoned his cloak, slipping hands through the sleeves hovering in midair behind him. He withdrew a thick envelope from his breast pocket, already secured with his own wax and magic seals. “I jus' have ter wrangle a Ministry owl fer this on the way out. Former colleague o' mine is involved in some promising research—perhaps a little too _experimental_ fer most folks these days,” Moody provided with a knowing smirk. “He's seen a lot a' support since leavin' the Ministry. I'd almost say gettin' sacked was the best thing what coulda happened to him.” 

“And you think he'd be willing to help us?” 

“The Order? Possibly,” Moody shifted his weight, testing his leg. “Ole boy won't touch the Ministry—really pulled the rug out from under 'em, they did. Takes an ocean between 'em ter keep the peace these days. Leon was always a wild card, though. Did amazin' things with a wand! One o' the best Aurors we had in the first war and a real decent man. Yer father was one a' his biggest supporters.”

Leon. Harry stored the name away. Moody didn't hand out praise regularly yet this man, Leon, had genuinely impressed him. His having been on good terms with James Potter actually made Harry more wary than comforted. Harry couldn't help but think of Peter Pettigrew, whom his parents had trusted with their lives only to have their faith betrayed. Harry would hang back and see what this “Leon” fellow put in his reply. 

Harry dug his Invisibility cloak from his bag. It had belonged to Sirius, probably when he'd been at Hogwarts. The bag was a faded green canvas duffel with a thick, slightly fraying strap that went over his shoulder and across his chest. There were only a few things inside at present—his leather jacket, two books, spare parchment and an assortment of muggle pens because Harry was paranoid about ink bottles cracking inside the bag and staining everything. There was a big navy stain on the canvas that wouldn't come out despite many applications of spells and good old fashioned soap and water. Harry liked to imagine that his father or perhaps Remus had cast a charm at Sirius' retreating back during some stupid quarrel, rupturing an ink bottle and making the damage permanent. He stroked the splotch. With so few contents, the extra fabric of the bag hung limp, curling around his hip. It was a good bag, solid and sturdy. Harry settled the belt-like strap across his chest before flinging his Invisibility cloak over his shoulders. 

Once securely hidden, Moody gestured for Harry to walk along beside him. They entered the warren of tunnels and passageways that dominated this part of the department, passing a few Aurors and cleaning staff as they walked the chilly underground halls. Soon, Moody muttered away his cane, walking with a purpose. 

They were nearing the lift when the stone around them seemed to tremble. Harry imagined it was like being in a bomb shelter when missiles dropped above ground. Moody's hand shot out to his side, halting Harry in much the same way muggle car drivers would throw out a hand to brace their passenger at a particularly abrupt stop. Dust particles were loosened from gaps between the stone, drifting down from the ceiling's cracks in thin sheets like rain in the distance. They were too deep below ground to hear anything. It was just a flutter, a ripple. But stone shouldn't ripple, shouldn't quaver like a musical saw under an expert bow. Harry blinked rapidly, lashes warding off the stone dust that threatened to sneak through the fastenings of his cloak. The air was thick. Something wasn't right. 

There came a second ripple followed quickly by a third, stronger. And then a booming gong sounded, amplified by magic to reach every nook and cranny, every corridor. After several deafening peals, a witch's voice came, breathless and equally magnified. 

“Witches and Wizards, this is not a test. The Atrium has been breached. All Aurors to stations. Nonessential staff are to evacuate immediately. I repeat, this is not a test. Atrium Security ha—” her voice cut off abruptly. 

Harry didn't realize he was running until she stopped; only then could he hear Moody huffing and puffing behind him, struggling to keep up. 

“Boy!” the old Auror said, looking right at him with his magical eye. “I'm getting you out of here.”

“We're not gonna stay and fight?” Harry sputtered. “What—” 

“No,” Moody took him by the shoulder to turn him down a hallway leading away from the lifts. Already the few Aurors they'd seen in the corridors were assembling, wands at the ready. Hurried off, Harry got his wand out beneath his cloak. When they were far enough down the hall, Moody whispered to him, still somewhere between a fast clip and an outright jog. “Yer my primary responsibility. We're going back to You-Know-Where an' contacting the _tabis felis_ , yeah?”

Tabby cat... McGonagall. Harry nodded his understanding, rushing down the hall as fast as Moody's legs would go. The booming gong went off a few more times but it seemed the announcement witch was done for. They reached a designated Apparition area which Moody scanned for tampering. He soon decided it was too risky and moved on to a presumably more elite exit point. They encountered Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt spelling open the door of a restricted room. Seeing Alastor Moody approach and knowing his business at the Ministry this hour, Shacklebolt opened the door for him, knowing Harry was in tow but unable to see him. The door snicked closed behind them. Wands out, all three wizards cast nonverbal spells at the room's sole door. 

“The Death Eaters?” Moody growled. Shacklebolt nodded, pushing up a sleeve of his deep purple robes. He wore an arm guard of silvery-blue dragon hide which holstered not one but two spare wands. If Harry had to guess, he'd say the bracer was made of Swedish Short-Snout—the best. There was a good chance the leather substitute was dripping with defensive spells, too. Shacklebolt drew one of the spare wands so that he held a weapon in each hand.

“More than we expected,” Shacklebolt said in a rush, his deep timbre rolling off the stone walls rather than echoing. “A hundred, at least. We're moving the Minister. You keep him safe,” he jutted his chin in the direction he presumed Harry to be in. Harry hadn't removed the Invisibility cloak. He was actually on Moody's other side, not that it made a difference. 

Moody and Shacklebolt exchanged a slow, severe look. They were veterans of the first war. They knew what was coming. 

Shacklebolt Apparated, not a moment to lose. Moody stuck his arm out to Harry. 

“Wand at the ready,” he spoke the command in his typical gruff. The no-nonsense tone was oddly comforting. Moody was a constant, extended arm as steady as though he were reaching for one of Mrs. Weasley's gooey breakfast pastries instead of the boy who was expected to end the wars. Harry took the proffered arm with his free hand, Moody facing one direction and Harry the other in order to be covered from all angles when they arrived. Wands raised and jaws clenched, they Apparated away. 

 

 

Harry recognized the dumpster, the dreary brick walls, even the familiar array of cars parked along one side of the street. They were three blocks from Grimmauld Place. This was the same alleyway he and Draco used. Moody had Apparated them through two Public Apparition Points before landing here, just in case the Ministry exit point had been tampered with. It was a standard precaution taken by the Auror Department during times of action. Harry couldn't pop between places with the blazing speed that Moody could. He'd only just gotten the hang of Apparition a few weeks ago when Draco had explained it, snapping between the kitchen, parlor and entry with lightning precision. Harry bet the blonde a blow job that he couldn't land one-footed on a knut: he lost that bet. 

Alastor Moody sent out a series of probing spells, his body Disillusioned beside Harry. 

“Clear,” he whispered. “Fer now. Hurry.” 

They made their way up the shadowy street at a quick clip, each walking slightly sideways to keep a shoulder or elbow in contact as they scanned the street in every direction. How big was the run on the Ministry? Over a hundred, Shacklebolt had said. But Voldemort had more followers than that if you included other countries. Things were bad in France, Belgium and all through the Mediterranean. Just the other day _The Prophet_ had run an article about an Italian witch recently widowed with two young children. Her body had been discovered by Aurors on her front lawn, brutally raped and murdered. Her kids were nowhere to be found. Her husband had been a prominent politician of muggle parentage while she was practically pureblood. It was a message—good blood wouldn't redeem a traitor in Voldemort's eyes. Harry tightened his grip on his wand, keeping his vision sharp and his senses on alert. The Death Eaters would do worse than that if they got hold of Draco. 

Were Dementors moving on the Ministry, too? Werewolves? Remus was being secreted around almost as much as Harry. Persecuted by wizarding society and no longer trusted by his own kind after turning up at the end-of-term battle at Hogwarts, Remus had become the Secret Keeper for Grimmauld Place. Now the werewolf moved between safe houses, sequestered during the necessary moon phases. Harry had no idea who was brewing his Wolfsbane Potion now. As far as he knew, Professor Slughorn wasn't about to join the Order and lend a helping hand. Someone must be doing it, though, because Remus looked physically alright—though emotionally destroyed. 

They were within sight of Grimmauld Place's steep front steps, no more than ten or twelve meters away. At the same moment, both Harry and Moody spotted movement in opposite directions. Harry could make out figures emerging from the shadows across the street. There were yet more hooded figures now visible fore and aft, all approaching the steps of Grimmauld Place without being able to see the house itself. Most of the muggle lights were out, leaving them in the patchy light of street lamps. The Death Eaters sensed Moody, perhaps Harry as well. There looked to be six or seven of them, maybe more. The darkness made it hard to say for sure. 

“Yeh make a run fer it, Harry,” Moody said under his breath, squeezing Harry's wrist once—hard—before letting go completely. “I'll hold 'em off. Go.” 

The Death Eaters were moving fast, wands raised and white masks faintly glowing in the weak yellow light. Even if Harry sprinted, the cloaked wizards would close in on them both before he reached the stairs.

“Is zat yoo, Potter?” called an arrogant male voice with a heavy accent. He spoke while crossing the street, his jog an elegant sort of glide despite his size. “Children shoold not be out so late at night, yoo know.” 

Another Death Eater, similar height but slighter, shouldered the speaker out of the way. 

“'Ee is mine,” the second man snarled. 

Harry knew that second voice—it had featured in a few of his nightmares lately; that purring, seductive rumble. Even warped with anger, Harry knew. It was Philippe Didier. Harry continued edging away from Moody, one eye on Didier and the other on the Frenchman's closing companions, waiting for a break in the ranks large enough to slip through. 

Didier aimed his wand at the Disillusioned form of Mad-Eye Moody, as did all his fellows. At least that meant they couldn't detect Harry. He and Moody had the element of surprise—and boy were these Death Eaters going to be shocked to find they didn't have The Boy Who Lived but one of England's most celebrated Aurors! Harry's fingers twitched beneath his cloak. 

Moody threw the first curse, revealing himself. A bolt of twisting orange and white light shot from his wand, catching the large man beside Didier in the chest. The man let out a howl of pain just before the curses flew in earnest. 

Moody cast an impressive Shielding Charm before Stupefying the howling man, diving out of the closing circle in the gap made by his falling body. The men all charged across the street after him. 

“That's not Potter!” one declared in a London accent. 

“ _Trou duc'!_ Get eem anyway!” Didier shouted. 

Harry shot a jinx at Didier's back, knocking him down and giving Moody and his sore leg an extra second. When Harry turned back, the remaining Death Eaters were nearly on top of him. They were about to crash into him! Knowing his presence would be discovered no matter what he did, Harry screwed his eyes shut and concentrated. With a stiff _pop_ , he reappeared in the parlor of Grimmauld Place. He whirled around, shoving the curtains aside to look out the window. 

Three Death Eaters down, another five standing. Two were still looking around stupidly, probably shouting that they'd heard someone Disapparate. He heard Didier's shriek of fury, his pretty face to the pavement. 

Harry was safe inside the house. He could stand on the front steps stark fucking naked and the Death Eaters wouldn't be able to see him because of the Fidelus Charm. Why wasn't Moody Apparating away? Had one of the Death Eaters set up an Anti-Apparition Jinx? Between the Fidelus Charm and the protection of his Invisibility cloak, Harry could help. He ran for the front door, wrenching it open. 

There was a mighty flash of green light. Harry was momentarily blinded. When his vision returned it was to find Alastor Moody slumped dead in the middle of the street. His body was surrounded by Death Eaters. 

“You think that was Potter with him?” asked a voice Harry recognized as Amycus Carrow. 

“Of course,” Didier scoffed, healing palms scraped and bloodied from his fall. “'Ee is not at Hogwarts and zis is his house.” 

One of the men on the ground was beginning to stir. The other was not and his comrades paid him no mind. He must've been dead. Carrow shrugged before taking a knee beside Moody, preparing to go through the corpse's pockets. 

Fuck, the letter! Harry didn't have a second to loose. He raised his wand, thinking _Accio letter to Leon_ with all his might. The letter flew out of Moody's breast pocket and into Harry's outstretched, invisible hand. 

Carrow stiffened, body language betraying his confusion. All the Death Eaters turned in the direction of Grimmauld Place, having seen the letter fly off in that direction before disappearing into thin air. That meant they still couldn't see Grimmauld Place. Remus was the Secret Keeper so that meant, wherever he was, he was alive.

“Potter!” Didier shouted, his head whipping around so fast that the hood of his cloak fell back, showing his sandy hair. His hand was a white-knuckled fist around his wand as he advanced as far as the sidewalk. “Get out 'ere and face me like a man!” he taunted. He followed with something in French that had his burly companion guffawing. Harry was glad he didn't know any translation spells. Didier had probably said something about him and Draco—the name “Malfoy” was clearly involved. If Harry understood, he'd undoubtedly rush out into the street and get himself killed. No wizard stood a chance in a fight that was seven on one, even if he _was_ invisible. Already the noise was drawing attention. Muggle lamps were lighting up windows, a few faces peering down at the street where three bodies lay, a crazy man in on the sidewalk waving a stick and screaming at nothing. It would only be precious seconds before someone called the police. 

Harry went back into Grimmauld Place, slamming the door behind himself and locking it with every spell his overactive mind could provide. He put Moody's letter inside his bag before darting to the library room. He fire-called McGonagall but she wasn't in her office. The next person he tried was Viktor Krum with no answer there, either. He tried the Burrow and thankfully got Mrs. Weasley. 

“Harry, Harry!” she cried, tears already on her face. “You're alright! We all thought you were at the Ministry!” 

“Alastor Moody got me out okay,” Harry began. And then he choked. He didn't know how to tell Mrs. Weasley that the man was dead, had died protecting him. So he didn't. “My house is surrounded by Death Eaters, though, and I can't reach McGonagall.” 

“She's at Shell Cottage,” Mrs. Weasley offered quickly. “We're supposed to have a Portkey over there soon. Come with us, Harry! Safety in numbers.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed. “Just let me grab a few things and I'll floo over.” 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry sat in the Weasley's living room less than ten minutes later, his duffel bag hastily stuffed with a change of clothes, another couple books and Slytherin's Locket. He'd placed the locket in his wand case before sealing it with as many charms as he could think of. He even chalked Draco's containment field rune on the underside of the box. His toes wouldn't stop wiggling in his trainers as he sat, squirming on the comfortable old sofa. Knowing he was potentially transporting a live Horcrux all across England was more unnerving than comforting. 

Fred and George stood by the fire, pacing alternate tracks across the rug. They had escaped attacks on Diagon Alley with only a few scrapes and bruises. Of course they'd booby trapped their shop before clearing out—they said you could hear the BOOMsand BANGs on the muggle side of London. 

The Order was gathering at Shell Cottage, Bill and Fleur's home. From what Harry understood, the Ministry was all but overrun. The Floo Network could go down at any moment. Anyone there was presumed dead or captured. Mr. Weasley had been out on assignment in Diagon Alley when the attacks began; Fred and George Apparated home with him. Now Mr. Weasley sat in his favorite armchair nursing a cuppa with a bag of ice on his head and several empty potion bottles littering the end table beside him. They were waiting for the “all clear,” waiting for someone to arrive with the Portkey that would ferry them to Shell Cottage. The violence was spreading and McGonagall didn't want anyone accidentally Apparating into the middle of a fight on the front lawn. 

Harry's toes continued to curl and uncurl in his socks. He hated waiting. It had been worse when he was alone in Grimmauld Place, though. Just him and Kreacher and the murderers outside. They'd killed the muggle police when they arrived; the female constable hadn't even had a chance to close the car door before the jet of eerie green light engulfed her. He could still hear Didier's throaty, purring laugh as the woman's lifeless body fell to the ground. They'd lit her patrol car on fire, trapping her partner inside. The man's dying screams had woken everyone on the street. Faces peered out, illuminated in the flickering light of the car fire. No one was stupid enough to come outside. They probably thought the Death Eaters were terrorists and this was the start of a war. They wouldn't be far off.

Harry had his usual stern words with Kreacher: no one in save me, no one out save me. The elf had operated under those orders for days but Harry felt the sudden need to repeat himself. Kreacher had nodded with a solemn, “yes, Master.” The elf knew to stay within the confines of Grimmauld Place unless called for specifically by Harry. Or Draco. He didn't think Draco would ever call the creature but he left it as an option, just in case. You never knew. 

Mrs. Weasley bustled into the living room with a fresh bag of ice for her husband as well as another Pain Relieving Potion. She tutted over him for a few minutes before turning her attentions to Fred and George. 

“Would you stop with that pacing, boys?” she huffed, rolling her eyes. “You'll wear a hole in the carpet if you keep going like that! And Harry dear, do you need anything?” 

“I'm okay, Mrs. Weasley.” 

Just then the fire lit up bright green. Fred and George jumped back, making room for the person emerging from the flames. It turned out to be Remus Lupin. He looked frantic, not bothering to brush the ash from his robes. Charlie and Bill were seconds behind him. 

“DAD!” Charlie called out, rushing for his father slumped in that favorite old armchair. “We just heard. Are you okay?” 

“Bill, Remus, what's going on?” Harry spoke in a calm, authoritative tone, rising to his feet. He could tell by their frazzled expressions that plans were about to change. Remus took in Harry, Fred and George rather sadly before speaking. 

“We just received word there's a group of Death Eaters massing outside Ravenwood,” Remus said. Ravenwood was one of the Order's safe houses in Madrid. It was where Dima and his band of runaways were hiding out along with a few other witches and wizards the Order had rescued along the way. “Flemming must be dying somewhere in the Ministry because the Fidelus Charm is breaking down. They'll be sending the Inferi soon. We need defenders. They're talking about a complete evacuation.” 

“We're in,” Fred and George offered in unison. Each had a rucksack of tricks from the joke shop and by the determined looks on their faces, they weren't afraid to use everything in their makeshift arsenal. Mrs. Weasley let out a little sob against Charlie's muscular chest. His brawny arms were the only thing keeping his mother upright. 

“I'll go, too,” Harry piped up. If he went to Shell Cottage he'd only be sitting on his thumbs some more. He couldn't tolerate the thought. He hadn't been trained to sit around and do nothing; young though he was, his knowledge and experience could potentially save lives and he knew it. It was selfish _not_ to go, _not_ to help the people who believed in him and needed him the most right now.

“You'll do no such thing,” Remus insisted, giving Harry a stern once over. “I understand you've already been attacked tonight. You're a target, Harry. You'll go to Shell Cottage with the others. Minerva sent us with Portkeys. They're set to activate in five minutes, so everyone get ready.” 

Harry sat back on the sofa with a huff, folding his arms across his chest. Charlie continued to offer calming words to his mother as Bill conversed with his father. Fred and George opened their rucksacks, reviewing the contents in hushed voices, deciding how to best utilize their supplies. Remus sat in a spare armchair, eying Harry. He seemed to know exactly what the Chosen One was thinking. 

Five minutes passed quickly. Soon they were standing in two little circles around the Portkeys. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were going to Shell Cottage with Bill and Harry while the twins, Charlie and Remus went to Ravenwood. Harry stood with the twins at his back. They seemed to know what he was planning, too. Bill was counting down, one hand on the dinner plate Portkey and the other bringing his wristwatch closer to his face. 

“Five, four, three, two....” 

Harry felt a hand grab him by the back of the neck, pulling him around. Another snatched up his wrist, guiding his fingers to the leather bound novel that served as the second Portkey. Remus let out a growl and Mrs. Weasley squawked in alarm. 

“One.” 

It was too late. Fred and George had commandeered Harry at the last second. He felt the familiar, nauseating tug behind his navel and he was off to the Battle of Ravenwood. 

 

 

They landed with a thud. Seconds later, Harry felt a pair of strong hands seize him by the upper arms, shaking him. 

“You fool!” Remus screamed in his face. “What the hell do you think you're doing?! You can't be here—you'll be killed!” 

Instead of panicking, Harry merely brushed a hand against the wand in his front pocket, casting a Light Shield strong enough to throw Remus stumbling back several steps. Fred and George balked at his sides. The spell wouldn't repel them but they didn't know that. Light Shields were dangerous magic because they functioned entirely on the caster's perception rather than reality. Harry was angry with Remus for grabbing him, yelling at him like a fucking child, and so the spell classified him as someone not to be trusted due to his emotional state despite the truth of the matter. Neutral magic like Light Shields wasn't so much as mentioned in the curriculum at Hogwarts. Only places like Durmstrang or the Salem Institute supported the notion that knowledge of such things was still necessary. Draco had learned from tutors—people like his father and Severus Snape, people who made it their business to know all sorts of old magic. And Draco turned around to teach Harry everything he knew.

Remus was gaping, shocked but still fuming from three meters away.

“Remus,” Charlie cautioned, one big hand curling around the werewolf's upper arm, gently drawing him back a bit more. “Let's not press the matter. Harry's an adult. We can't make his decisions for him.” 

“Thank you,” Harry bowed his head in Charlie's direction. “I'm hardly defenseless, Remus. And this is where I need to be. I'm not going to end this by cowering in a safe-house. I know you think I'm running into danger without thinking,” he let that statement hang a moment, let the blatant reference to Sirius sink in. “But let me assure you that I've thought this through. Our best witches and wizards are massing here. I need to see what we've got as well as what we're up against. And I have my Invisibility Cloak. I'll be fine. It's the Death Eaters outside who should be worried.” 

Fred and George gave a loud “huzzah” and that was that. Remus backed down, extending a defeated hand that Harry and the others should precede him out of the food pantry they'd Portkeyed into. Harry flipped on his cloak, following Fred and George into the kitchen of a large, rather beautiful manor house. The place retained many of its rustic qualities while still being modern and sophisticated. Whoever owned this home was a stylish person with enormous wealth and refined taste. The hall was decorated with tapestries and the occasional piece of antique furniture. It was a large and grand house. They passed through two salons before Harry heard the group of witches and wizards gathered in a large room up ahead. 

They were assembled in what could only be described as an elegant and old fashioned ballroom decorated in shades of green and gold, large windows overlooking an impressive gardened courtyard. The house itself was a sort of horse shoe shape, the stately ballroom looking out over the courtyard and onto the lane where shapes swirled, darker than the darkness. Already, the Dementors seemed aware that there was something beyond the Fidelus Charm, the way their cloaked heads twisted toward the house, sensing the movement of warm, fearful bodies within. If the Secret Keeper really was dying at the Ministry, they had only an hour, perhaps minutes, until the Dementors and God knew what else broke through. Whatever attacked, it would be hell-bent on death and destruction.

Harry took in the crowd of people—Aurors, Order members and refugees, lots of them sporting ripped and dirtied robes from hard-fought skirmishes, a few injuries here and there and everyone looking drawn and panicked. Two people at the front of the ballroom stole Harry's attention. Minister Rufus Scrimgeour conversed in low tones with Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister's head wrapped in white bandages as he sipped from a bottle of Butterbeer. The Aurors closest to him all sported injuries of some sort. One bloke sat in a chair looking pale and positively boneless from the waist down, several of his colleagues working on his legs as a wheezened old wizard with a long white beard offered him a smoking potion vial. If Harry had to take a guess he'd say that wherever the Minister had removed himself to, the location hadn't been as secure as he'd thought. Now he and his security detail were under the protection of the Order of The Phoenix. Oh, how the tides had shifted. 

Remus and Charlie approached Shacklebolt, passing information and instructions from McGonagall. The big man nodded solemnly before turning to the crowd, signaling for silence. It spoke volumes that he didn't turn to the Minister before issuing his battle orders. 

“The Ministry has fallen,” he announced in his deep voice. Waves of shock rolled through those assembled. “The Ministries of countless other countries remain under siege; additionally, there have been attacks on Diagon Alley and Harry Potter's home. Potter is safe, as are Hogsmeade, Hogwarts and Beaubattons. At this point, it is impossible to speculate who or what is the intended target. For now, our strategy is to gather what we can and retreat, preserving as many allied lives as possible in order to fight another day. We have a team working on Portkeys to confirmed safe locations. We'll be moving an advance team to establish perimeters on these final destinations before ferrying over in groups. The wounded will go first, followed by our refugees. Auror Williamson will be taking volunteers for the rear guard,” he signaled a blonde wizard standing by a table stacked with Butterbeer and half empty bowls of fruit. “We have, at most, thirty minutes; however, the Dementors could breach our wards in as little as five. Portkeys will depart from the crypt and wine cellar, where the estate's ancestral seals are strongest. Healer Purlish, please see the injured escorted downstairs.” 

The elderly wizard with the long beard nodded knowingly before returning to his collection of patients, several on magical stretchers and the rest huddled on the floor with blankets, nursing potions or small meals of Butterbeer and fruit. 

Fred and George made a beeline for Auror Williamson, undoubtedly to offer their services and supplies toward the effort of staying the enemy until everyone had been evacuated. 

Harry snuck toward Shacklebolt, who appeared to be in charge. Already a group of witches and wizards were gathering around him like a council, each preparing to offer a piece of strategy or advice. Under his Invisibility cloak, Harry ducked in easily before the circle closed its ranks. He listened to the group, not knowing anyone's name and recognizing only a few faces. These were mostly Aurors who either wouldn't ally with the Order before or couldn't be trusted with the knowledge Order members possessed. But now that everyone's backs were against the wall, a certain level of mutual trust had been established. The Order and the Ministry were working together to save lives. 

The plan was to divide into three teams, one on the ground in the courtyard, the second on the upper floors and even the roof, and the third moving between the two on broomsticks, passing information and providing additional cover for the witches and wizards on the ground. Those on the upper floors would support the ground troops with cover fire as well as maintaining the Anti-Apparition Jinxes preventing the Death Eaters from getting further into the house. They would also need to ward against the Dementors as best they could so that those on the ground could keep fighting. The council was discussing ways of deflecting the Inferi when Harry felt the overwhelming need to speak up. The consensus was that there was no known spell to destroy Inferi and only fire could damage or dissuade them. 

“What about Eptir Eldr?” Harry asked. “Has anyone ever tried it?” 

Wands were drawn in quick succession, several people backing up or looking around for the source of the disembodied voice. Harry remembered he had the cloak on—idiot. He removed it, showing himself. People gasped. A few applauded upon seeing The Chosen One in their midst. 

“Well?” Harry insisted. “It works remarkably well against Dark Magic. For all we know, it might even do some damage to the Dementors.” 

“I've never even heard of that spell,” Scrimgeour admitted. He'd been the head of the Auror Office before becoming Minister, so that was saying something. Harry was feeling more and more as though he'd introduced a yellow spotted pygmy puff to the room as his wife and no one had the heart to tell him he was barmy. 

“Where are the Ionescue brothers?” Harry inquired instead. “And the other guys from Durmstrang? They were supposed to be staying here. They might be able to do it, provided I can teach them in time.” Most of the assembled group shrugged, unaware there were such powerful wizards hiding amongst the refugees. It wasn't that the Durmstrang run-aways were powerful in the way that Voldemort was or Dumbledore had been—but knowledge was power. And between them, those guys held a wealth of forbidden knowledge.

A runner was sent and soon Dima and Misha were brought forward, Nebojsa between them. It looked as though the brothers had insisted on the third man's presence, the way they walked shoulder to shoulder, Misha's hand at Nebojsa's elbow, guiding him along like prison guards escorting a skittish charge. Their expressions were dark, surly and distrustful until they set eyes on Harry. Then the men were all smiles, shaking his hand and addressing him by first name, as he did them. Dmitry and Nebojsa each leaned forward, placing a hand to his shoulder and administering a whiskery kiss to his cheek. Dima got his right cheek, Nebojsa his left. Though their motives could have been political, their sincere faces and warm handshakes made him believe they intended the greeting in terms of friendship, as it was perceived and practiced back home—they were saying he was accepted, one of them.

Feeling the need for secrecy, Harry addressed Nebojsa. 

“ _How good are you chaps with the Dark Arts?_ ” he posed his query in a low hiss. The collection of older witches and wizards gave a collective start of surprise before outright staring, their own tactical discussion all but forgotten. Nebojsa's handsome face was unreadable, icy blue eyes narrowed to slits at either side of his long, bent nose, acknowledging the sudden attention with a wary mien. “ _Just ignore them,_ ” Harry shrugged. 

“ _I sssuppose it would depend on the sssspell,_ ” he replied modestly. 

People fell to gasping all over again. Parselmouths were extremely rare yet the Order had two in this very room. The general public hadn't heard the rumor that Harry Potter could speak snake tongue—and those who had heard overwhelmingly chose to dismiss it as fabrication and fiction, not wanting to believe such a thing of the great Harry potter. People didn't want to think their Golden Boy had a power like that, something Dark and seedy. But how else did they expect him to beat Voldemort? Run the bastard through with a lance of pure goodness and plucky, go-getter spirit? No. He needed power. 

“ _It's a Norse fire spell, Eptir Eldr,_ ” Harry explained. “ _Takes a lot of concentration and kinda knocks the wind out of you but I think it might do some damage to the Inferi, possibly the Dementors, too. You boys feel like fighting tonight?_ ” It was a cocky way to ask for a favor but Nebojsa saw the humor. The Serb offered him a lopsided smile. Beside him, Dima gave Harry a firm nod. Harry did a double take. 

“ _My love hasss been undersssstanding me of late. But he cannot ssspeak back. There are no ssspeakers in hisss family, yet he is undersssstanding just the ssssame_ ,” they both cast sideways glances at Dima. The brunet made a fat-lip-biting, sandy-eyebrow-quirking face to say he was picking up every word.

“ _That's... odd,_ ” Harry said dumbly. 

“ _We will try your ssspell,_ ” Nebojsa confirmed with a slow, somber nod. It looked like he'd shaved his head recently and the black fuzz was just starting to grow back. He smiled ruefully, thin mouth turning up in what wasn't quite a smile. “ _I cannot guarantee ressssultsss._ ” 

“Of course,” Harry returned to English before Kingsley and his council shit themselves. 

“Put us on zhe rear team, regardless,” Dima piped up, his voice almost as deep as Shacklebolt's. He had the quality of voice that reverberated pleasantly in your chest whenever he spoke. It was nice, almost comforting, that rumble of lyric _basso profundo_. Harry could understand why Dima was the front man of their little operation while Nebojsa was the mysterious man behind the curtain. “Mishenka and I vill be your flying targets.”

Misha's honey colored eyes went wide. His face said he couldn't believe what his brother was agreeing to—whatever it was, he was happy about it. Nebojsa looked far less pleased. He began speaking in rapid Serbo-Croatian, snapping something at Dima under his breath. Dima held up a hand, silencing him. Dima looked to his brother, giving a few quick instructions. The younger man took off at a run, probably to gather the rest of the crew and inform them. 

“We'll need more than two men moving between,” Kingsley sighed. 

“Oh, ve'll be vith them,” Nebojsa snapped, throwing an arm around Harry's shoulders. Into Harry's ear, he hissed, “ _I would trust Misha with my own life. You'll be in good hands. And he's the fastest there is._ ” 

Utterly confused, Harry didn't have a chance to respond. Fred Weasley was approaching, calling out his name with George in tow. They each carried armloads of broomsticks and what could only be flying carpets. Either they were legal in Spain or the Ministry was willing to turn a blind eye. As it was, Shacklebolt and the Minister were deeply entrenched in conversation and paying the younger wizards little mind.

“Here, we snagged you a broom,” Fred announced. 

“A Cleansweep 3,” George pulled a face, holding out said broomstick. The tail twigs were all horribly bent. It looked like the brooms in Fred and George's arms hadn't seen maintenance since the twins were in nappies. Secretly, Harry thought he might be better off with one of the flying carpets. 

“Slow as hell but it's the best of the lot, mate,” Fred put in, seeing Harry's face.

“Hee vill not be needing _zhat_ ,” Dima scoffed. Fred and George squinted at the man's bruskness, making faces to communicate between themselves. They didn't like someone taking over, brother-ing Harry. That had been their territory since Hogwarts. “Harry can go vith me.” 

“Ne!” Nebojsa shot back. He continued in Parseltongue; whether because he was just that angry or because he wanted Harry to understand, it was unclear. “ _I'm too heavy for Misha and you know it! Lassst time he nearly died!_ ” 

Dima started to talk back but Nebojsa spoke over him.

“ _Mischenka is not as sssstrong as you! He is sssmaller, fassster. Harry is sssmall. Put them together, Dima. I'll go with you._ ” With a groaning sigh, the brunet gave in.

“ _What exactly—_ ” Harry began. 

“ _You wouldn't believe me if I told you,_ ” Nebojsa said, his eyes narrowed and darting around the room distrustfully. “ _If Misha can find the necessssary potionsss, you will see._ ” 

“Uh, Mr. Potter?” a voice cut in. It was Auror Williamson. “We have a place for you to teach us defenders that spell if you're ready. There isn't much time.” 

“Okay,” Harry agreed. “Let's go.” 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMERS:** “Woods” music and lyrics by by Justin Vernon, released by Jagjaguwar in 2008.


	33. Beretta: Life On A Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Secrets revealed and the Battle of Ravenwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** magical battle, implied minor/unnamed character deaths, vomiting, near-death experiences, Harry Potter may or may not kill a Death Eater (it's ambiguous)  
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** UGH. _UGH._ I hate you, _Beretta_. You and your action scenes and your subtle-like-a-brick subplot make me want to go back to historical romances, I swear to God. I am one explosion, one ricocheted spell away from abandoning you, you worthless heap of rot, excrement and decay. The only thing preserving your pathetic existence is several heart-wrenchingly beautiful sex scenes pre-written from Harry's perspective. You don't deserve them.

 

 

_I live on a chain_

_and you share the same last name_

_as a joke I sent a bottle of whiskey_

_as you choke, you said it made you feel dirty_

_I was waiting over here for life to begin_

_Just look at all the new things_

_You were the sunshine_

_in my front line_

_I was alone_

_and you were just around the corner from me_

 

“Life On A Chain”

Pete Yorn

 

 

 

Harry recognized Margie Gweir and Sturgis Podmore in the group he was instructing. Margie managed the ancient fire spell but Podmore wasn't having much luck. The Durmstrang guys had gotten the hang of it within five minutes—except for Chereshko. He was still struggling, standing a head taller than anyone else in the room and cursing, loudly and colorfully in multiple languages, each time his attempt to cast the fire spell failed. Nebojsa had gotten it on the first try, causing the empty Butterbeer bottle he was aiming at to explode in a fantastic show of white and blue flames. Harry cast simple color-changing charms on the bottles as fuel for the spell; without magic to be consumed, they wouldn't know if the spell was cast successfully. Just as Auror Williamson mastered Eptir Eldr with a triumphant whoop, Misha came sprinting in. 

The young Romanian went right for Nebojsa, pulling potion ampuls out of his pockets for inspection. The more phials he produced, the less pleased Nebojsa looked. It appeared that, whatever the brothers were planning, it was on. 

The dining room where they were practicing lit up in shades of orange, shadows flickering on the walls at the sudden light. The sound of muggle emergency sirens pierced the Fidelus Charm; their familiar, alternating low and high tones mutating, breaking down. The explosion came a few seconds later. People in the villa rushed to the windows, looking out into the street. Harry didn't have to see the car fires to know what was going on. The Death Eaters were warming up, spoiling for the fight to come. Inhuman black shapes quickly blocked their view of the carnage—the Dementors were sweeping in, coming closer to the house with each gliding, ghostly pass. 

“We don't have much time,” Harry said to Williamson. “I think we need to get into position.” 

“Alright, everyone!” the blond man spoke loudly, waving his hands over his head to attract attention. “I need everyone to move out and take your places. Flyers gather in the courtyard with the ground team and wait for my signal. Good luck, everyone.” 

Someone threw open the double doors and the defenders of Ravenwood streamed out into the hall. Harry caught sight of Remus and Charlie levitating an injured man down the stairs, meaning the evacuation was at least getting underway. The sooner they got these people out, the sooner they could abandon the place themselves. Fred and George caught Harry at the landing, shoving a nylon bag into his hands. 

“Two Portable Swamps and a pinch of Peruvian Darkness Powder,” George said in a rush. 

“Use 'em wisely, mate,” Fred added. “We might not be restocking for a while.” 

“Thanks,” Harry managed to get out before the twins were bolting down the stairs, magic carpets rolled up and slung around the backs of their necks like sports towels. Harry made to follow them but was stopped by several strong hands at his shoulders, elbows and waist. He didn't have to ask who was grabbing him, drawing him back—he could smell the clove cigarettes and testosterone. “We're supposed to head to the courtyard,” he protested feebly.

“Not yet,” Dima's voice rumbled close to his ear. “Vait. Ve need to check zhe stables.” 

Harry was about to ask why when he was distracted by Yura and Dušan coming out of a side corridor, a round ceramic jug and several half-full bottles of alcohol under their arms. They joined with the group, the men shepherding Harry down the hall to a servant's staircase at the back of the house. Three steep flights of crumbling stairs delivered them out into the rear gardens. A modern garage dominated the space, an old thatched-roof shed tucked behind it. That shed had to be the stables. 

The Durmstrang crew rushed the place, alcohol and a few broomsticks tossed aside on the grass. Wands lit, they threw open the stable doors and disappeared inside. A great deal of banging and clanking punctuated their progress within. It sounded as though they were ripping the place apart with magic; tools, hay and a few rusty horse shoes flew past the windows and open door, Nebojsa shouting instructions over the din in what sounded like Russian. Dima and Misha stayed outside with Harry. The brothers uncorked twin phials of neon green potion, toasting each other silently before downing the contents. Dima vanished the empty ampuls, grinning peacefully at Harry. 

“Ever ridden a horse before?” the brunet asked conversationally. 

“Er, not exactly,” Harry shrugged. “A couple of Hyppogriffs. And a Thestral, once, but never a regular horse.” 

“A Thestral?” Misha repeated, exchanging a significant look with his brother. 

“Yeah,” Harry said slowly. “My fifth year. It was kind of an emergency.”

“Looks like I'm getting lucky,” Misha smiled, running his tongue over his lower lip in a slow, blatant show of sensuality. Dima promptly cuffed his baby brother upside the head. 

Clumsy, bull-necked Vadik rushed out of the stables with what appeared to be an old wooden drawer in his hands. He held it out to Dima like a waiter would display a trolly of desserts. Harry peeked past their muscled, hairy arms to see a bunch of leather cords and pieces of metal—horse bits and reigns. Nebojsa came out a moment later, a very large saddle over his lanky shoulder, a tan blanket in one hand and a big metal bucket in the other. 

Harry felt his throat go dry. The Ionescues were Animagi; horses, to be exact. But Dima had told Shacklebolt that he and his brother would be “flying targets.” The only flying horses Harry knew of were Thestrals and Madame Maxime's Abraxans—the second about the size of elephants. The saddle Nebojsa carried would never fit one of those! That only left one option. 

Dima and Misha selected their bits and reigns, handing them to Nebojsa, who was busy tinkering with the saddle. His careful spellwork was carving out wing notches in the leather. Harry couldn't help feeling the smallest bit excited. The rest of the men picked up their broomsticks and—calling out undoubtedly lewd phrases and laughing—ran off toward the house. 

Dima flexed and rolled his bulky shoulders. Misha swung his arms like a gymnast limbering up before taking to the rings. They shared equally dopey grins before their forms began to shift, the air around them bending and clouding with an unpleasant glopping sound. Harry was ready to see some serious shit. He got a surprise. 

“Hey! I...” he stuttered loudly over the neighing, snorting and hoof stomping. “I thought you were Thestrals!”

“Zheir fazher is, as vos zheir brozher,” Nebojsa explained as the larger-than-life winged horses gambooled, trampling the neat flower beads to mush. They were almost nipping at each other like dogs, bolting and giving chase with spirited whinnies. Dima was easier to recognize, his auburn coloring a perfect match to his hair and beard in human form. Each strike of his giant hoof made the ground shudder like the shifting of tectonic plates. Then Dima spread his wings, beating at the clouds of dust kicked up by their feet. Harry coughed, waving the dirt away from his face. Dima's giant wings faded into tan feathers at the tips, his wingspan dwarfing a Hippogriff's by over a meter on both sides. And his back was nearly three meters off the ground, making Misha look like nothing more than a pony. Misha was only slightly larger than your average draft horse; leggy and light grey, he was built for speed, decorated with tiny white speckles from rump to withers. Harry swallowed. He'd need a boost just to get in the saddle! And Nebojsa would probably mount up from a second story window. 

“I thought Animagus could only be regular animals,” Harry muttered. “Dogs, cats, insects.” 

Nebojsa's long nose scrunched. “Zat is normally true. Zheir fazher did zhis to zhem.” He stuck his hand in an old burlap bag by his feet, whistling for his boyfriend. Dima came pounding over to sniff at the very stale oats offered in outstretched hands.

“Vot?” Nebojsa rolled his big blue eyes sarcastically, suggesting his boyfriend was trying his patience. “You've eaten vorse.” 

Dima snorted before munching greedily. Misha came over, nuzzling the side of Harry's head until he got the hint and retrieved some oats from the bag. Misha turned his nose up, huffing hard enough that half the oats were blown out of Harry's hands. 

“Hey!” 

“He's right,” Nebojsa sighed, picking up the blanket and saddle. “Zhere's no time. Grab zhe bucket, see if zhere's any vhisky.” 

Harry recalled that Madame Maxime's Abraxans drank only single malt scotch. Presumably these guys would drink anything in a pinch. Harry sifted through the bottles, coming away with three scotches and half a bottle of bourbon, which he deemed close enough. He emptied them into the bucket and brought it to Misha. He got a strong, playful nudge in thanks. Nebojsa cast what looked like a horse brushing spell before heaving the blanket and modified saddle onto Misha's speckled back. 

“How much can he have?” Harry asked, beginning to worry at how greedily Misha was drinking. “I mean, if they drink a whole bottle of whisky, won't it make them sick when they change back?” 

“Zat's zhe problem vith zhis form,” Nebojsa shrugged, tightening the straps around Misha's belly. “Zhe alcohol increases zheir shielding against magic. Zhey must drink about four times zhe quantity zat vould kill a grown man.” He finished with the saddle, slapping Misha on his spotted rump. Dima had his giant brown head buried in the feed sack on the ground, spilling oats everywhere as he ate, worming his head further and further into the bag. Nebojsa came around to stand beside Harry, a hand idly stroking Dima's chestnut mane. “Zhey vill drink to be impervious to magic zhis night. Normally, zhey would remain in horse form to vait out zhe alcohol but tonight zhey must travel by Portkey, vhich is only possible for wizards.” 

“So how do they change back without killing themselves from alcohol poisoning?” Harry asked, reaching out to stroke an adorable white patch running down Misha's nose. The brothers were oddly sweet this way, what with the nickering and the nudging. 

“I vill teach you in case you cannot find us or ve do not survive,” Nebojsa said seriously. He reached into his pocket, producing a vial of dark red, syrupy potion. He jiggled it, the blood-colored liquid sloshing. “Zhis is to shut down zhe liver. You must give it to Misha vhile he is still a Granian. Once zhe potion takes effect, he vill change back. He vill most likely be unconscious—zhey prefer to be left zat vay. Vot ve must do... it is not—how do you say?—zexy,” Nebojsa shrugged, as though he found the practice more than a little vain but went along with it because he loved both Ionescue boys that much. 

“You must induce vomiting. Zhe medical spell is Epicus. You must continue until zhere is nozhing left, even zough zhey vill be in pain. Misha vill cry and beg you to stop— _do not sssstop_ ,” Nebojsa warned in a serious hiss. Misha gave a watery snort of protest from inside his liquor bucket, as though to say he'd never beg. The Serbian gave a quelling look and the Granian went back to his whisky, tongue lapping the metal bucket with soft little rasps. 

“It is three minutes before zhe liver damage is permanent, so ve must act sviftly. Zhis restarts zhe liver,” Nebojsa waggled a powder blue potion before dropping it in Harry's outstretched hand. “Zhey vill be veak, even vith Enervate Charms. Zhis is anozher potion for stamina,” he handed over an ampul filled with the neon green potion Harry saw the brothers downing earlier. “It vill enable zhem to valk, zough zhey vill likely be useless for many hours. Ve must protect zhem and get zhem to zhe Portkey—ve carry zhem if ve have to.”

“I understand,” Harry offered before repeating back the order of potions and spells. As he finished, Misha shook his great grey head, knocking the empty bucket off his face. Nebojsa scooped it up and began pouring in the rest of the alcohol indiscriminately. He flicked open the ceramic jug and made a face at the odor. Harry could smell the alcohol from two meters away and it wasn't pleasant.

“Cамого́н,” the Serbian muttered under his breath, leaning back as he emptied the brown contents of the jug into the bucket. It smelled something awful. “Homemade from sugar. _Srce moje_ vill kill me... if zhis doesn't kill him first.”

“Syrce moe-yay,” Harry repeated phonetically. “What does that mean?” 

Nebojsa threw the empty jug and stood with full bucket in hand, the contents sloshing wildly. He held it up to Dima. Even the huge Aethonon pulled a face before diving in. Misha tried to get his face in, too, but Nebojsa treated him to a forceful shove away each time. He was used to being the referee between the Ionescue brothers, keeping the peace while they squabbled between themselves; they reminded Harry of himself, Hermione and Ron. 

The Serb looked over his shoulder at Harry, blue eyes still visible in the darkness. 

“ _Srce moje_ is sweetness, my heart,” he explained, stroking a hand down the side of Dima's horse-face. “ _Ti si srce moje_ ,” he told his boyfriend, nuzzling the horse's neck as he gulped the awful-smelling brew that could both protect and kill him. 

Harry flinched when another round of orange light lit the villa, trails of smoke heading skyward from the violence out in the streets. He thought he could almost hear the screams on the other side of the Fidelus Charm, the frightened muggles and sirens and gunfire. 

“I think we should get ourselves out there,” Harry muttered, scratching at the hairs prickling along the back of his neck. Misha sighed right above his head; Harry felt the heat of that whisky breath as it ruffled his hair, engulfing him in the smell of horse and booze. Dima slurped in his bucket as though he were agreeing. Nebojsa set the bucket on the ground where Dima could dip his head to drink. The Serb cupped his big hands, offering Harry a boost into the saddle. Even with the assistance, Harry barely made it—he slid into the saddle on his stomach. Misha clamped his wing over Harry's leg so he wouldn't slip and fall. Once he had both feet in the stirrups, Misha's feathery grey wings wrapped his legs in a sort of Granian embrace. Not knowing how else to reciprocate, Harry's squeezed back with his knees. He leaned forward until his stomach was flat against Misha's neck, the pommel digging into his gut and his mouth nearer to those twitching, white-tipped ears. 

“We're not going to tell Draco about this,” Harry whispered, scratching Misha's neck as though the Animagus were a dog. “Between the danger, the Dark Arts and the technicality of me riding another man—it's just not a good idea.” 

Misha gave a whinny that sounded suspiciously like laughter. With a few beats of his mighty wings, Mishenka broke into a heart-thrilling run, propelling himself into the air. It wasn't anything like the lurching flight of a Hyppogriff or even the steely grace of a Thestral. Misha was clearly a horse, all strength and power as he took off like a shot. He fired right up into the air, the wind whipping Misha's mane and Harry's hair. He still held the horse's neck and soon found himself shouting nonsense, squeezing with every fiber of his body and whooping in delight. This was so much better than a broomstick—it rivaled sex! This type of flying was bloody fantastic. At the back of his mind, Harry understood why the Potions Master Ionescue did this supposedly dark and terrible thing to his sons. It was worth it, to fly like this, to be free like this, to be scuffed raw by wind and stars, your stomach beating out a rhythm where your heart should be with each swoop and dive, earth and sky confused in tremendous, tumbling rolls that left you breathless. Dark or light, Harry didn't care—this was magic at its greatest. 

Misha snorted, tossing his head from side to side, trying to shake his rider from round his neck. 

“Bollocks! Sorry,” Harry said shyly, backing into the saddle. He'd been choking the Granian in his excitement. Misha kicked his legs against the air, causing Harry's bum to bump in the saddle. It was the oddest form of communication he'd ever encountered, this physical jostling, bonking and jerking about... but somehow it worked. As much as he hated the comparison, it was a bit like him and Draco in bed or just around the house. They didn't need words, just looks and smiles and little touches to convey meaning. He didn't want it to be like that with Misha but it was. At least the connection wasn't sexual. Maybe he would avoid Misha in human form after this, just to be sure. 

Harry looked back as they soared over the house. Dima was crouched down in the grass as his boyfriend clambered into the saddle, Disillusioning himself with a quick flick of his wand. Harry watched Dima take to the air as his brother had, feathery wings a blur tipped with tan streaks as he launched into the air. Dmitry was a little slower but made up for it in size and incredible, visible power. If muggles could see Dima and Misha soaring through the sky, they would surely think the apocalypse was upon them. Perhaps it was. At any rate, the muggles were about to see for themselves.

The tearing of the Fidelus Charm was visible at the edge of the property, blue and green sparks flying as the magic tore itself apart. Whatever spells the nearby Death Eaters were throwing at it certainly weren't helping the charm's life-span. Car fires lit the surrounding area, dark blobs lying in the cobbled streets—bodies, Harry realized, watching the Dementors glide amongst them, looking for a last scrap of hope to suck from their dying forms. 

There were huddles of Death Eaters everywhere, waiting. They seemed to have perimeters that protected them from the Dementors' effects. Harry watched one of the hooded and masked men pull several potion vials from his robes and hand them out amongst his comrades. They opened the vials and dumped the contents on the ground, tendrils of purple smoke curling up around them. The Dementors seemed to detect the smoke and kept away from it. Potions meant one thing to Harry: Severus Snape. Maybe Snape was working with Dima and Misha's father or perhaps he'd developed the brew on his own; either way, he couldn't have warned the Order, couldn't have snuck them some to prove his loyalty? Harry's blood boiled as Mishenka swooped lower and lower, making passes over the courtyard to slow his landing. There was a little crowd gathered, hands pointing and faces turned up toward him. Harry saw a few figures hovering on broomsticks and magic carpets. Fred and George were the easiest to pick out with their flaming hair. 

Misha landed lightly in a flutter of wings, snorting and stomping his front hooves, warning the wizards to keep back. 

“Harry?!” a familiar voice cried. Auror Williamson was elbowing his way through the crowd, trying to get to Harry. 

“They're coming!” Harry shouted, waving his arms to gain everyone's attention. “Any second! Disillusionment Charms and spread out!” He pulled his Invisibility Cloak from his bag and slung it over his shoulders, securing the fastenings as fast as he could before throwing the hood over his head. A few people gasped when he disappeared from sight. 

“I've never seen an Invisibility Cloak that good!” one man said in awe. 

“Get moving, all of you!” Williamson bellowed, mounting the Cleansweep 3 Fred and George had offered Harry earlier. 

“Out of the way!” Harry called, waving his arm emphatically before remembering that no one could see him. “We need a running start.” Misha gave a particularly loud whinny before clamping Harry's legs with his feathery wings, keeping him in the saddle as Misha reared back onto his hind legs, hooves beating the air with menacing force. That got people moving. Harry heard the distinctive beat of Dima's wings above him along with the tell-tale sound of broomsticks taking flight. The air was full of overlapping sounds—the thrum of hurried footsteps, the crackle of fire and magic, the whoosh and swoop of broomsticks and carpets, calls of last-minute instructions and warnings. 

As Misha barreled off, Harry glanced back at the spreading clump of Aurors. He watched as Margie and a blonde witch exchange a last hug before darting off to take up positions behind garden fixtures. He also caught sight of Chern, his distinctive tall form standing out against the light of the main doorway, issuing a last set of orders before he and the rest of the Durmstrang boys Disillusioned one another. The spells wouldn't last long once the fighting broke out in earnest but it was a chance at surprising the enemy and Dmitry's crew would take advantage of every available opportunity.

Harry kept his eyes on the crackling film of the Fidelus Charm where Ravenwood ended and the cobbled suburbs of Madrid began. You could see the sparks quite clearly now. The air seemed to shudder, like a tree shedding leaves in a stiff breeze. And then the sparks gave one last heave before falling away, leaving the line of Dementors free to advance. 

“Now!” Harry screamed. 

Bolts of white-blue flame shot out from all over the garden, all racing in a hot rage for the looming shadow-figures at the villa's entrance. Misha went into a steep dive, allowing Harry to aim his wand over the granian's spotted head. The end of his wand sat square between white-tipped ears. He focused as much as he could while careening toward the dirt at sixty or seventy kilometers an hour and rising. His spell veered left but it was good enough. Misha banked hard, his hooves making clopping contact with the top of a garden trellis before sweeping back into the air, gaining height at an alarming rate. Harry gripped with his knees until the insides of his thighs shook, hunkering down behind Misha's neck before the drag ripped his face off. His lips and cheeks burned from the cold produced by the Dementors. Even the car fires didn't help to banish the chill. 

Misha's swoop gave Harry a good view of their results. A few Dementors had made it into the courtyard but there was a damned effective bottleneck at the gate. The blue fire of Eptir Eldr wouldn't burn on the Dementors for long—it seemed to singe the ends of their cloaks and cause them pause but it quickly burnt out and the creatures moved on. Those caught at the gate seemed to be having more trouble. The blue flames stuck to their robes, burning through at an alarming rate. Piercing screams went up, sounding like cries unleashed from hell. The creatures rolled in agony, their fellows simply gliding over them. Apparently there was no loyalty amongst Dementors. 

“It vorked!” Nebojsa laughed, throwing his arms around Dima's neck in a hug that rearranged the Aethonan's mane. Misha flew close enough that Harry could scream to make himself heard over the din. Already, a second volley of spells was going off; far less coordinated than the first, but the battle was upon them now. 

“What'd you do?” Harry shouted.

“Ve poured all zhe old roofing tar by zhe gate,” Nebojsa explained. The only part of him visible was his wand and it was scanning the ground below, seeking out his next target. “Charmed to be attracted to Dark Magic. It should vork against Inferi, too.” 

“Brilliant!” Harry shouted before tapping Misha with his heels. The winged horses took off in opposite directions, nickering loudly as their wings beat in tandem. Harry felt his guts shift as Misha took another dive. He aimed his wand between Misha's ears and took a second shot at the gate. His aim was improving. It wasn't easy to fire Dark spells from the back of a flying horse with Dementors all around. His fingers were numb from the cold and he suspected Misha's alcohol shielding was keeping the Dementor's effects at bay as long as he stayed on the Animagus' back. Harry was thankful the brothers were immune to the Dementor's effects in their magical animal form. Those on the ground weren't as lucky. Wrapping the reigns around his wrists, he buried his freezing fingers in Misha's mane for warmth. 

Harry started to see Patroni moving through the courtyard, their ghostly forms bounding through the flowers and bushes, trying to drive the Dementors back as they came crashing through the gate. There were clearly too many Dementors for the number of defenders. There had to be at least twenty of the creatures in the courtyard and perhaps twice as many still out in the street. Harry gripped the pommel of his saddle and leaned back, aiming over Misha's rump. 

He closed his eyes and thought of Draco, of the fierce connection he felt even now, worlds away. He thought of the man's smile, the way his eyes crinkled, the pink apples of his cheeks perking when he smiled that special smile. He thought of pale fingers dancing over black and white piano keys, plying every sensitive part of his body with knowing ease; white fingers gathering fists of his black hair, fists of sheets, that dark and glittering ring of promises made now ever upon his finger. He thought of petal soft and creamy skin made slick with sweat and passion, body writhing, voice breaking, begging. He thought of that secret little spot he'd made his own, that tea-stain of a birth mark hidden at the sweetest juncture of ass and thigh. Draco's taste, feel and essence were burned into his mind forever. _That_ was magic. 

His spell burst from his wand without words, a great milky stag erupting into the air, taking flight, its legs beating the air as it careened toward battle, driving back darkness like no other Patronus in sight. His stag was bright, a fixture amongst shadows as it gored Dementors with its horns, pushing them back. The other conjured animals worked in its wake, nipping and growling. 

Still more shadows poured through the gate, dragging the blue fire with them. It burned up in the grass but remained on their tattered robes, setting them ablaze in lightest blue. The few Eptir Eldr's cast at them didn't seem to have as much effect as the charmed tar—though the spells still burned for a bit, buying their casters time to turn tail and run. The Aurors were driven back about a third of the way into the courtyard. 

Two carpets swooped in from opposite roofs, their Disillusioned riders bearing flaming wands. A second later, two rockets took to the sky. Dima and Misha pulled away to avoid the sparks flying. Harry watched the enchanted fireworks of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes explode in a shower of sparks and light. Much like the dragon that had chased Dolores Umbridge through the hallowed halls of Hogwarts, these fiery marvels transformed into phoenixes made of tiny red and orange explosions. The birds swooped gracefully over the battle, a sort of gold powder falling from their wings and dusting the combatants below. Those who were falling prey to the Dementors were suddenly able to stand up and fight back. The gold powder had to be some form of concentrated Cheering Charm. 

Fred and George were already readying their second pass, defenders on the upper floors shooting spells to shield them and their carpets. Harry aimed another Eptir Eldr at the entrance, hoping to keep the tar ablaze as long as possible. Dima and Nebojsa appeared to be doing the same, Dmitry's hulking chestnut form making a dive for the gate. The twins shot off another set of rockets, these aimed at the burning street. Harry couldn't see the results beyond the villa's high walls but he could hear the booms and screams. It had to be the same stuff they'd booby-trapped their shop with. Harry suspected all of Madrid could hear! He prayed the muggles would stay away. 

Harry urged Mishenka forward for another pass at the gate, Portable Swamp in hand. The contraptions were built like muggle grenades—you pulled the plug and then threw it before the thing exploded all over you. He tossed it into the courtyard, between the fountain and the gate. Anything that made it through the gate would now have some serious bog to deal with. 

Someone sent up white sparks from a third floor window: they needed more time. That could be arranged. 

Auror Williamson was shouting from the ground, waving his arms at the men in the air to gain their attention. Harry thought about going down but had to consider the amount of space Misha required to get back in the air; it would be a close call, with the Portable Swamp deployed and expanding rapidly. Caught in the bog, they'd be dead for sure. He saw Vadim and Vitya make themselves visible beside Williamson a moment later, not bothering to dismount from their broomsticks. They nodded at his instructions and took to the air, one flying to Dima and the other to the men and women on the third floor. 

Orders were shouted from man to man and soon made it to Harry. _We can't afford to lose any more ground. Hold steady and buy time._

Fred and George's carpets crossed the estate wall again, dropping another set of their secret weapons on the throng of waiting Death Eaters. There were fewer human screams this time; instead, Harry heard a decidedly un-human screeching. Inferi. Urging Misha higher, Harry was able to see beyond the swamp, making out the ghastly, grayed forms of the animated dead crawling over the wall of burning Dementors. It was a ghastly sight. The Inferi caught fire almost immediately, adding the stink of cooking, decayed human flesh to the sulfur stench of Dementor. Harry yanked the neck of his sweaty tshirt over his mouth and pressed it to his lips with the palm of his hand, afraid he might gag. Apparently Misha felt the same. The Granian swept away from the billowing cloud of smoke; unfortunately, that sweep took them over the estate wall and out above the muggle street. 

Harry gasped. There were probably over a hundred Death Eaters in the street below, their white masks glowing orange and yellow in the light of dozens of uncontrolled fires. Most of the grand houses along the lane were in flames. There were no screams going up from the streets—the muggles were already dead, their bodies laid out on the cobblestone wherever they'd fallen. 

Misha let out a squeal and banked sharply. Harry flattened himself against the Granian's neck, gripping the pommel and reigns to keep himself seated against the intense pull of gravity. Then Misha pulled up into a steep climb and Harry felt his bum slide back in the saddle, bouncing when he hit the rear lip. The stiff leather dug into him through his clothes even as he tried in vain to hitch himself up in the saddle. They were shooting straight into the air again, an angry scream following them from the street below. Harry risked a glance back to see a Death Eater shaking an angry fist at the sky, pulling at his mask until the fastenings tore and the face covering fell away. The Death Eater's face was red and livid, a trimmed beard rimming his open, bellowing mouth. The man roared, a wordless cry of rage aimed at their retreating backs, his large form surging forward even as his comrades attempted to hold him back, to wait for the main assault. A second later, the man's body began to glimmer and shift. 

Mikhail put on a burst of speed Harry would have previously thought impossible; then again, both Granians and Animagus were things of magic. And almost anything was possible when you threw the Dark Arts into the brew. Misha didn't stop squealing as he cleared the roof line and kept right on going. The sound was as close to a scream as horses could get. Dmitry followed so quickly that Nebojsa was nearly unseated—Harry watched his wand shoot forward and tangle in Dima's tan mane, meaning Nebojsa's hands was right there, gripping for dear life. 

The Inferi were slowed by the swamp but the Dementors just glided through it, ploughing into the defenders with a vengeance. Harry wished the Durmstrang guys had found more tar and distributed it to the defenders on the ground. Then again, it had been a last-ditch effort. How much time had they had to prepare their defenses, anyway? As little as an hour? They were flying, quite literally, by the seat of their pants. It was a miracle Dima's Dark-Arts-Tar had worked as well as it did. Somehow, Harry just knew it had been Dima's idea. It was the way Nebojsa sounded so proud when he'd explained it. Harry heard Nebojsa a few meters behind him, shouting something in Serbo-Croatian or maybe Romanian as his boyfriend soared after his hysterical baby brother. 

Harry stroked Misha's neck, checking behind them. Dima's mass blocked most of his vision but he could make out the form of a scaly Thestral in their wake, it's black wings beating at the smoke-filled sky in hot pursuit. 

“Your Dad,” Harry shouted knowingly, hoping Misha could hear him over the din. “I know you're scared but we can't let him get into the villa. There aren't enough Aurors in there to stop him. He's following _us_ , though. If we land in the courtyard, he will, too. I know you won't be able to take off again but neither will he. We'll have him outnumbered on the ground. Are you with me?” 

Misha made a little whimper and tossed his head. With a snort, he went into another wide, sweeping turn, passing his intent to his brother in a series of whinnies. Dima's response sounded like the battle-hardened roar of a war horse as he reeled, Nebojsa squawking and hanging on for dear life as the bulk beneath him banked hard. They passed the enraged Thestral in mid-air, Ionescue's eyes bulging and red as he growled at his sons. He snapped his teeth, getting a frightened whinny from Mikhail and an answering scream of rage from Dmitry. From the Aethonan's back, Nebojsa shot a Reductor Curse. It was ultimately useless, Thestral skin impervious to magic, but Harry suspected it was done on principle. 

Misha dove for the courtyard, not having time to waste on slow, lowering sweeps as he had before. The goal was to get to the ground as fast as possible. It was a frightening thing to see the ground coming at you that fast. It felt like being on a broomstick about to crash. Harry's stomach gave a nauseated lurch as Mishenka pulled up at the last second, beating his wings and throwing dirt and dust everywhere as his hooves hit the ground with a thud that rattled the nearby fountain. The reverberations knocked over a garden trellis. Harry slid from his back, the saddle pressing into his stomach and lifting up his shirt and cloak as he dismounted. He was righting his clothes when Dima landed like an earthquake beside them. Some of the stones making up the fountain actually bounced and water flew up in the air. Harry felt the thud of it deep in his chest. These boys were frightening. 

“ _The Dementorssss don't effect you outsssside human form,_ ” Nebojsa's disembodied voice hissed from Dima's back. A second later, the Serbian's big dragon hide boots hit the ground beside Harry. His Disillusioned hand gave an audible smack to Dmitry's rump. “Go!” he said. “You too, _maza,_ ” and he reached out to whack Misha's speckled backside, too, before making himself visible with a flick of his wand. 

“Any idea how we hold this guy off?” Harry asked, reaching into the sack from Fred and George and pulling out half a hit of Peruvian Darkness Powder. He passed it to Nebojsa. The man smiled ruefully, nudging Harry with a hip as their mounts ran off into the fray. 

“Ve duel,” he replied simply. 

Human screams were slowly taking over the courtyard. The Dementors were slowed but not put at bay. They slowly found victims without adequate protection and began to feed, the pleas of their prey fading out as they lost their souls. Harry saw Margie's blonde friend running from a Dementor and directed his Patronus to help her. There were fewer and fewer Patroni around as the fighting thickened, the air brittle and cold from the swarming Dementors. Harry and Nebojsa stood back to back on the Order's side of the fountain, scanning the battle and the sky. 

“ _He issss coming for ussss_ ,” Nebojsa hissed, raising his wand and taking a fighting stance. 

“ _They're all coming for us,_ ” Harry replied. 

The Death Eaters were making their attack. They'd transfigured themselves into all manner of flying animals and were now airborne, sweeping over the estate's walls in a dark mass of feathers. The first bird was a large brown hawk. The creature was an Animagus and began the shift to his human form while still in the air, his feet hitting the ground as the other birds landed around him. He started re-transfiguring his colleagues and soon there were about fifty Death Eaters in one corner of the courtyard, off to the side of the burning entrance and the boggy swamp. They aimed wands and curses in every direction like a Spartan legion shooting their spears out from within a protective cocoon of shields. They scattered vials of the Dementor-repelling potion as they cut a line down the south side of the courtyard. 

Harry heard hooves strike the cobblestone behind him and knew it was Ionescue. He chanced a peek around Nebojsa's skinny torso to see the Romanian Potions Master shifting back to human form, his angry hazel eyes settling on Nebojsa's recognizable body no longer concealed by spells. 

“ _I can hold him off,_ ” Nebojsa offered, pushing at Harry's back until the smaller man was forced away. “ _You head for the main attack._ ” 

“ _Are you sure?_ ” Harry protested. 

Nebojsa's response was to shove him so hard he tripped, falling against the fountain. “ _GO! You're not the only hero around here._ ” 

Harry couldn't argue with that. So he took off, slipping around the fountain and shooting off a Reductor Curse or Impediment Jinx wherever he could be of use. With the dark cloaks and the smoke, it was hard to tell who was who. The stink of corpses and sulfur was so much worse down here. Harry felt the bile rising up in his throat and knew he'd be throwing up soon. 

He saw Chereshko and Dušan engaging the Death Eaters on the ground ten-to-one, Vadim and Vitya supporting them from the air. Fred and George swooped in on their magic carpets, grudges against the Durmstrang fellows forgotten as they pelted their mutual enemies with little pebble-like objects that burst into flame on contact, doing no more damage than singing robes and eyebrows but serving as a distraction during which the men on the ground could strike. The boys were lethal, big meaty fists snapping bones and breaking necks indiscriminately. Dušan, nimble and deadly, landed a rounding kick to a Death Eater's head, bones of the masked attacker's face cracking audibly before he crumpled to the ground with the force of the hit. Harry watched Chern aim his wand with practiced ease, casting a flawless Killing Curse. The Death Eater dropped dead at the tall man's feet. He kept right on fighting—all elbows, teeth and battle cries, throwing as many curses as punches. He went so far as to pull a knife from his dragon hide boot, spilling blood as he went.

Dima's hooves proved almost as effective as Eptir Eldr against the Dementors. He was able to knock them down with his size and weight. There weren't enough Patronus Charms to keep the evil creatures down for long but the delay was enough for the defending witches and wizards to retreat before renewing their attack. Misha stood before the villa's great portress, shielding the door with his bulk, wings outstretched as wounded were carried into the building behind him to be Portkey-ed away. Williamson was down but not out, blood matting his blond hair as he took a knee, leaning against a pillar at Ravenwood's door. The Auror batted away hands that tried to lift him and carry him to safety, instead barking orders and pointing out toward the field with a steely determination. 

Harry threw himself into the fray, moving toward the oncoming Death Eaters completely unseen. He aimed his spells low, hitting their legs so that they went down and tripped those behind them. He used every nasty hex he had including Sectumsempra. He aimed carefully, not wanting to hit anyone on his own side with an errant spell. It was much easier to hit one's target with two feet firmly on the ground. 

Fred and George's Cheering Powder phoenixes finally died in a great show of light and noise. They burst in a final bang of sparks, one depicting a very inappropriate hand gesture in the sky and the other spelling out in big gold sparkling letters “God Save Harry Potter.” 

If Voldemort was out there, they were all fucked.

No matter how many hexes Harry and the defenders let fly, the Death Eaters were making headway. They'd taken the south side of the courtyard, more of them coming over the wall transfigured as birds or under the aid of Levitation Charms. Apparently the Order's Anti-Apparition wards were holding strong. Fred and George pulled the bloodied bulk of Chereshko and Dušan onto their carpets before the foreigners were killed. The Death Eaters dominated the south side of the courtyard and controlled one corner of the fountain, giving them about half of the battleground. A slew of bodies lay in their wake, none Harry could recognize. He ran to Williamson, crouching beside the man and throwing back the hood of his Invisibility Cloak. 

“They're gaining too much ground,” Harry told him. “I don't think we can hold much longer.” 

“Oh, well, if _you_ think so!” Williamson snapped acerbically, his eyes wide. A trickle of blood oozed sluggishly down his temple. He brushed at it, smearing blood across his cheekbone and into his ear. “The Great Harry Potter thinks we should retreat!” 

“We're losing,” said a woman on his other side. Through the dirt covering her features, Harry recognized her as Hestia Jones. She worked in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The expression on her face said plainly: she'd never seen it this bad. “Harry's right. We need to pull back and preserve life.” 

Harry's attention was captured by the sight of Fred, George, Chern and Dušan waving animatedly from a third floor balcony and shooting showers of fat yellow sparks from their wands. They ducked back into the building but not before several more defenders started firing golden sparks, too, running down the halls and aiming their wands out the windows as they went. 

“That's the five minute signal,” Hestia told Harry when she read the confusion on his face. “Finally! We can start pulling back to the house. Right. I'm taking over. Hodge!” she called to a man nearby. “Get Williamson down to the cellar. Harry,” she turned to him, “you should grab your fit little friend before he gets himself killed.” She jutted her round chin in Nebojsa's direction. 

The young man moved at an almost inhuman speed, his dark head and torso a blur as he dodged curses and fired back in kind. Harry was reminded of the black and white kung fu films he'd seen on tele as a kid—the way Nebojsa moved was stunning, anticipating his opponent's next attack and sidestepping with a sort of liquid-grace ease. There were a few Cruciatus Curses that came too close for comfort but Nebojsa always seemed to move out of the way in the nick of time, rolling through the dirt and springing to his feet, ice-blue eyes in constant motion, taking in and weighing his surroundings. Ionescue's focus was fixed wholly on his enemy, perhaps to his detriment. The man didn't notice anything else around him, all his energy and acuity honed upon the object of his rage—the hard, broken boy with the nerve to fuck Ionescue's perfect pureblood son, the whelp Dmitry betrayed his family to be with. 

Nebojsa was an impressive dueler. He held his own. But it was time to get Dima and Misha to some type of safe area where they could shift back to human form and get the hell out of here. Harry stayed low, crouching and sort of waddling his way until he was behind Ionescue. 

“ _Serpensortia_ ,” he whispered, not sure if casting the spell in Parseltongue would make any difference but willing to give it a go. The snake that dropped from his wand was truly massive, dwarfing the boa constrictor he'd released from the Surrey zoo as a kid. This was a pure, deathly black thing, at least eight meters in length and weighing thirty five or forty kilos if the warbling _thump_ it made upon reaching the ground was anything to go by. Several Death Eaters screamed at seeing the thing slither past, jumping away or firing hexes at it. Most of the spells just rebounded off its scales with a little popping sound like a balloon pierced with a needle. Obviously being a Parselmouth had a positive effect on this particular spell, Harry noted. 

“ _There_ ,” he hissed, pointing to Ionescue and hoping the serpent would understand his intent from under the safety of his Invisibility cloak. “ _Attack that one. Leave the other speaker be._ ”

“ _Yesssssss,_ ” the conjured thing hissed happily, slithering forward, its great body moving soundlessly through the grass. Harry fired silent stunners at anyone who came close to it. Ionescue had no idea what was coming. 

Nebojsa threw up an impressive Light Shield, blocking a particularly strong nonverbal hex. When he saw the snake rearing up behind Ionescue, a smile split his face. It wasn't a handsome grin but a violent one, full of vengeance and rage. Wand poised in what Draco called “the old style,” a grandiose form for dueling—wand hand raised high over his head and his other arm thrown out for balance—his thin lips contorted as he hissed. 

“ _Fuck you._ ” 

The snake struck, taking a fanged bite from Ionescue's side. Harry hoped a conjured snake could be poisonous. 

Several Death Eaters came running at Ionescue's blood-curdling scream, casting Dementor-repelling potion in a wide circle around the man. Their potion seemed to wear off as it dried in the dirt because they kept throwing more down wherever they stood, plumes of purple smoke erupting from the blood-soaked ground. 

The snake was coiling around Ionescue even as they hit it with every manner of burning and cutting incantations, all of which had little effect. The man's choked screams became more wet and burbling as the seconds dragged on. It seemed like Nebojsa was content to stand there and watch the twisted fuck of a man die. Harry didn't have the patience for vengeance tonight—it was time to get out with their lives. He whistled for Misha and Dima, sprinting to Nebojsa and taking him by a long, muscled arm. Beneath Harry's hand, the man twitched. His skin was thin, bluish veins raising river-like bumps along the length of his forearms.

“ _Two minutes_ ,” Harry hissed, dragging the struggling man away from the knot of Death Eaters gathering around Ionescue. “ _We have to get Dima and Misha somewhere safe before the Order runs out of Portkeys_.” 

Nebojsa nodded once, taking Harry's hand in his and running to meet their mounts. They ducked behind a line of Aurors making their stand. Dima greeted his partner with a wet lick to his cheek, hooves covered in blood and the stink of Inferi. Misha swept in to lick Nebojsa's other cheek, reminding Harry of how he himself had been kissed before the battle. It was rather sweet that these big, frankly frightening men were so openly affectionate with each other. They felt like a family—Dima and Nebojsa like any happy young couple with Misha as their adopted son. You just got a good feeling from them, even in the middle of a battlefield ripe with death and destruction. It was possible he and Nebojsa had just killed their father—and they were being kissed.

Wiping the horse spittle from his cheeks, Nebojsa came to offer Harry a boost into the saddle. 

“Hold on,” Harry cautioned, holding up a hand even as he doubled over, falling against a nearby column. The rancid smell of burning Inferi and the metallic, sulfurous stench of charred Dementor proved a potent cocktail—and it was really getting to him. Every breath he took was worse than the last, the taste caught in the back of his throat. He needed to get it out. “I think I'm gonna be sick.” 

“Harry, ve don't have time—” 

Nebojsa surged forward the next instant, gathering Harry's cloak and holding it aside as The Chosen One lost it in the nearest flower pot. Nebojsa stroked his back with a warm hand, staying close as the horses formed a protective perimeter with their huge bodies. 

“ _Get it out,_ ” Nebojsa cooed in a hiss, the sound oddly comforting, mouth near Harry's ear and rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades as he heaved his guts out. “ _You're not the firssst of ussss to be ssssick. Nor will you be the lassssst tonight._ ” 

“Yeah,” Harry sighed when it was over, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Cheers, eh?” He really wished he knew the nonverbal incantation Draco used to clean his mouth after oral. It would have been nice right about then. A moment later, Nebojsa cast the spell for him. That disconcerting scrubbing sensation suffused his mouth, ridding him of the taste of vomit and leaving everything squeaky clean and fresh as a daisy, if rather vigorously scoured. He worked his jaw for a second before accepting Nebojsa's hand up. 

“ _I prefer we do thissss outsssside a pub nexsssst time,_ ” the Serbian commented, brushing ash and dirt from Harry's knees before dragging him over to Misha. “ _And under generic conditionsssss. Agreed?_ ” 

“ _Agreed,_ ” Harry smirked, allowing himself to be hoisted into the saddle like a girl; thin strong hands at his waist and then pushing at his thighs, sliding him around until his rump was situated properly in the worn leather grooves. Dima folded his legs under him, getting his bulk as low to the ground as possible so Nebojsa could jump on. The Serb took a handful of Dima's mane and smacked his generous hindquarters with a smile. The subtle familiarity of the gesture told Harry beyond a doubt who was the top in their bedroom. He could have done without the knowledge—but at the same time, knowing made him feel like part of the twisted little family, in on the secret. He held tight as Misha took off at a gallop behind his brother, Nebojsa blasting a hole in the villa's wall with a well-aimed Reductor Curse and Harry firing at anything dumb enough to stand in their way. The winged horses ploughed through the opening in the wall and took to the sky a few meters beyond, wings flapping and hexes running off them like water. Harry and Nebojsa would have been dead thirty times over had they been on broomsticks. The magic of the Animagus form had saved their lives... and it was about to potentially kill the brothers for their efforts. 

“Where are we going?” Harry shouted. The Death Eaters who had remained on the streets were tearing through the villa's front wall, using magic to throw great hunks of stone out into the street. Burning cars were crushed by the flying debris, dead bodies crunched with sick squelching and popping sounds that made Harry's mercifully empty stomach churn all over again. Nebojsa just pointed toward the villa. Misha was turning as gently as possible, knowing Harry's guts were still queasy. He stroked the young man's grey neck, knowing he wouldn't be a horse for much longer and it would be odd to do this later. 

They set down in the back yard where Chern, Dušan, Vadik and Vitya had set up a sort of perimeter along with two of the witches who had been assisting Healer Purlish. Harry readied his stock of potions as Misha swooped closer to the ground. The boy was going just slow enough not to make Harry lose his chips all over again but the descent was still dizzying. Harry buried his face in Misha's silvery white mane and prayed for it to be over soon. 

Hooves met the dirt with a heavy thud and Harry dismounted, throwing a leg over Misha's rump and dropping the distance to the ground. Two pairs of hands were there to catch and steady him, strong faces smiling at him as they removed the saddle and tack with practiced skill. Dima touched down a moment later, forced to take a more circular path of descent owing to his larger wingspan and significant weight difference. Nebojsa slid from Dima's back, red syrup potion in hand. Harry slipped around to Misha's front, giving the white patch along his nose one last fond stroke. Dušan and Vitya backed away with the saddle and reigns in hand, signaling that it was time to put a stop to the functioning of Misha's poor abused liver. With a quick confirming nod from Nebojsa and an understanding nudge to the shoulder from Misha's nose, Harry uncorked the potion and dumped it into the Granian's waiting mouth. 

You didn't see the effects of the potion right away. At first, Misha just stood there, his tail flicking lazily from side to side as he looked at Harry with glassy black eyes. Then those eyes went blank and he tumbled to the ground, landing hard on his side. Vitya scrambled out of the way, hoisting the saddle over his brawny shoulder. Apparently it was a good one and they planned to keep it. Misha's body started to make that squelching, gloppy noise like too-thick porridge stirred with a spoon. His form shifted, mutated, the air around him bending as his body returned to its normal state. He was lying on his side with his thick fingers splayed over his face, not quite unconscious, eyelids fluttering madly as he fought his grip on reality. He took two handfuls of grass and attempted to push himself up onto his knees. That was what knocked him out, his muscular torso falling back to the earth with enough force to crack his back. Dušan dropped to his knees and helped Harry right the young man onto his hands and knees, using a series of foreign spells Harry didn't recognize to hold his fourteen stone and fix him in place. 

“Here goes...” Harry muttered. He could already hear Nebojsa casting the spell in rapid succession and the unmistakable sound of Dima, fully conscious, groaning as he puked his ruddy guts out. “ _Epicus_.” 

Misha's body did the work for him, expelling only liquid alcohol. It was too bad magic couldn't remove what had already metabolized into their bloodstreams. That would be a sure way to prevent their dying each time they had to change back rapidly like this. Harry cast the spell again, and again, and again. It was easier with Misha unconscious. Harry could hear Dima's quiet pleading a few meters away, begging his love to stop hurting him, to leave him here to die. 

“ _Ne_ ,” Nebojsa responded forcefully. “ _Niet._ _Epicus_.” 

Chern had an eye on his watch—licking his thumb, wiping blood from the face to see the second hand more clearly. He called out when it had been thirty seconds since the red potion was ingested... one minute, a minute thirty seconds, two minutes and still Misha was releasing more liquid with each casting of the spell. The Mediwitches were looking more and more nervous, one wringing her hands and the other with her wand out, ready to act should they hit the three minute mark. Harry wasn't sure what the witches thought they could do. Nothing the Durmstrang run-aways couldn't. After three minutes, damage to the liver would be irreversible. 

Harry Vanished the mess and cast the spell again. Two minutes and thirty seconds. He caught the sound of wet bucket-fulls pouring from Dima while only a thin trickle escaped Misha's lips. His unconscious body coughed horribly, shaking in the magical restraints holding him up on his hands and knees. Harry cast the spell again, relieved when nothing came back but a dry, wracking cough. Vitya did the Vanishing Spell while Harry fiddled with the cork on the powder blue potion. He got it open and Vitya released his holding spell. Misha dropped like a corpse—because he practically was one. Harry managed to roll him over and cradle the boy's head in his lap, pouring the potion down his gob and massaging his tanned throat until it all went down. 

He cast an Enervate and Misha gasped, grabbing Harry's hand so hard he should've had broken fingers. Misha rolled to his side and coughed violently, flecks of blood coming up to splatter bright red against the grass. Harry stroked the boy's back as Nebojsa had done to him, whispering, “It's okay. You're fine. You did great, Mishenka. Just try to breath.” Harry's hand fumbled around in the grass, looking for the last neon ampule that would give the fellow some of his energy back. It was hard to see Mikhail this way: Harry was very much aware that he was just a boy of fifteen with no one in the world except his big brother and their band of friends. 

“Three minutes!” Chern was screaming above them. “Now or never!” 

Dima was sick one last time. Then Nebojsa, whispering what could only be a prayer, poured the blue potion down his partner's throat. 

Harry couldn't imagine having to do something like that to Draco—or worse, asking Draco to do it to him. He didn't want to think about it. Nebojsa had to cast the Reviving Spell twice before Dmitry began to breath. A cheer went up from the Mediwitches hovering over him. Nebojsa allowed the women cast a few spells but kept his boyfriend firmly in his arms, barrel-chested body tucked in his lap and planting kisses along a sweaty forehead. Harry caught _srce moje_ along with many other endearments and probably a few curses at how stupid Dima was for agreeing to something like this in the first place. Harry understood, though. He, too, would do anything to protect the people he loved. It usually didn't involve turning into a horse, drinking two gallons of grain alcohol only to puke it all up when returned to human form, but he would do such a thing in the blink of an eye if it kept Draco safe. He was prepared to do far worse.

“Better?” Harry asked the head in his lap, stroking Misha's clean-shaven cheek. “Think you can walk?” 

Misha said something in Russian that made his friends laugh and reach for his hands, dragging him to his feet and taking his weight. A hand appeared beside Harry's face, stubby fingers waggling, dirt and grime worked into the creases and under nails. Harry looked up to see Yura's kind face, his healthy black beard singed in places, shirt collar charred black at one side.

“Yuri! Where've you been?” Harry asked, accepting his hand and the brawny lift to his feet. “I was worried.”

Yura clapped him on the back. “I vos vorking zhe vards vith _dédülya_ Gregorovich.” He pointed, guiding Harry's eyes to an elderly couple standing by the trap door leading down to the cellar. They looked very worn and worried. The man had a long white beard which he twiddled with one hand, waving his wand with the other as he cast constant spells to monitor the safety of the area. He had to be the wandmaker Pavel Gregorovich, famed maker of Viktor Krum's wand. Harry suspected the old gentleman was the creator of many of the Durmstrang boys' wands, as well. It was good to know the Order was now protecting a person like him. He could prove an immeasurable asset in the war. And he was very lucky to have his wife with him, her own wand to hand and a shrewd expression on her thin face that reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall with the way she tied her hair back and pressed her lips to a thin, colorless line, tongue darting out as she concentrated on the magic of the wards.

“Do you know him well?” Harry asked, indicating the wandmaker. Harry and Yuri watched Misha limp his way to the cellar door. It wasn't long before he collapsed and Vitya took the boy on his back, carrying the younger chap the rest of the way.

Yuri's hand tightened on Harry's shoulder, his gaze fixed somewhere far away in time rather than space. 

“I vos about to marry his granddaughter vhen zhe Dark Lord returned. She's been missing... vosn't in zhe main prison vhere ve found Nebojsa. No one has heard from her _i_ zhe family vos too afraid to look.” 

“I'm so sorry,” Harry offered. What else was there to say? 

“Yuri Batushansky lives. If I breathe, I will find her.” 

Any question of whether theirs was an arranged marriage burned away at that statement. It was clear that Yura had run from the Death Eaters with one purpose in mind—finding his fiancée. 

Dmitry gave a groan as he was lifted from the ground. All conversation ceased as the remaining men ran to his side, elbowing out the Mediwitches to apply their own brand of healing spells. Dima quickly fell into magic-induced stupor, his friends lifting him by legs and shoulders and shuffling toward the cellar. Pavel Gregorovich was waving his arm, shouting encouragements in Russian as his wife cast spells to reinforce whatever protection they'd erected around the back yard. A few banged-up Aurors came spilling out the villa's back door, firing spells into the house before slamming and sealing the door. 

“That's everyone! Move!  _Move!_ ” one of them, a woman, screamed. “They're right on top of us!” 

Harry could see a snowy wind whistling through the cracks in the old door, signaling that there were Dementors on the other side. The woman made it away from the door but one of her companions wasn't so lucky, succumbing to the dread of the creatures' power and falling to his knees, weeping. Harry shot off a new Patronus Charm. It wasn't as strong as his usual but still corporeal, if faint. His stag charged right through the door, driving the Dementor back. The woman pulled her sobbing friend by the arm, all but dragging him to the trap door at the side of the house leading down to the cellar. She pushed him down the stairs before disappearing herself. 

“Yuri, can you cast some Dark Arts on the door?” Harry asked, jogging to the cellar door and waiting his turn to clamber down. Yura gave him a really weird look, his wild, bushy eyebrows creeping up his round, bearded face. “Anything strong enough for Eptir Eldr to burn through. Maybe we can collapse the doorway and buy some time.” 

“Fine,” Yura shrugged, holding Mrs. Gregorovich's frail, bony hand and assisting her down the stairs with the clear and gentle care of a grandson. His lower half in the underground stairwell, he popped his head back up through the hatch. Harry, Yura and Chereshko were left as the rear guards, everyone else having made it down into the cellar. Yura directed his wand toward the house's back door as Chern shoved Harry down the hatch, preparing to slam the trap doors shut behind them. The bearded Moldovan muttered a spell under his breath that set the entire doorway glowing a sickly green. Chereshko let out a throaty laugh and jangled the chains on the cellar doors, as if to say _excellent work but let's hurry it up. We've got a Portkey to catch._

Harry closed his eyes and focused, worried the last of his strength wouldn't be enough. Then he felt a hand on each of his shoulders—the men preparing the cast the same spell at either side. Between the three of them, it would be more than enough. Harry let that confidence build along with the power, letting it swirl around inside his head until he was dizzy. With a hiss of Parseltongue, he loosed the magic. It struck the door with a clap like a lightning bolt, the roar of burning Dark Magic coming an instant later. Yuri sacked Harry round the middle, hauling him down the stairs as Chern slammed the door above their heads before they were pelted by falling debris. The center point of the U-shaped house was collapsing. The middle would go and hopefully the wings, too, crushing any Death Eaters who had entered the place before its mighty demolition. 

Chern recited a sing-song sort of spell that caused the chains to weave around the door handle before fusing together, forming a solid chunk of metal any Death Eater would have a time blasting through. Yuri carried Harry slung over his shoulder like a child. Harry couldn't care less. He was bone weary, having fought and panicked and puked until there was nothing left inside. He was numb, bouncing against the flexing muscles of Yura's shoulder as they raced down the low stone corridor. The place smelled of dryness and dust, like the wine cellar back at Grimmauld Place. 

Harry's eyes were sliding closed by the time Yura set him right on his feet. They were in a large chamber with Williamson and a dozen other bloodied and bruised Aurors, all the members of the Durmstrang gang plus Mr. and Mrs. Gregorovitch and the Mediwitches still fawning over Dima stretched out on the floor and coughing up irregular gobs of blood. The women weren't keen to be pushed away by a growling Nebojsa but had little choice when the steel-eyed Serb turned a wand on them with a hiss of Parseltongue for good measure. Dmitry and his boyfriend were given a Portkey to themselves. Random objects were passed around, mostly wine bottles and bits of scuff found around the house. Harry was paired up with Mishenka, Vitya and Vadik. They set their Portkey, an old bookend in the shape of family crest, on Misha's chest and each man put a hand to it, making sure Misha had a firm grip by placing their hands over his own. They were bombarded by regular cascades of dust falling from the ceiling as the house came crashing down above them. The otherworldly screeches of Inferi and Dementors could be heard through the layer of stone between them. The ceiling shook.

Williamson was counting down on his digital wristwatch. 

“Ten seconds, everyone,” he wheezed.

“Pray zhe ceiling holds,” Dmitry muttered between wracking wet coughs. Almost everyone laughed at that. 

“Five, four, three, tw—” 

Perhaps a mechanism in the Auror's watch had been damaged in the battle. Perhaps the thing just ran a few seconds fast to keep the bossy wizard on his toes. Or maybe the Porkey's creator made a cock up during hurried mass-production; either way, Williamson's dusty wine bottle took him two seconds too soon. Everyone took a collective breath, nervous glances all around, wondering if they were stranded or about to be transported, too. 

And then the Portkeys kicked in, dragging them all by that familiar jerking of the navel, off to God-Knows-Where—also called, as Harry would learn in a few minutes, Ráisduottarháldi, a thoroughly unpronounceable and (not at all surprising) sparsely populated area in one of the national forests of northern Norway. All Harry processed upon arrival was the freezing temperature, imposing mountains, and large fire before him with half a dozen witches and wizards huddled about, circulating Warming Charms and conjured biscuits. 

He didn't notice the Minister of Magic among them, or Shacklebolt, Charlie, Remus and Tonks, but they were there just the same. He hardly took note of the network of campfires burning in clumps all along the mountainside, erected under a bubble of  _Repello Muggletum_ that stretched well over three kilometers. 

All he saw was a warm biscuit and a particularly fluffy pile of leaves with his name all over them. He collapsed beside the fire, sucking on a conjured chocolate biscuit until his eyelids drooped and his mouth fell open. Drooling, he began to snore. Nebojsa conjured him a blanket and Misha stole his soggy biscuit.

 

He was awakened by prodding a few hours later when a Healer wanted to give him potions to heal cuts and bruises he wasn't aware he had. Harry swallowed the potion anyway and then sat up, wrapping the heavy blanket around his shoulders and peering around, picking a leaf out of his glasses.

Everyone certainly looked like they'd survived a war. He saw familiar faces, some he could put names to but most he knew only by their shouts of terror or the way they'd narrowly escaped a Dementor's Kiss. Margie Gweir and her pretty blonde friend both offered him a friendly wave from a few fires over. Tonks patted him on the head as she passed, plucking a few leaves out of his hair before conjuring blankets to tuck around the dozing Gregorovitchs. The Minister kept shooting Harry unreadable looks from the next fire over. Harry prayed the man would keep his political motives to himself for the night. From what Harry could glean from fire-gossip, the Ministry was completely destroyed and only pockets of employees had survived. The good news was that Hogwarts and Beaubatons were untouched, as was Hogsmeade. No one spoke about the other Order locations per-say, but Harry gathered that the folks at Shell Cottage and another safe house called Asher's End had done well for themselves and reported only injuries and no casualties. 

The Minister was conferring with what remained of his team, trying to devise a strategy to run the country without any type of backing, facility or resources. Harry rolled his eyes and tuned out the bureaucracy, leaning over to check on a sleeping Misha and then conferring with Nebojsa to get himself up to speed on the important things. Forty-some of approximately one hundred twenty defenders of Ravenwood were dead or unaccounted for. Everyone from the Spanish villa had evacuated to this location as well as a sizable portion of Ministry survivors. Hiding out at the far reaches of the globe, they would be bear food long before they were discovered by Voldemort and his Death Eaters. To combat the rather pressing presence of Norwegian wildlife, a watch group was established to patrol the perimeter in shifts. If there were no disturbances during the night, they expected to move out by morning, the Ministry and “unnamed underground faction” going their separate ways like ill-paired lovers the morning after a drunken roll in the proverbial hay. Granted, both the Minister and Nebojsa put it in far more polite terms but the comparison held true, especially when spouted from Dima's haggard lips across the campfire. Still feeling the ill effects of the massive amount of alcohol lubricating his system, the poor fellow couldn't keep anything more than biscuits and water down but was excellent for conversation to pass the time. 

Harry dug some fresh clothes from his bag and changed hurriedly beneath his blanket. Misha was awake soon and, feeling back to his old self, made a ready and pleasant contributor to their fireside chat.

Yura disappeared for three quarters of an hour, returning with a dozen dead rabbits which the Durmstrangers set about skinning and disemboweling, skewering the carcases on sticks and roasting them over the fire. Harry was thankful for the cooked meat the men offered him, though he could have done without the gory knowledge of where it came from. 

After their campfire dinner, Vadik transfigured a leaf into a harmonica and the men launched into a Serbian song that quickly made Nebojsa red in the face. It had a lot of that “Bog te jebo” phrase Dima had used to upset his boyfriend in the past, plus a host of new phrases Harry had overheard in battle. Once the song was underway and the actual Serbian among them was pointedly ignoring it, Harry leaned in to ask a question. 

“I keep hearing _kuratz_. What does that mean?” 

Nebojsa sighed heavily. Harry watched him swallow, the cross on his neck shifting with the movement of his throat. In answer, he took both hands and gestured stiffly to his crotch. Apparently, it meant “dick.” 

“And _u pitchku materinu_?” Harry pressed his luck. That phrase was at the end of every other sentence of this song—it seemed to be a key factor and Harry's curiosity had always been a major weakness. 

“You must never say zat,” Nebojsa cautioned, putting a hand on Harry's knee. “You're a nice man. Nice men don't say zat.” 

“Dima says that all the time,” Harry pointed out. 

“ _Srce moje_ is not a nice man,” Nebojsa shook his head, smiling across the fire at his peaked boyfriend nibbling on a conjured biscuit. 

“But what does it mean, though?” 

“ _I don't know how to ssssay it in English,_ ” Nebojsa admitted in Parseltongue, folding his large hands in his lap and leaning back against the rock behind him. “ _It is ssssomething like 'return to your mother's hole' or 'have ssssex with your mother.' Ssssssomething like that. It doesss not translate well._ ” 

“So _u_ _pitchku materinu_ is 'motherfucker.' _U pitchku materinu_ ,” Harry repeated, louder. The phrase rolled quite easily off the tongue; plus, it was plain-old fun to say. Nebojsa rolled his eyes as the rest of his foreign crew let out a cheer, urging The Chosen One to say it again or to parrot other, more obscene phrases. Misha laughed, holding his stomach. Even Dima chuckled, winking at Harry across the fire. 

“Maybe you're not such a nice man, Harry Potter,” Nebojsa muttered under his breath, shooting Harry a dirty look from beneath his long, dark lashes. 

“That's what I keep telling people,” Harry offered with a shrug. “It's just that no one believes me.”

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** “Life On A Chain” written and performed by Peter Joseph Yorn, released by Capital Records, 2001.


	34. Beretta: Job

 

 

_Why is light given to a man whose way is hidden and whom God hath hedged in?_

_For the thing which I greatly feared has come upon me. That which I was afraid of is come unto me._

_I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came._

 

The Book of Job, 3:23-26

 

 

 

There wasn't much they could do in the middle of nowhere. Everyone seemed to know it. 

The atmosphere was restless come dawn. As soon as the sun rose over the snowy mountains, there was a flutter of planning and activity. Members of the Order of The Phoenix moved between shivering huddles and rekindled campfires, passing word that there would be a strategy meeting at Hogwarts that afternoon. Those with no safe place to go were advised to remain here in the woods and travel by Portkey to Hogsmeade when the time came. Those lucky enough to have a place to call home were free to disperse but encouraged to attend the meeting via Apparating to the old wizarding town. The Floo Network had fallen into the Dark Lord's hands, so the only safe ways to travel were by Portkey, Apparition or muggle means. And, as they were at least a day's walk from any type of civilization, magical means were highly recommended. The Ministry was trying to establish a place for staff members and their families to retreat to. Professor McGonagall would set up another meeting for those wishing to join the Order, probably run by Kingsley Shackelbolt. Harry suspected his presence would be desired at such a meeting. It only added to the cold weight in his chest despite his warm conditions. 

Harry was huddled under several thick blankets, he and Nebojsa playing the part of meat and cheese in an Ionescue sandwich. They lay wrapped in camp blankets on a bed of leaves and dirt but at least they were warm. And safe. And alive. Harry sighed, watching answering puffs of breath rise into the air from either side. They were awake but, until there was somewhere to go, it made sense to stay put and conserve energy. Plus, the body heat was awfully nice. 

Yuri bent down beside them, his beard trimmed short to compensate for the clumps singed off the night before. He shook Nebojsa by the shoulder to get his attention, telling him something in a slur of foreign whispers before hurrying off to confer with the rest of their little group. Pretty soon the burly men were all nodding and stretching, getting up from their bedrolls and casting Cleaning Charms at their sleepy mouths. Dmitry wrapped an arm around Nebojsa's waist, mumbling a question in his boyfriend's ear. When the Serb nodded, Dima made a proclamation loud enough for his friends to hear. Everyone voiced their agreement in mutters, nods and grunts. Dima extended his warm arm in a reach for Harry, touching his hip to get his attention. 

“Ve go vith  _Gospodin i Gospoja_ Gregorovich to get supplies for zhis afternoon,” he explained. Nebojsa licked a broad stripe across his palm before reaching up and flattened a section of his boyfriend's auburn hair. It stuck wildly from his head in all odd directions. Dima ignored his boyfriend's ministrations; his large, owlish eyes fixed on Harry. The man looked pretty darn handsome with his hair all messed up, bits of leaves and broken twigs stuck to the shoulders and back of his Henley shirt. Nebojsa's nimble fingers quickly brushed the debris away. “Vill ve see you zhere?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said, forcing his brain to finish waking up. “I was thinking of heading out early. I'd like to see... you know,” he shrugged, being careful not to mention Hogwarts or Draco. You couldn't be sure who was listening, though he was sure the Durmstrang boys had set ample wards around their campsite. “Where will you guys go? I mean—after.” 

“ _Gospodin_ Gregorovich vill need help vith some of his ozher duties, of course,” Nebojsa smiled. “And ve know how to make ourselves useful, don't ve?” he aimed the last of that statement at Misha, still lying down on Harry's other side. 

“ _Da_ ,” the baby of the family rolled his eyes before getting up from their makeshift bed, using his wand to spell the wrinkles out of his layered muggle clothes. He wore pajama bottoms under his denims—Harry spotted the plaid material and drawstring waist when the boy stretched, yawning. Waking up in the middle of the woods didn't appear to phase him in the slightest. Scratching at the black shadow of stubble building on his neck, he drew out his wand and cast a quick Heating Charm over his face and hands.

Harry was suddenly struck with an idea. He sat up, looking at all the strong, whiskered faces around him. “If you guys need a place to go, you're welcome to crash at my house,” he offered. “I don't know how much I'll be there but... I mean, it's safe. I have a house elf and plenty of spare bedrooms. You guys can't expect to fight when you're sleeping outside every night.” He flicked a leaf off the wooly blanket still covering himself and the happy couple.

“Ve vouldn't vant to inconvenience—” Chereshko began. Harry cut the tall man off with a wave of his hand. 

“No. I'd be glad for the company. Stop by any time.” 

When the guys agreed, Harry took them on a walk to find Remus Lupin. The disgruntled werewolf was less than pleased to be woken up so early—it wasn't  _that_ close to the full moon, so Harry suspected he was just cranky. A night spent in the woods was fine for teenagers (though Harry suspected a few of the Durmstrang guys were a little older), but it must have been hard on the older magical folk, the sick and the injured. The wheezened old Mediwizard was making rounds with the Healers, handing out a few potions and offering herbs for people to put in their tea. 

Remus perked up when Harry plied him with a steaming mug of coffee pressed into his hands by Sturgis Podmore not a minute before. Caffeinated, Remus accompanied Harry and his friends into the woods to speak the name of Grimmauld Place, allowing them entrance past the Fidelus Charm. After, the wrinkled werewolf thanked the Ionescues for their assistance at Ravenwood. Apparently the whole camp knew it was the two strapping Romanian brothers who had transformed into giant winged horses in aid of Harry Potter, seeing them all to safety at great personal peril. Each time someone thanked them, one of the brothers would point out that it was a group effort and not a one of all those camping here would have survived without a kind stranger to lean on. Women fell in love with the foreign crew left and right—between their friendship with Harry Potter, being heroes in their own right, their faces and forms devastatingly handsome  _and_ those thick, drop-dead sexy accents...well, even a mostly-straight bloke like Harry found it understandable. Eventually Dmitry grabbed Nebojsa and kissed him, long and steamy, right on the lips and with ample tongue in front of an ogling crowd. While the gesture certainly got the message across—that neither of them were on the market—Harry got the feeling it was also about honesty. Dima and Nebojsa wouldn't hide what they had. After all, they'd given up absolutely everything to be together. The mountainside buzzed with gossip after their passionate display, making Harry suspect Draco had exaggerated the commonality of homosexuality amongst magical people. Then again, this wasn't really a pureblood crowd. The Durmstrangers were probably the purest wizard blood for miles. The boys escorted Harry off into the woods beyond the camp's protective shields so he could Apparate safely to Hogsmeade. 

He warned them about Kreacher—mostly to ignore the batty elf and not tell it anything. Harry summoned the thing, just to be sure, telling the house elf each man's name and that he was to be allowed to move freely in or out of Grimmauld Place. Harry was taken back to learn Chereshko's surname:  Toleanu. It could be a common-enough name but, given his attractiveness, magical aptitude and friendship with the Ionescue family, it was entirely possible that Chern had been the third man with Draco and Vuk on the Durmstrang ship back in fourth year. Chern had been with Draco—slept with Draco. Was he the one strapped to the mast or had Draco fucked.... Harry forced himself to swallow against the dryness building at the back of his throat, felt his eyes go wide as he blinked against the fuzzy edges invading his vision. That was three years ago, right? And Draco was with him now. Chern hadn't made any ovations toward his dragon—aside from the two bowls of kush, but that was just Draco, right? If he smiled at you that way, you'd promise him your first born to keep that glow on his cheeks. Harry couldn't blame anyone for wanting to touch his blonde when the man went all gorgeous like that. Poor Chereshko. He'd kept his hands to himself, though, and that put him irrevocably on Harry's good side. Anyone with that kind of self-control was nothing short of a saint—an Orthodox saint, in Chern's case. Harry summoned a smile. These guys weren't the enemy.

When Kreacher departed with a mutter and a snap, Misha saw fit to inform Harry that his elf was on its last legs and he should consider putting it down and acquiring a new one. Harry rolled his eyes. One of these days. He hoped he and Draco could get a new house elf together—the blond probably knew all about these things. Harry heaved a sigh, shaking hands and kissing whiskery cheeks all around before Apparating away. Even with plans to meet again in a few hours' time, they weren't taking anything for granted.

 

 

 

Hogwarts was its usual riot of color, the October air crisp and cool in his lungs as he stood on the terrace outside the Head Boy's chambers. It didn't hurt his mood that the bed he'd slept in all afternoon wreaked of Draco. He could smell his boyfriend on his skin even now, feel the press of his lips from that very morning. After his initial, dismal meeting with Professor McGonagall, he'd needed to rest again. She said it was the fatigue of the battle catching up with him and that a few hours of dodgy sleep in the woods had only exacerbated his condition. She offered to make excuses to the Order on his behalf if he wanted to have a proper rest. In his mind, Harry called it for what it was—molly-coddling of The Boy Who Lived. He accepted her offering of a Dreamless Sleep Potion just the same, afraid of what he might see when he closed his eyes. 

In the distance, he could make out a dark knot of people winding their way toward Hogsmeade village. He'd hoped to catch Dima and Misha at the meeting and suggest that, when they were well enough, they meet with the Thestral heard in the Forbidden Forest and see if anything unusual was going on there. He couldn't afford to underestimate either their father or Voldemort—if it was possible to sneak into Hogwarts through the dangerous forest, the Dark Lord would find a way to do it. Harry wanted as much as anyone to see Hogwarts secure. 

He ducked back into Draco's room, thinking to grab the Firebolt and fly out to catch the men on their way out; however, as soon as Harry entered the rouge chamber he was faced with the familiar clanking suit of armor that was Sir Cadogan. 

“Halt there, good sir!” 

“Oh,” Harry started. He almost groaned, “it's you,” but somehow restrained himself with a fake, toothy smile. “What is it?” 

“A rough collection of scurvy wags at the door, Sir Potter, who claim an acquaintance with thee. Shall I give chase t—” Already, the fool painting was brandishing his sword.

“Please let them in,” Harry corrected, checking his appearance. He'd donned a pair of Draco's most casual trousers with his own blue shirt he'd discovered in the trunk. Apparently Draco was hoarding his clothes, now. Harry confirmed that his fly was up and his shirt buttoned correctly. The trousers were tight enough that he didn't need a belt—Draco's tastes, to be sure, but they fit and Harry didn't feel like running around in a school uniform if he didn't have to. He stoked the fire, adding another log before sweeping up the errant ashes with a Vacuuming Spell. He heard the men's heavy footsteps on the other side of the stone wall and went to the door to greet them. 

There was a mass of dark and foreboding staring back at him, all drawn cloaks and shadowed faces raking over his form. Only the lingering scent of wood smoke, whisky and clove cigarettes identified his eastern comrades. Nebojsa cut an imposing figure at the fore, clad in traditional black wizarding robes, high-collared to hide his tattoo and an old-fashioned hood draped to obscure his long nose and that sharp raptor's gaze. Harry only identified the man by the thin-set line of his mouth. The rest of the men were a sea of brown and tan wool, packs slung over their massive shoulders and hoods up to save them from recognition, even here at Hogwarts. They obviously didn't believe the castle had been properly vetted for Dark sympathizers and were keeping their guard up. Harry threw the door open, ushering them in without a word. 

Once divested of their outer robes and bags it was all strong handshakes and hearty kisses once more, Nebojsa and Chereshko catching him on both cheeks. Harry suspected it had something to do with the regions they were from. Some of the boys always went for his right cheek, others his left, leaving Harry to do an awkward little dance of anticipation on the balls of his feet, waiting for each taller man to strike at him with stubble and dry, pursed lips. He didn't know enough about each individual's background to detect the pattern. Dmitry was last. Wrapping both meaty arms around Harry's shoulders in a fond and ardent hug, he held Harry's head to his chest until a steady heartbeat thrummed in The Chosen One's ears. Dima kissed the top of his head before inquiring about his health and Draco's, steering his short friend to a squashy leather armchair closest to the fire. Dima seated himself at the piano bench, every other available seat save the bed being taken. Everyone wanted to sit by the heat source—or by Harry. Yuri and  Dušan were absent, probably with the new “boss,” Gregorovitch, but the rest of the men occupied his furniture in a pleasant and sociable crush of bodies. 

“Can I offer you a drink?” Harry asked, gesturing to the liquor supply by the window. After sitting through an Order meeting, they deserved a stiff one. Nebojsa's piercing gaze stopped Misha before he'd lifted his rear from the ottoman—the last thing that boy needed was more alcohol after the night he'd had. 

Dima started up a tune on the piano. It took Harry a second to recognize the melody as “Fool On The Hill” from the Beatles song-book Draco had lying out. Dmitry wasn't quite as good as Draco but his playing was pleasant and soft; slow, as the tune was unfamiliar to his fingers. Harry could identify where the brunet was playing more than the  _ad libitum_ listed on the page _—_ Dima was half way between a liberal interpretation and making stuff up. Still, it sounded nice. Harry was loathe to speak over the music. He turned to Vadik seated at his right, shooting the hard-faced fellow a quick “What'd I miss?” under his breath. 

“A bunch of frightened people vith no idea vot to do,” Vadik answered honestly, his voice a frustrated growl.

“That bad?” Harry plied with a smile. He settled back against the chair, sinking pleasantly into the supple leather. The scent of wood, tobacco and man was slowly taking over the room but there was still that bite of Draco, that hint of tartness and pomp which seemed to hang in the air around the blonde. You could tell this was his room.

“Over an hour vasted on arguing vhezher or not to ally vith zhe Ministry,” Vadik shrugged, “vhen zhe Ministry doesn't exist, to speak of. Zhere are larger issues.” The man's already squinty eyes narrowed further. They were a light color, maybe a watery green or blue. Heavy brows and a goatee dominated his face, masking the sweet and academic person beneath.

“The Order has a bit of a rocky history with the Ministry,” Harry generalized with a wink. “I won't bore you with the details. But I understand some of their reservations. Did they decide anything? Were there reports?” 

Nebojsa summarized, Vadim and Vitya adding details as they went. Misha was silent, moving to sit on the floor with his back resting against Nebojsa's long legs. The boy stared absently into the flames, chin resting on his knees. His brother was quiet, too, playing songs from Draco's music book. 

The Ministry's London premises was completely destroyed, as were most of the government structures in France, Belgium, Germany, Austria and Italy. Things were looking bad throughout the Mediterranean, where the battle was still ongoing. Allied forces were warned not to risk entering, even to provide aid. It had to be bad over there. Owls were being knocked out of the sky—Hogwarts was sealed off from the air to prevent attacks through the magical post until the violence blew over. Most places of business like the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley lay in smoking ruins.  _The Daily Prophet_ was down, employees advised to barricade themselves in their homes until further notice. The Ministry had no way to maintain law and order. The goblins of Gringotts had gone and armed themselves with wands scrounged from the dead of Diagon Alley. There was no Department of Magical Law Enforcement or Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to stop them. There were rumors of a rogue army of Veela running around Switzerland giving the Death Eaters a hell of a time. Harry couldn't help thinking that was awfully smart, considering the Death Eaters were overwhelmingly male. He wished the Veelas luck... and would be staying clear of Switzerland until further notice.

There was also no authority to issue death certificates. A written record was being compiled and families informed when possible but central order was in shambles, all traditional lines of communication down. The Minister of Magic was currently operating out of an abandoned barn in Northern Ireland. You knew someone was bearing a message from Scrimgeour when they arrived wreaking of cow and manure. Quite fitting, actually. 

Vadik, Vitya and Chereshko had been part of the team pulling bodies from Ravenwood. The gate was still burning with blue flames as of lunch time. Harry couldn't bear to ask if the Potions Master Ionescue had been among the dead. The trouble with identifying bodies lay in the old tradition of beheading one's enemies—specifically their corpses after a duel—to signify dominance and put shame upon the deceased's family. A few of the bodies had been castrated. Supposedly they did it to anyone suspected of having sex with muggles. Harry secretly thought they did it because they were sick in the head and intermarriage was just an excuse.

“Don't they themselves have sex with muggles, though?” Harry questioned, remembering something Draco had said about necessity.

“Of course,” Chereshko piped up. “Ve all do. Doesn't stop zhem from pointing zheir fingers at us for considering it normal. Just Obliviate zhe muggle after,  _da_ ? No harm done.” 

“Zhe Death Eaters aren't reasonable,” Vadik added. “Zhey are insane. It makes zhem more frightening vhen zhey are impossible to predict.” 

Harry nodded his agreement and was about to respond with something about Voldemort being the craziest of them all when there was a knock at the door. 

“Malfoy?!” called Hermione Granger, voice terse. Harry could hear her hands on her hips as she continued. “Shouldn't you be in class?” 

Dima's fingers dropped from the ivories, drawing his Birch switch of a wand and aiming it at the door with deadly concentration. His honeyed gaze was fierce, trained and focused on bloody murder. Misha was scrambling to his feet without a sound, patting his pockets. He landed on a small knife and drew it in a fluid, deadly motion, the butterfly blade snicking into place with a sweet little tick. Nebojsa's hand drew an onyx black wand from his breast pocket. Vadik and Vitya were crouching to take cover behind the beige sofa, huge hands balled into fists and wands at the ready. Chern drew a pencil-thin blade from his boot, nearly a foot long and tipped with something that glowed green like the haze of a Dark Mark in the sky. 

Harry motioned with his hands that they should calm themselves and sit. It was nice to know he wasn't the only paranoid one. “She's a friend,” he offered, placing a placating hand to Dima's shoulder on his way to the door. 

Hermione shouted his name before launching into his arms, fluffy brown hair getting in his mouth as she swung from his neck, pressing close. Her schoolbag whipped around, thudding against the door frame. 

“Oh God, Harry!” she wailed. “Malfoy said you were here but, when you weren't at the meeting, I....” she sniffed.

“I'm fine, Hermione,” Harry said, patting her awkwardly on the back before prying her loose. “Just really tired.” 

“You were at Ravenwood, weren't you?” she accused, scowling. Then she noticed the strong figures crowding Harry's room. Scanning their faces, she didn't look pleased. “With them,” she added. It wasn't a frosty tone for Hermione Granger but Harry was sure it sounded less than kind to his guests. 

“I guess you met at the meeting?” Harry said quickly, gesturing between Hermione and the guys while shutting the door with his foot. 

“Not formally, no,” was her answer. She gave a little sigh, shooting Harry an unreadable look. It was obvious that, for whatever over-thought reason, she didn't trust them. 

“Well then,” Harry took her by the elbow and brought her forward. Dima's face was like stone, Nebojsa's steely blue eyes flicking between his men, sending secret signals that could only mean one thing—keep cool, boys. “Hermione Granger, Head Girl, these gentlemen came to the Order from Durmstrang. This is Dmitry Ionescue,” Hermione shook his meaty hand begrudgingly. Not even Dima's handsome smile could break the mood she was in. “His brother, Mikhail,” Harry continued right down the row. Hermione returned each of their nods, eyes flitting over their bearded faces. “Vadim Sargsian, Viktor Novikov—but everyone calls him Vitya—Chereshko Toleanu and Nebojsa Radić.” 

Hermione bit her lip when Nebojsa's icy gaze met hers. Maybe she didn't approve of his piercings? Because his tattoos were covered, as was Dima's. Harry liked the way the piercings looked; with Nebojsa's long, gaunt face, the black and silver metal really made you notice his eyes.

“Nice to... meet you,” she muttered, inching a bit closer to Harry. 

“Why don't you sit with us?” Harry offered. “The guys were just filling me in on the meeting—unless you have class?” 

“No, I'm free this period.” She took a wobbly step toward the sofa, looking like a newly-born fawn just learning its legs. Something about the Durmstrangers made her desperately uncomfortable. The guys seemed to sense it, too. They remained on their feet, hands empty at their sides. 

“Ve should be going,” Dmitry spoke up. “Just because Yuri looks like an ox doesn't give us zhe right to make him carry zhe supplies on his own.” Misha snorted while retrieving his cloak from the sofa. Hermione placed both hands on the back of Harry's armchair, watching the men gather their belongings. Dima closed the lid over the piano's keys after his brother threw him his tan cloak. In a matter of seconds, the men were covered and approaching the door. Harry took up his leather jacket. 

“At least let me see you out,” he protested. 

“Of course,” Chereshko smiled, getting the door. 

“I'll walk with you,” Hermione piped up. She ducked into the hall to drop her books in her room. The second she was out of sight, Nebojsa's hands settled on Harry's shoulders. 

“Promise me you'll eat something, _da_?” he said, looking down into Harry's eyes. “You're too skinny.” 

“Okay.” 

Only the corner of Nebojsa's mouth turned up but the expression changed his entire face, softening him perceptibly. He looked a bit like Draco, all angles and soft skin. Eyes closed, he laid a kiss to Harry's forehead, smoothing his unruly hair just as he'd done to Dima. He pulled away before Hermione returned. With Dima and Nebojsa flanking him, Harry started down the sloping hall which lead to the main corridor. 

“So where are you guys off to?” 

“Zhe Stonevall Stormers are offering asylum to any displaced Quidditch player,” Dima explained, “so Vadik goes to Canada. He played for Ukraine before zhe war. Zhey say it's much safer outside Europe. Gregorovitch is trying to leave as well. Dušan makes arrangements for zhe rest of us. He has a cousin back in Valaam.” 

“Where is that?” Harry asked, zipping his jacket against the chill of the castle.

“It's a wizarding settlement hidden within a monastery,” Hermione piped up. “Valaam is an island in Lake Ladoga, near the Russian-Finnish border.” 

“It's also vhere many refugees are gathering,” Dima said. “Valaam's vards are veakening. Zhey need help.” 

“And zhe Order needs more volunteers,” Nebojsa added with a backwards glance at Hermione. Harry didn't like the tension there at all. 

“Well, if things get bad,” Harry shrugged. “You know where to find me.” 

Dima dropped a meaty hand to Harry's shoulder and they continued on in silence. He could hear Vadim and Vitya whispering back and forth a few paces back, probably discussing Vadim's break from the group. Harry had no idea the man was a professional Quidditch player. But hadn't that been his first thought upon seeing these guys gathered round a bar—that they looked like the reserve squad of Bulgarian National? Harry wanted to think he was above stereotyping after the summer he'd had. These guys weren't just burly foreigners, the same as Draco wasn't just a stuck-up pureblood and he himself was more than The Boy Who Lived. He'd given these men the chance to be people—which was the only thing he asked of others for himself. Unfortunately, the world was going to have its judgments. Even smart people like Hermione harbored resentments and predispositions. He'd get to the bottom of that later. They were one flight of stairs from the Great Hall when a woman's voice rang out, echoing against the stone. 

“Mikhail! Mikhail! _O Doamne, Misha!_ ”

Misha turned and caught the wailing young woman in his arms, twirling her around as she cried, clinging to his neck and smoothing his hair over and over with her palm, as though if she ever stopped touching the boy he would cease to be real. She spoke his name in a mantra, throwing back the hood of his brown cloak to better see his face. He set her on the ground after a few agonizing minutes, her big brown eyes drinking in the crowd of men before her. She had bushy brown hair like Hermione, secured in a single elegant plait down her back. She wore Ravenclaw robes over a curvy frame. Through her red face and tears, Harry guessed her age at about fifteen. 

Setting eyes on Nebojsa, she gasped. The man was recognizable, even with his hood drawn partially over his face. There was something about the way he stood—like he was a larger man. Then again, he was held in a Death Eater prison for God-only-knows how long. Maybe he had been larger before. The girls eyes seemed to say so. Her lip quivered, eyes watering as she approached the pierced and tattooed Serbian like a holy man, face splotchy and jaw shaking. 

She took his outstretched hand, babbling in either Serbian, Romanian or Russian—Harry couldn't tell. It was obvious the girl was asking about relatives, schoolmates, friends. The men told her what they could but it was mostly knowing looks between them, silence, the occasional shake of the head. She kept turning to Nebojsa, asking the same question. Each time, he politely refused. Eventually the girl gave up; her grip tightened, bringing the man's bony had to the top of her head. She wanted him to pray over her. 

Harry didn't need to speak the language to understand Nebojsa's whispered response. He was saying he was a killer with no right to bless someone. His suffering and faith by no means made him a saint. He was no better than anyone else. Still, the girl had him by the wrist and refused to let go, refused to take no for an answer. He spoke softly to her, then, her doe eyes flitting closed as his thumb wiped tears from her cheek. He made three crosses; the first at her forehead, the second over her lips and the third below the knot in her school tie, careful not to stain the silk with salty tears. He spoke the same phrase each time. “ _Bozhiji mir vama._ ” 

“ _Mir svima_ ,” she mumbled in reply, washing her face with her shaking hands. “ _Mulţumesc._ ” 

And then she was off, shoes clacking on the stone as she disappeared around the corner. 

“How many are zhere?” Dima asked to fill the silence. 

“Fourteen,” Hermione supplied. Misha made a quick crack in Romanian, probably something about Dima wanting to ship him off to Hogwarts along with the girls. Dmitry grinned, cuffing his baby brother upside his dark head before adjusting his hood to better cover that boyish face of his. All you could see was his rogue, crooked smile, teeth showing through his thick lips as he chuckled. Misha lifted his own hood with a huff before taking to the stairs. 

Hermione caught Harry's arm, winding through it with her own and sticking unnervingly close. She wouldn't let go even as the men were saying goodbye at the massive castle doors. With her right hand occupied, she had an excuse not to shake their hands. Harry kissed cheeks and clapped everyone on the back. “Be good,” Dima warned in his ear, owl eyes wide and playful as he pulled away. Harry yanked at the coarse fabric of his hood, pulling it over his eyes. 

“Since you asked,” he smiled, sticking out his tongue.

The cloaked figures made their way down around the lake, becoming smaller every second. Two hung back, recognizable as Dima and Nebojsa because of the black traveling cloak. Even with their billowed sleeves, Harry could tell the men were holding hands. Hermione squinted after them, her grip tightening rigidly over Harry's forearm. She let out a startled gasp when the figures leaned, pressed—kissed.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Slavonic Translations ******  
>  _Bozhiji mir vama_ \- “God's peace be with you”  
>  _Mir svima_ \- “peace to everyone”  
>  _Mulţumesc_ – is Romanian, not Church Slavonic, and means “thank you”


	35. Beretta: Lifeline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry reconnects with Ron, Hermione and Hogwarts. Draco feels like he's dead last on Wonder Boy's priority list. Sometimes feeling isn't enough and we need to see in order to believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** mild bigotry, bromance  & re-bonding; sexual content: D/s, T&D, general rough sex, spanking, biting, anal, cock ring, orgasm control/denial, forced orgasm, very mild blood play

 

 

_If you've come looking for a hard time_

_Hard times ain't hard to find_

_Cause we've been_

_Given that lifeline_

_Only once in a lifetime_

_Baby we were born_

_Maybe we were born_

_To be sure_

_To endure_

_When the storm comes_

 

“Lifeline”

Clarence Greenwood 

 

 

 

 

“They're....” Hermione mumbled.

“Bent,” Harry supplied. 

“Clearly.” 

“You know, Hermione... it's no big deal for wizards. At least not like it is with muggles,” Harry shrugged, leading her back inside. It was getting colder, though the sun was still hours from setting. Perhaps it would rain tonight. “Ron's just... he was being stupid. But he's getting used to it, right?” 

“I suppose,” she sighed dramatically, adding a little flipping gesture with her free hand. Harry hoped this wouldn't be like forth year when he and Ron spent half of term not talking to each other because of that stupid tournament. Now it was his ruddy dick tearing their friendship apart—apparently he couldn't win. It wasn't Harry's fault that he liked Draco: it was Ron's fault for being a major tossing bigot. He had to keep telling himself that or the guilt would bring him to his knees. Sighing, he started down the staircase leading toward Hufflepuff and the castle kitchens. Hermione twisted to look at his profile. He kept his eyes forward. 

“The kitchens. You hungry?” she asked.

“Not really. But I should probably eat something.” 

Hermione's desire to see Harry properly fed and watered apparently overrode her S.P.E.W. programming, as she didn't utter a single word about asking house elves to do extra work and bring his meal up to the Gryffindor common room along with a pot of tea. They were half-way back to the tower before Harry managed to breach the subject that was bothering him. 

“Why don't you like the Durmstrang guys?” 

“Who says I _dis_ like them?” Hermione replied evenly.

“'Mione,” Harry chastised. “It's written all over your face.” 

“So you can read me, now?” she effectively slowed their pace by once again linking her arm through his. 

“I took a crash course in comprehending complex emotions this summer,” Harry attempted a joke. “I'm not saying I'm brilliant or anything—just that its become less like Divination. I don't find myself utterly lost and making stuff up as I go.” 

“Trying to show me how good Malfoy's been for you?” she snorted.

“Draco and I _are_ good for each other. There's nothing to prove. And please stop trying to change the subject— _Bubalus bubalis,_ ” he gave the tongue-twister of a password to the Fat Lady and she swung open to admit them. Hermione hiked up her heavy cloak and they proceeded inside. “Is there a reason you don't like my new friends?” 

“Friends, Harry? Really?” Her tone was two parts incredulous, one part revolted.

“Bits of my brain would be decorating Ravenwood's front lawn if it weren't for those guys. Whatever the Order might've told you, they took a huge risk and wound up saving a lot of lives last night—and almost died doing it. So yes, they're my friends. They're Draco's friends, too.” Harry flopped onto his favorite sofa by the fire, dropping an arm across his eyes and propping his legs over the arm rest. Hermione hovered over him, hunched and glaring. He could feel her eyes.

“What do you mean, Malfoy knows them? I thought Viktor brought them into the Order.” 

“Draco knew some of them... from before,” Harry supplied, wishing he hadn't spoken at all. It almost wasn't worth it. Hermione was a brilliant witch but sometimes reason eluded her. Draco often pointed that out—and not in a nice way, but that was just Draco. The Slytherin in him believed kindness was fake, something put up to disguise an ugly truth.

“Before when?” she pressed. “As in, they were Death Eaters? Harry—” 

“None of them have the Mark,” he corrected, rolling onto his side and looking up at her, head cradled in his hand. She straightened her jumper irritably, dropping her schoolbag beside the couch in case she had to strangle him. 

“Then how does Malfoy know them?” 

“The TriWizard,” Harry said. It wasn't a complete lie. Draco did know Chereshko and Vuk from the tournament. He grabbed a pillow and stuffed it under his head, unzipping his jacket. This was going to take a while and he might as well make himself comfortable. 

“Those guys I met couldn't have been old enough,” Hermione protested. 

“Chern—the tall one? He was there. And Dima's older brother, Vuk. He's dead now,” Harry fought the lump in his throat. In his mind, Vuk had Misha's exuberance and innocence with Dmitry's big, honest eyes and lazy smile. No wonder Draco had had sex with the guy. “He and Draco dated during the tournament.” 

“They  _what_ ?” screeched Hermione. Her eyes went round as dinner plates.

“Honestly, Hermione,” Harry slumped into the sofa, quirking his brows at her. “Gryffindor doesn't have a monopoly on 'international relations.'”

“Ugh!” she groaned, throwing herself into an armchair so she wouldn't have to look at him. She folded her arms across her chest, too, crossing her legs and arranging her robe over her shins. A very dirty look was shot his way—he rather deserved it for using a Rita Skeeter-ism to refer to his friend's fling with international Quidditch star Viktor Krum, but Harry felt justified. The situation had bloody well called for it. Living with Draco had honed his comedic sense, as well. God knew they could all use a laugh right about now, however inappropriate.

“It was just a joke,” Harry offered good-naturedly, letting his hand drift along the warm fibers of the carpet beneath his seat. His hand swung back and forth, slowly. The heat of the fire was wonderful and the old sofa knew him so well, contoured to his muscles and aching bones. It was good to be home.

Hermione just glared into the flames, a pout on her lips. “I think I liked you better when you were clueless.” 

“We've all gotta grow up sometime,” Harry sighed.

Their conversation drifted once Harry's meal arrived. Hermione had gotten the details about Ravenwood from the Order meeting; yet Harry understood that all the dry facts in the world could never describe the taste that burning Inferi left at the back of your throat, the stink of monstrous blood and the thick black fog that choked you from the inside out. He mostly let her speak about the ramifications of the Death Eaters' assaults as he plodded through his soup. She drank tea, postulating.

They eventually made it to Horcruxes just as the pre-dinner rush came through the common room. Harry endured the welcome back hugs with good humor, the jibes about his ragged appearance and inevitable questions over where the hell he'd been. Seamus and Dean were there, Neville offering a quick wave on his way up to their old dormitory. Ginny treated him to a smoldering glare before stomping off with her girlfriends. It looked like a good portion of the Gryffindor crew had returned. Harry recognized almost every face with the exception of the first years, which meant that none of the transfer students from Durmstrang had been sorted into Gryffindor—not that Harry had expected it, of course, but a Durmstranger or two might prove some comfort to Draco, someone to winge about 'the old ways' with, someone to join him on his crusade championing the legality of a Transylvanian Tackle in International play. Harry kept his eyes up, searching the crowd for a familiar head of white-blonde hair. It was second nature to search for Draco after all these years. A certain fixation had always existed between them. Their new relationship only intensified it. 

Instead of Draco, Harry spotted Ron bounding towards them through the thinning crowd. 

“Bloody hell,” was all the man said before engulfing Harry in a huge hug. Ron smelled of The Burrow, orchards and home cooking and that hint of freshly laundered linen. Large Keeper's hands gripped Harry's shoulder blades, dwarfing him with their brawny size. “I shoulda been there, mate. I shoulda been there,” he said quietly, again and again. Pinned to his chest, Harry wrapped his arms around Ron's waist. It felt like his best mate was getting taller. Harry no longer cleared his broad shoulders. He found himself smooshed against a pectoral, Prefect's badge digging into his face.

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not,” Ron insisted, pulling Harry snug against him and thumping him powerfully on the back. It made him a little nauseous but it felt good, too. “I should've—” 

“It happened real fast. They would've sent you on to Shell Cottage, anyway.” 

“Next time, I'll be there,” said Ron, pulling away but still holding Harry tight about the shoulders. All Harry could do was nod. It was good to know Ron was back in his corner.

“Did the Order say I was there?” Harry asked, casting a quick  _Muffliato_ as people tried to listen in on their conversation. Ron waved Hermione closer. Each of them took a seat on the sofa, Harry squashed between them just like the old days. They were getting too big for this. “At Ravenwood?” 

“Not in so many words,” Hermione said, dropping her volume despite the protection his spell afforded. 

“But we knew,” Ron interrupted, practically bouncing in his seat. “As soon as the bloke with the piercings showed us that spell, I knew it had to be you.” 

“It broke a window in the Room of Requirement,” Hermione added softly, worry evident in her voice. 

“No wonder it destroyed your W.C., yeah?” Ron kept right on going. “I dunno what he used to fuel it—but  _wow_ . That guy gave me the creeps.” The red head shivered for effect.

“Nebojsa?” Harry asked, turning to get a nod of confirmation from Hermione. “Don't worry, he's alright. And the Order's lucky to have him. Shouldn't the castle windows be impervious to magic, though? Why would they break?” 

“That's what I'd like to know,” Hermione said darkly. With her elbow on the arm rest, she stared into the fire, contemplation etched into her features. 

“They even had Gregorovich in there and he couldn't fix it,” Ron went on. “Said they'd have to get a couple house elves up there.” 

“Why house elves?” Harry started. It seemed odd.

“Different kinda magic, I suppose,” Ron shrugged. “Even with all his 'assistants' working the wards, the old geezer couldn't get a single pane of glass to budge.” His 'assistants' must have been Dmitry and the boys.

“That's really odd,” Harry voiced, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Not as odd as what's waiting for us upstairs,” Hermione said with a pointed look at Ron. “Harry found Slytherin's Locket. It was hidden at Grimmauld Place, after all.”

“Noooo,” Ron drew out his disbelief, elbowing Harry in the ribs. Harry gently pushed the hand away. He wasn't sure why his sides were still so tender. 

“It's in a containment field upstairs. Why don't we have dinner sent up so Hermione can have a look?” he peeked at her over his shoulder. She was chewing the inside of her cheek with nerves. He figured the sooner she got her hands on the thing, the better. 

 

 

 

“You were carrying this on you the entire time?” she whispered, more to herself than anything because Harry had already confirmed all of her questions at least a dozen times. He was feeling much better, having had a few bites from Ron and Hermione's plates while relaxing in Hermione's room. Her chamber had obviously been the living quarters of the old Head's suite, complete with a little library room tucked up in a private turret. They were up there now, surrounded by towers of books that floated in the air, undulating, waiting for a silent spell that would set the desired volume zooming into her outstretched hand. 

“What's the verdict, then?” Ron asked. He downed the rest of his tea. It had been the last of the pot. Harry perked up—it looked like Hermione finally had an answer. 

“I think... it's still an active Horcrux,” she said at last, setting the locket back in Harry's empty wand case. She put the lid down and secured the latch with a light, familiar _clink_. 

“As opposed to an inactive one,” Ron quipped. 

“Oh, shut up, Ronald!”

“Didn't miss you two bickering,” Harry muttered just loud enough for them to hear. 

“It wouldn't be called 'inactive,' anyway,” Hermione continued primly, as though her boyfriend hadn't spoken. “The object is referred to as a vessel. It has to be prepared in such a way that leaves a bit of magic behind. Most neutral and Darker magics leave some sort of trace. That's part of how the Ministry can classify and regulate.” Harry thought back to Mad Eye Moody scanning him for traces of Dark magic, or the way Dumbledore felt along the cave wall to find the precise spot where his blood was required. It made sense. Traces needn't always be physical, like his scar. There was the protection his mother had granted him at her death. Who was to say whether that magic was Dark or Light? It had left a trace—and saved his life.

“So how do we destroy this 'active vessel,' then?” inquired a now petulant Ron Weasley. 

“With a spell like Harry's,” was Hermione's response, “trained to feed off of the magical residue.” 

“But would it be enough?” Harry asked, pushing himself up in his chair. “I mean, if it's just a little spark of magic left, the spell won't burn for very long. It might not even catch.” 

“A Horcrux is one majorly evil spell—” Ron offered. 

“It's not the severity of the spell that matters, though,” Harry countered. “I've lit up Butterbeer bottles charmed purple. It's the strength of the spell that matters, how well and how recently it was cast. I don't think Eptir Eldr would destroy the locket. The Horcrux magic is too old. It wouldn't burn long enough to damage the soul-part.” 

“What about using a magical catalyst?” said Hermione, a sheaf of parchment in one hand and quill in the other. “Like the Russian brothers did with the Dementors at Ravenwood. If you can use a magical substance to attract the fire to the Horcrux and keep it there—”

“That just might work,” Harry cut in. “And they're Romanian, by the way.” 

“I'll start researching magical combustibles,” Hermione nodded grimly, her quill going to work. 

Harry pushed his cold tea aside, affording himself a better view of the Marauder's Map set out on the low table before him. He'd been keeping an eye on the little dot labeled 'Draco Malfoy' as it went about the castle. First the Head Boy paced outside the Great Hall, then he reluctantly ate. After that, he went to Headmistress McGonagall's office, then Hufflepuff, then Slytherin. Now he was back at Hufflepuff, having brought several Slytherin students with him. 

“What's Malfoy up to?” Hermione asked off-handedly, nose practically brushing her parchment as she scribbled, books buzzing about like flies, ready to fly to her aid. 

“Who says he's watching Malfoy?” Ron smiled. 

“Six years at Hogwarts and when was I  _not_ watching Malfoy?” was Harry's cheeky retort. Ron made an unhappy noise in his throat while Hermione hummed, scratching out the last of her notes. 

“Is he up to no good, at least?” Ron looked hopeful. 

“Nah. Looks like he's holding a peace rally between Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Half the badgers are there.” 

“Disciplinary hearing,” Hermione said shortly, filing her notes away before picking up a particularly antsy book begging for her attention like an ignored puppy. The pages nearly danced off the spine in delight as she picked it up. That was some Researching Charm she'd perfected over the years. “Malfoy's on duty tonight. Should be mostly prefects.” 

Harry re-examined the map, noting some of the other names more carefully. “You're right.” 

“You say it like you're surprised, mate,” Ron favored him with a proud and knowing head-tilt. The man was learning to shower his girlfriend with compliments. Harry wondered if it did any good. Nice that Ron was making the effort, though. That was new.

They continued their discussion of Horcruxes and Dark magic for at least another hour. They went until Harry's head hurt and Ron was nearly asleep in his chair, ginger lashes fluttering as his breathing slowed to deep, measured pulls that questioned his shirt buttons. 

Harry watched Draco make his way to up Ravenclaw Tower, moving through their common room and speaking with various prefects. At one point he was shown to the boys dormitory where he paced around a bit while a group of younger boys stood in a chastised row. Harry assumed Draco was berating them for something, marching to and fro with white fingers clasped behind his back. When feeling especially imperious, Draco would curl one hand over the back of the other and rest them at the curve of his tailbone, pulling his shoulders back and straightening his limber spine. It always drew Harry's attention to the blonde's ass. Lecture complete, Draco made to leave the tower but was stopped by Luna Lovegood. After a few words, Draco followed her over to a set of windows and there they stayed. Harry thought they might be sitting in a pair of armchairs, judging by the distance between them and their stillness. Draco and Luna talking? Well, he and Draco were fucking and in love, so stranger things had definitely happened. 

Hermione stretched, shooting a fond look at Ron's sleeping form in the old wing-backed chair. 

“Someone's ready for bed,” Harry joked, indicating Ron by tapping the man with his foot. No response. Ron was out cold. 

“Two someones,” Hermione corrected, giving Harry a critical once over. “You still don't look well. Are you sure you weren't injured?”

“Not so much as a scratch,” Harry offered, propping himself up in his chair. “Really. I'm just worn out. I'll be back to normal in a day or two, don't you worry.” He smiled and she returned it, a smudge of ink decorating her cheek. “I think I'll go to bed—unless you need me for anything else?” 

“No,” Hermione shook her head. “And take Sleeping Beauty with you before he starts to snore.” 

“Sure thing.” 

With a quick “oi” and a tap to the arm, Ron started awake. They said their good nights outside Harry's door, Ron going back to the boys dormitory and Harry ducking inside his and Draco's fire-lit quarters. As inviting as the bed looked—and it was a glowing white specter, an angel in the darkness—Harry didn't fancy stripping down and crawling in without Draco. He consulted the map one last time, confirming his boyfriend's position in the nearby tower before picking up his Invisibility Cloak and Firebolt. 

From the wide stone terrace, it was barely a thirty second flight to Ravenclaw Tower. He circled the large tower once and then twice, the light of a nearly-full moon lighting up the castle in an eerie bluish glow. The night air was cool against his skin. It would rain soon—the air had that thick, heavy quality that always came before a downpour. Harry peeked in the windows as he flew. 

He'd never been inside the Ravenclaw Common Room before but it looked nice, decorated in navy and bronze with pale blue silks to draw across the large windows when the weather was foul. In place of gargoyles, the exterior had several large statues of ravens about to take flight. Inside were countless bookshelves and a large marble statue of Rowena Ravenclaw. Beside the window sat the familiar forms of Luna Lovegood and Draco Malfoy, easily distinguished by their blonde hair in the flickering candle light. Draco was speaking, looking off at a floor-to-ceiling painting of a garden, a large snake coiled around one of the ancient marble columns. It was hard to tell whether the snake was the original subject of the painting or just wandering through. Smiling, Luna responded to Draco, talking with her hands. They were the only ones left in the room and appeared to be speaking freely. The hour was late—Harry was a little surprised Luna was still awake. Then again, she was Luna Lovegood: everything she did was surprising. Maybe spontaneity was something she and Draco had in common, as it certainly wasn't politics or fashion. Harry sat there, watching the two blondes go back and forth, Draco's features perking up from time to time but always within the confines of his Malfoy mask. Luna was perched sideways in her armchair in order to face Draco, giving him her full attention. She even had her elbow on the arm of the chair, chin in her hand and leaning forward just slightly, as though hanging on his every word. Nodding intently, her eyes were wide, pale hair sparkling in waves around her delicate face. 

Shifting in his seat, Draco's cloak fell away from his shoulder to reveal a red rose fixed to his breast by the Head Boy's badge. Harry knew without a doubt that it was one of the roses he had sent at the beginning of term. He recognized their shape, the way he'd engineered the flowers to full, bursting bloom. Normal roses just didn't look that way—they'd wilt before getting that replete, that healthy and full and stunningly beautiful. It left him wondering why Draco walked around with one pinned to his chest, wondering which message the rose disguised and whether the blonde had done it before. 

Harry guided his broomstick a little closer to the window, thinking he might manage to read their lips. Draco's back was to him but he could see Luna in profile. She laid a hand on Draco's forearm—over the Dark Mark—saying something about “everyone.” The rest was garbled. Harry picked up his own name, though. Luna had such small features; Harry found himself squinting to make out the shapes her mouth made, trying to pronounce the words in his head. It was no use, though. He gave up, pushing back the hood of his cloak and rapping on the window with his knuckles, free hand braced on his Firebolt's handle as he leaned. He gripped with his thighs so he wouldn't become unbalanced. 

Draco's head whipped around, white fingers clutching the arms of his chair. Luna beamed at Harry through the glass, rushing to the window and throwing it open. 

“Harry! So glad to see you,” she announced in that serene voice of hers. She didn't seem at all surprised by his visit despite the late hour and his mode of entry. “Won't you come in? It smells like rain.” 

“I think so,” Harry agreed, flying in and dismounting. He gathered the petite Ravenclaw girl at his side in a one-armed hug, his broom still in his other hand. She put both arms around his ribs and squeezed back, head nestled against his shoulder. She wore a frilly dress in powder blue with white stockings, her outfit perfectly matching the drapes if it weren't for the orange ballet slippers and red radish earrings. “It's really good to see you, too, Luna.” 

Draco looked up from his seat, eyes gone so narrow that Harry couldn't catch a glimpse of their color. With his lanky arms folded across his chest and long legs crossed just so, Draco Malfoy could only be in one sort of mood—the foul kind.

“Hi Draco,” Harry peeked around the side of the wing-backed chair, Luna still under his arm. “I didn't see you in the common room. Glad I found you.” 

One dirty blonde brow was raised, its temperature icy. That was the only response he got. Luna sensed the tension between them—it wasn't hard. Draco was making his displeasure quite obvious. She gave Harry's side a little squeeze, pulling away and moving to stand behind Draco's chair, extinguishing a few candles with her wand as she went. 

“Um,” Harry stuck his hand in his pocket, unsure what to say. He assumed it would be best to remain neutral in front of others if their relationship was to remain under wraps.

“Hello princess,” Draco snapped, cold eyes giving Harry's person a careful and appraising once-over. “I see you've made time for a flight in your oh-so-busy schedule.”

“I—” Harry stuttered, floored. What had he done now?

“Never mind,” Draco waved him off, craning his neck to lock eyes with Luna hovering behind his chair. All Harry had eyes for was the long column of his lover's neck, pale throat stretching out from his starched white collar. Gryffindor red was a nice color on him—just the hint of it from his silk necktie brought out the warm, flushed tones in his creamy skin, his exposed skin coming alive like a master's canvas. Draco addressed himself to Luna alone, meeting her warbly gaze with a pleasant one of his own. “I should be going: Quidditch trials tomorrow. But thank you for having me.” 

“You're welcome any time,” Luna said as Draco stood, straightening his robes and tie. “I'm sure the door will remember you.” That statement appeared to have a double meaning because Draco flushed, two bright pink spots appearing at his cheekbones.

“I _am_ sorry about that....” Harry was taken back when Draco actually smiled at Luna. It only lasted a second but the expression transformed his face. It was sincere, honest and so plainly handsome. Perhaps Draco had actually made a friend—as much as Malfoys allowed themselves the entanglement of relationships. Perhaps “ally” was a more appropriate term. 

“No worries,” the girl chimed merrily, stowing her wand. “It's nothing Professor Flitwick can't set right in the morning.” 

“Er, would you care for a lift, then?” Harry offered, indicating the broom in his hand. “I mean, I'm headed your way and all.” 

Draco shrugged, his jaw tight. “Sure.” 

“You'd best hurry,” Luna chirped. “It does smell like rain. The Oxerwumps will be out in full force. Wouldn't want to get a few of those in your broom-tail.”

Harry offered Luna the usual indulgent smile. She made her way across the room knocking out candles with her wand, frilly skirts flouncing around her knees. When Harry managed to catch Draco's gaze, the Head Boy just shrugged with his brows, a hand stuffed casually in his pocket. 

Harry mounted up, scooting forward to offer Draco a generous space at the back of his Firebolt. They took off, Draco's wand flicking out to close and lock the window behind them. Once exposed to the cool night air, Draco seemed to relax. 

“Broom's in great shape,” Harry commented, Draco's arm light around his waist. He wasn't pulling any moves so there was no need to hold on tight. “Thanks for maintenancing it.”

“You're welcome, Scar Head,” the blonde said tightly. The night air whipped at their cheeks, staining them red and raw with cold. Harry felt the first raindrop smack against his forehead as the Head's terrace came into view. 

“You're not... mad at me, are you?” 

Draco seemed to ignore the question. Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Why weren't you at dinner? I waited for you.” 

Harry knew that, yet he didn't want to mention the Marauder's Map—not yet, anyway. He wanted to show Draco, rather than tell him. So he settled for half the truth. “I waited for _you_ in the common room. When you didn't show up....”

“I don't go to the common room,” Draco said shortly. Harry descended to the balcony, landing lightly. Draco slipped off, fingers not bothering to linger as he made for the large French doors. Harry stopped him with a hand to his scrawny wrist, still mounted and hovering on the Firebolt. He tightened his grip before Draco could get away from him.

“Why not?” 

Draco rolled his eyes impatiently. “No one wants me there.” 

“They tell you that?” Harry asked, flip blazing. Draco's response was a scowl as he twisted his hand free of Harry's grip. Harry rearranged his weight and dismounted as he continued, speaking to Draco's retreating back. “Hermione seems to think you're doing a good job as Head Boy, fitting in and all. Maybe you should go down sometime, just to show your face. It might help.”

“I don't think so.” 

There was a sudden streak of lightning in the distance and then it was raining—water pouring down on them from the moon-lit sky. The boys barely had a chance to duck inside. Harry took the brunt of it even with his cloak. Draco shook his own school cloak into the fountain as Harry pushed dripping hair off his forehead. At least his torso was mostly dry. His trainers squelched as he followed Draco into their room. 

“Are we fighting?”

“Wha'?” Draco spun around, cloak over his arm and a hand hovering at the top button of his starched shirt collar. “Why?” 

“What you said in front of Luna....”

“I was jus' teasin',” Draco shrugged. Tie loosened, he tossed his cloak aside and came forward, coaxing Harry's cloak and leather jacket from his shoulders. “No one will believe we've become best mates overnight. Tha's too unrealistic—even Dumbledore wouldn't buy it. I still have ter act like Draco Malfoy.” 

“True,” Harry sighed. “You're probably right, love.” As much as he disliked it, Draco had a point. 

He was glad when the weight of his soaked outer garments fell away, leaving him light—if still damp. Fat raindrops splattered against the window. With the chocolate drapes pulled back, Harry could see the gale building outside. There would be trees down in the Forbidden Forest come morning. He wondered who was looking after the castle grounds while Hagrid was away. Draco put a hand in his, walking backwards and pulling him toward the fire. The blonde kicked off his shoes, wand flicking to send articles of clothing on their way. With a second swish and flick, Harry was mostly dry. Draco pushed him down onto the couch.

“So what was so important you skipped dinner?” his tone was accusatory. Harry half expected to see an impatient hand on Draco's bony hip. “You're obviously unwell. You can't go skipping meals.”

“I was researching with Ron and Hermione,” Harry spoke to their joined hands against a background of Draco's white-clad stomach. “We had something sent up; besides, if you and I are going to stay a secret, we shouldn't be seen spending all our time together, right?” 

The fight went out of Draco with a puff; calm reason could win the blonde over any day. He swallowed, Adams apple bobbing along his pale throat. He looked thin and tired. 

“Research went well, then?” 

“Not really,” Harry relaxed until his head met the back of the sofa, patting the seat cushion beside him. Draco remained where he was. Harry stared at the ceiling as he spoke. “I'm pretty sure Hermione's wrong, though. I need to go see a wizard who lives in America—he worked with Alastor Moody during the first war. Moody thought this guy was working on something that could help me. It's worth a shot... mostly because I have no other leads or resources at the moment. Moody's dead, by the way.” 

Draco sank to the floor beside the sofa, putting a hand on Harry's thigh as though to reassure that he was there, was listening—would always be. His calm was at once infectious and liberating. 

“When?” was all he asked.

“Last night. Right outside the house. Philippe attacked us—brought a couple of Voldemort's cronies with him: his allegiances are clear.” 

“I meant when are ya leavin'?” Draco corrected, squeezing Harry's thigh. Affection shone through the gesture along with his worry, fear and blatant avoidance.

“Oh,” Harry quit contemplation of the stone ceiling. He regarded Draco from behind smudged lenses, dark circles already reappearing below his tired green eyes. “As soon as I'm rested, I reckon. There are a couple things I need to look into before I go.” 

“So... when?” Draco pressed, keeping his voice mellow, genteel. The firmness was in his eyes, the steady hand at Harry's thigh. 

“Monday? Maybe Tuesday.”

“Okay,” Draco nodded slowly, absorbing the information. The fire was warm at Harry's front. It warmed Draco's back, too, giving his hair a very golden, halo-like glow. “Will yeh be alright fer Quidditch tomorrow? I had ta book the pitch—couldn't put off try outs any longer.” 

“Yeah, I'll be fine,” Harry squeezed Draco's hand in his lap, tipping over until he was laying on his side, his face level with Draco's. He rested his head against his arm, examining the blonde's comforting face, all pointed features and perfect milky skin. “I just look like shit is all. Quidditch sounds brilliant, actually. Did you announce that I resigned my captaincy?” 

“Not yet,” Draco shook his head. “I guess ya can do tha' yerself, now yer here.” 

“Yeah,” he muttered. Draco was much closer now. This was how it was supposed to be, just the two of them looking into each other's eyes every night. “Why the hell are we talking about Quidditch? Come 'ere.”

He hooked a hand around Draco's neck, drawing him close enough to kiss. Draco came so willingly, melting against his lips. The boy's tongue sprang out, parting his lips to lave at teeth and gums, to twirl and explore as though it were the very first time. Draco moaned when Harry sucked at his tongue. The sound moved through them, echoed back, intensifying. Soon Draco was on his knees, hunched over the sofa in order to claim Harry's mouth with deep, thorough kisses. His hand snuck beneath Harry's shirt, talented fingers walking their way up stomach muscles, toying with the dark hairs littering their path. Harry curled his own free hand in Draco's hair. 

“Mmm,” he murmured. “Your hair's getting long again. Love it.” He tightened his grip, tugging until Draco's head was forced back, their lips separating. Draco's breath poured over his face, as warm as the fire. 

“Yers is ridiculous,” the blonde smiled, still idly stroking Harry's stomach, stealthily taking out buttons as he went. “Yeh should let me cut it fer ya.” 

“I'd like that,” Harry surged forward, calling Draco's mouth back to his own. Their kiss was messy, lips haphazard and already swelling with desire. Harry broke the contact but stayed close, catching his breath. His lips were tingling. “But I need it to hide my scar.”

Draco kissed his cheek, his temple, hand coming to rest warm and solid over Harry's sore ribs. There was only the faintest bruise there, though he couldn't recall how he'd gotten it. 

“I know. Think I can manage something,” Draco smiled, pushing at Harry's fringe with the tip of his pointed nose until he'd revealed the lightning bolt scar in question. He kissed it, lingering. Harry moved to bite at Draco's neck, dragging his teeth hard enough to make the man gasp—a wet little sound that burbled at the back of his throat, hitching his chest and causing his head to drop back, exposing more of that delicate, delicious throat. Harry licked a soothing path along the red mark he'd left, nibbling his way to Draco's ear. His fingers found their way to a Gryffindor tie and pulled. 

“Take this off,” he commanded. 

“Jus' yer tie?” Draco laughed. His voice was a low thrum, heady and chapped.

“All of it,” Harry corrected, working the half Windsor knot with one hand until it gave way. “I want to look at you.” 

Draco tugged at his shirt, then—it couldn't go fast enough. He fumbled over the lower buttons before the garment ripped under his hurried fingers, buttons flying everywhere, pinging against the hearth and rolling across the floor. He could fix it in the morning. Stupid things like that could matter in the morning. Right now it was just him and Draco—and the pressing need to be naked and in each other as soon as bloody possible.

Harry delivered Draco's hands to the leather belt securing his school trousers before trailing both his own up that pale chest. Contours he knew so well caressed the pads of his fingers, welcoming him home. One hand very much wanted to stay, tracing the thin scar that split his pectoral, squeezing a hardened nub of sugar-sweet pink nipple. His other hand went to Draco's jaw, inviting him forward for another kiss as the white uniform shirt fluttered to the floor. Draco sucked hotly at his lips, shifting around to get his trousers off as Harry teased him lazily with mouth and hands, reclining on the sofa as though he hadn't a care in the world. A heavy _clink_ heralded the blonde's nudity, belt buckle slamming against the stone floor as he divested himself of trousers and pants. 

“Bed,” Draco insisted between languid kisses. But Harry wasn't done with him yet.

“No. Stand up,” he told his boyfriend in a tone that left no room for arguments—as though Draco would ever refuse him anything. Draco was fucking _his_. “I said I want to look at you.” 

Draco got to his feet, looking like a new-born foal with only an inkling of how to use his spindly legs. He nearly toppled over while disentangling himself from his trousers. The slacks hung around his ankles in an untidy pile, tripping him up as he attempted to rise. By the time he was on his feet, he was bright red in embarrassment, the color suffusing his face and chest, cock even redder and presented right in Harry's face. Harry reached out to stroke it, catching Draco's eyes as he looked up. 

“You've been skipping meals, too,” Harry noted of the blonde's svelte frame. Draco had always been skinny—never more so than that first week at Grimmauld Place. Ribs were visible again, and not just beneath the rosy patch of scar tissue at his side. His bones were more prominent at knees and hips, shoulders, collar and elbows. He was so gaunt, so faint, like a skeleton encased in marred porcelain skin. “I don't like that. We'll go to breakfast together tomorrow. I want you to eat more.”

“Ya don't like...” Draco repeated, flushing even brighter, delirious from Harry's hand on him. His eyes were probably rolling into the back of his head beneath his closed eyelids. 

“I think you're beautiful,” said Harry. Leaning forward, he kissed an old burn scar sitting low on Draco's stomach. His white-blonde head lolled to one side, the fire lighting his skin in shades of amber and gold. Harry gazed up his flat stomach, speaking to the graceful line of his throat. “I want to see you looking healthier next time, okay? You're too thin. More food and Quidditch, less booze and sleep-deprivation.” 

The man's penchant for self-destructive behavior was legendary. And Draco always got testy when he didn't get his rest, explaining today's mood swings and irritability. Alcohol was a dangerous drug for Draco: too much made him silly, brash, reckless. He should only be that way when they were together, when it was safe—when Harry was there to look after him, protect him.

“Yes,” Draco agreed, accepting anything that would please Harry. He slid a narrow hand through Harry's hair, palm resting at his temple. Harry couldn't help leaning into that hand while admiring the view. Draco's cock was really perfect, long and thick and impossibly red—or maybe it was the creaminess of his skin, the milk-white background giving contrast to his blood-filled organ. Using a blunt fingernail, Harry traced the white, spidery scar that ran its length, eliciting a fantastic shudder. He splayed his fingers around the base of Draco's dick, his other hand disturbing the fine dusting of hair along his thigh. He loved Draco's stupid platinum hair; it was just one of the things that made Draco who he was, the unusual color defining him, exotic and wild.

“And stop shaving,” Harry said, indicating the man's pubic hair by dragging his nails over the smooth skin where coarse blonde curls should be. “I want you to grow this out for me.”

“Want?” Draco mumbled, lost to the feel of Harry's hands on him. 

“Yes,” he confirmed, kissing the place to convey his sincerity. Draco shuddered. He was so sensitive below the belt. Harry reached around to grab his arse for good measure, rubbing the spot where he knew Draco's birthmark to be. He couldn't stop touching, kissing. Once he tasted Draco there was no going back. Lightning flashed behind them, turning Draco's flesh ghostly grey for an instant. Harry kissed a meandering path up the man's stomach, drinking him in in great desperate pulls. He couldn't think of anything that felt better, looked better, tasted better, made his insides purr and his dick scream for more. He wanted Draco. “Make love to me.” 

“Yes,” Draco repeated. He bent, seizing Harry by the front of his trousers and dragging him to his feet. “Bed,” he continued, frantic, working at the clasp with fumbling, disobedient fingers. “In bed with me, _poilu_.” 

Harry stumbled sideways, pulling Draco with him even as the blonde fussed with his zipper. The sofa's legs scraped the floor, the large piece of furniture sent sliding with their combined weight and momentum. They zigzagged, attached at mouth and crotch, neither looking where they were going. Did it really matter? The bed was big enough. They'd find it eventually. Draco moaned, mumbling sex-laced obscenities into their kiss. Harry fell heavy against him and they tumbled into bed, a mess of limbs and tangle of open trousers. 

“Fuck,” Draco managed, Harry's lower lip still between his teeth. “Wand,” he said. And the hawthorn piece came flying through the air, landing squarely in his hand. 

“Love that trick.” 

Any reply Draco intended to make was cut off by Harry gathering their cocks together and thrusting greedily into his hand. Draco's head snapped backward, mouth dropping open in a silent cry, back arching off the bed in the most elegant, curving line. Harry bore down, biting his neck and shoulder while twining their fingers together, palms pressed sweaty and tight. Gods, if he didn't love holding Draco's hand. They fit together in every way possible.

“Gonna come,” Draco warned. His voice was nothing but a wail through moving lips, his pronunciation all teeth and hiss, barely comprehensible. 

“Come _then_ fuck me?” Harry offered, raising a brow. He loved Draco undone like this.

“Fuck ya then fuck ya,” the blonde countered, thrusting back, wand hand clamped over Harry's flexing arse cheek. His swish went up in the air, flicking wand tip catching Harry's cheek sharp as a bee sting. “ _Amem Inconcessus Viam._ ” 

That he had to speak the incantation spoke to how far gone he was. Harry rolled to his side, locking lips even as he felt himself stretched by magic. The spell worked him thoroughly—he felt it going deep, preparing him for a good hard fuck. And his cock swelled at the thought. 

“Touch me,” he said, wanting more than anything to feel Draco's hands on his skin, present and real, everywhere. The blonde aimed a last Lubrication Spell at their joined members before throwing his wand clear across the room. It hit the window with a fragile _clack_ before clattering to the floor and rolling off somewhere. Neither of them could be arsed. They were wrapping their legs together, nothing but a pile of limbs and bucking, insistent lust.

Draco's hands slid up his bruised ribs, leaving a shivering path of sweat in their wake. It felt as though his spine were stretching, elongating just to give his love that much to stroke, to prolong the pleasure that extra second. Harry couldn't help the groan that rumbled in his chest. There was an intense heat to Draco's hands, an impossible warmth between his fingertips—it felt like fire, spreading along his skin. Draco felt it too, rolling on top of him to get as much contact as possible. Harry spread his hands across Draco's back, flexing his fingers as wide as they could go just to feel and be _more_. Their chests pressed, rubbing together, energy fairly crackling between them. From behind his eyelids, it felt as though the room were filling with moonlight despite the raging storm rattling the windows, wind howling through the halls. Running his hands up Draco's spine produced the most wonderful gasp. Draco bucked, thin body spasming out of control. 

“Gods,” he whispered. “Ya feel tha'?” 

“Of course.” Harry brought a hand to Draco's cheek. It almost didn't surprise him when a flash of pale blue light traveled up his fingers, lighting along Draco's moon-pale skin. The light disappeared into him, sending another shiver through their joined bodies. Grey eyes slid closed at the caress, his mouth hanging slack and open. Harry's fingers ghosted over his thick red lips, light crackling as he traced their swollen shape. Draco licked at his fingertips, swallowing down the magic as though it were the sweetest chocolate and most expensive champagne. Suckling, he gave a helpless little moan. 

“Good?” Harry asked. It was all he could manage. Draco nodded before releasing his smallest finger. Everything felt cold compared to the crippling heat of Draco's mouth.

“Yer gettin' stronger,” he gasped for breath. 

“Magic?” Harry ground out, his brain in a fog born of Draco's naked body atop his own. “Is it... bad?” It was difficult to worry, difficult to think at all with Draco's weight on him, all bony hips, willowy legs and firm, hard chest. 

Draco shook his head, worming a knee between Harry's thighs. “S'always been there. Natural. Let it be.” And he brought his knee up very carefully, knobbly bones rubbing against Harry's perineum in a steady slide. It was perfect. The pressure was dazzling, dizzying—it made him want to get fucked, fitted and filled to the point of breaking. He ground himself on Draco's knee like a filthy tart in heat. Hovering above him, Draco licked at his nipple, flicking the other with well-trained fingers. He knew to go hard, to be ruthless to the point of pain. His mouth went lower, kissing and sucking at the muscles of Harry's stomach, dark hairs brushing his lips as he laved and loved. 

Harry quickly turned over. He wanted to try something tonight, something he'd seen a hundred times in Draco's perverted head but for some reason they had yet to act the fantasy out. Tucking his elbows under him, Harry stuck his arse in the air until his cheeks made contact with Draco's heaving chest. 

“Fuck me like this.” 

Draco groaned in acquiescence, biting his way down Harry's ribs to his ass, licking at the tender, exposed insides of his thighs. His fingers followed a moment later, racking down Harry's sides. He felt wandless magic course through him from those sure fingers, relaxing him, preparing him for the dirty fuck they both wanted so much.

“Fuck me. Fuck me,” Harry chanted, gathering fists full of sheets and piling them around his face—to catch the drool as well as muffle him when he screamed his bloody head off. Draco inserted a fondling hand between his legs, lubed and ready to go. His expert hands plied Harry's foreskin, drawing it up his shaft until he leaked precome, sticky gobs of it dripping down to make puddles on the sheets. Draco was sure to get some on his fingers, sucking on them greedily before fingering Harry's entrance. He was well prepared with magic; yet Draco was nothing if not thorough when it came to Harry's body. Two fingers entered easily, then three followed by a surprise forth. Harry pushed back against the feeling of wriggling fullness. Fingers were different from a cock—you could feel the articulation with fingers, feel the digits as they bent and slid against one another. Cock was big, blunt and heavy, like a battering ram or a sword—it had one purpose and one purpose alone: break down, destroy, _fuck_. 

Draco slid in with a mighty hiss, breath catching in a way that made his gut spasm. He braced his body against the tail of Harry's spine, hands splayed out over his back with elbows sticking out everywhere as he panted, reaching for control. Harry stayed perfectly still, though he wanted so much to arch his back into the mind-blowing pressure. He didn't want to push Draco over the edge too soon, and so he waited patiently. This was going to be brilliant, of the way he was smashed into the bed was anything to go by. He could wait for Draco, wait for this.

The shaking translated through Draco's lissome form, vibrating through Harry as his face was pushed roughly into the mattress. Thankfully his glasses had been discarded someplace between the hearth and their bed. Mouth gaping open like a fish out of water, he was free to slurp against the crisp white sheets. They smelled like jasmine, rum and pine, spicy and sweet. Sweat soaked the sheets—mostly his own. It blended with whatever Draco put on the pillows, intensifying the scent until it was almost overwhelming. He gasped it in through his open mouth, waiting for Draco to be ready. 

With a twitch and a shudder, Draco pulled out. He had to push himself away with trembling arms, the strength gone from his hips. He slipped from Harry with a wet little _pop_ , hardness jumping up to slap at his stomach. 

“Too much,” he explained in a rush, wiping a sticky hand on the sheets. He braced his forearm against Harry's lower back, leaning his weight to keep Harry's face to the bed. “One second. W-wand,” he Summoned once more, shakily. The hawthorn instrument landed in his hand with a hollow _thwap_. Harry felt Draco shift on the bed behind him, rearranging his knees to the inside of Harry's before sitting back on his heels, aiming his wand at his crotch. “ _Con... Constrixi_ _Per_ _Tergus_ ,” he managed. 

He tossed his wand to the end table with a grunt as his mystery spell took effect. His aim proved wide, wand tumbling off the table only a second later to roll forgotten across the floor. It only took a moment for Draco to line himself up again, narrow fingers gripping Harry's arse cheeks and spreading them. Slick and relaxed, Harry felt his anus opening up, parting in invitation. Even his arse wanted Draco back immediately. 

Draco slid home, using gravity to smash Harry face-first into the mattress. He groaned at the feel of it, pressing back with all his might—so deep, so _deep_. It felt like he was being cut in half, his torso split clean in two by the intrusion. Draco snapped his hips, not so much pulling out as he was driving forward and down, pulverizing Harry's hole with his cock. There was something animal about it, rough and needful. The base of his cock scraped almost painfully, abusing the tender skin around Harry's opening. It was carnal and raw. They should make sex like this illegal.

Harry let out another growl as Draco slammed into him, not even bothering to disguise the wet slurp of spittle leaving his lips as he got his brain fucked out his ass. Draco had to know how good this felt, to be taken like this. 

“Taste my cock yet?” Draco teased, taking a fist full of Harry's unruly hair and yanking his head up. He didn't stop until his lover was lifted to his hands and knees, nothing to brace against for the next thrust. Harry bounced forward, pushing out against Draco's knees with his own to keep from toppling forward. The hand fisted in his hair helped, keeping him right where he needed to be. His dick flopped heavy between his legs, Draco's raised scrotum slapping the back of his thighs with each pistoning jerk. 

“Deep,” Harry muttered, grunted, moaned. “Aaah! Oh, fuck yes! Draco!” 

Draco gave another vicious thrust, merciless and wicked. The rain lashing against the windows was nothing compared to their grunts and moans, like mindless rutting beasts. Blood sang in Harry's ears, his nerves on fire. He could feel that magic again, tingling hot and electric between his fingers still gripping the sweaty sheets for dear life. He saw the blue light flare around his white-rimmed knuckles, licking at his wrists and making the sheets sizzle and steam.

“So good,” he whispered, grinding back when Draco's hips stilled. “More.”

“I feel like I'm gonna break ya,” the blonde mumbled, leaning over him and kissing between his shoulder blades, licking at the rivulets of sweat pouring from him. He smiled against Harry's boiling skin. “Or drown ya in yer own spit. _Quel salop_.” 

After one last swipe of his tongue, he curled an arm around Harry's chest, pulling him upright. With legs spread wide, Harry landed square in Draco's lap, impaled, driving Draco into him strong and hard. Harry threw his head back, twisting until his chin connected with Draco's mop of sweaty blonde hair. He inhaled heavily, savoring the citrus and outdoorsy tang of his sweat, the softness of those familiar strands ticking his face, tangling in his lashes and even slipping up his nose. He got an arm around the back of Draco's neck, forced to arch his back in order to give press and verve, grinding down on Draco's cock. He felt that roughness again, like Draco had something wrapped tight at the base of his cock to keep himself from coming. That must have been the spell he cast. “This angle okay?” 

“Yeah,” Harry nodded blearily. 

“Here. Lean back on me,” Draco offered, a scrawny arm flexing as he wrapped it around Harry's chest. Little flickers of white-blue light jumped between his fingers and Harry's skin, like their magic was communicating through blips of Morse code. It was Draco's left hand skating across his hairy chest, Gaunt Family Ring sparkling on his finger as he roamed Harry's chest, Dark Mark flush with his greasy, sweat-covered skin. Draco tugged until Harry rested against him, bodies moving together in a slow, rocking rhythm. Draco's other hand rubbed his hip, tracing the curve of his arse before pressing, steady and solid just above Harry's cock. He knew these places to touch, knew how to make blood pound in his veins, swelling his sex to the point of no return. He knew to run his hands over Harry's body, to keep touching him in every intimate place until he went off without his cock so much as being touched.

Draco rolled beneath him, guiding their hips in practiced undulations. With a few adjustments and an especially tight squeeze—an actual hug—the head of his dick brushed Harry's sweet spot. He jerked in Draco's arms, every muscle seizing and shaking as the sensation rushed through his body. Every twitch, every thrust hit that spot, relentless. Draco kissed a wet path up his neck, pausing every few seconds to lick his lips—not wanting a drop of his lover's essence to go to waste. He was panting by the time he reached Harry's lips, fingers digging into his flesh hard enough to leave bruises and little red imprints of fingernails, half-moon shapes adorning his stomach like dead markings in an ancient temple. 

Harry kissed him fiercely, placing his hands over Draco's pale ones and squeezing, letting him know it was okay, to go as hard as he wanted or needed. Draco clutched at him—really held him, wrapped up in his arms as close as two bodies could ever be. 

“ _Gods, I needed this_ ,” Harry hissed against his lips. “ _Needed you, missed you so fucking much...._ ” 

“Harry,” Draco whispered, dropping his head to the nape of Harry's neck to deliver a mess of sloppy wet kisses. He nuzzled, breathing Harry as they moved. “Harry, _Harry._ ” 

Draco jerked violently, throwing Harry forward. He barely had time to throw down a hand, breaking his fall. Draco slammed once, angry and hard, biting Harry's shoulder as he came in savage shudders. Muscles waged a war with his mind, his entire body convulsing as he sniffled and whined, not wanting it to be over so soon—before Harry had his fill. 

He slipped down to his stomach, pulling Draco on top of him. He managed to get his legs together, trapping Draco inside and simply _squeezing_ with every muscle at his disposal, which was quite a lot. Draco thrashed as he spilled his last into that tight, quaking heat. Harry bucked back, giving as much friction as possible—anything to keep Draco excited and on edge. This wasn't over yet.

“You keep going,” he rasped, face in their sex sheets and smelling his own precome centimeters from his nostrils. “You hear me?" 

Draco moaned, thrusting feebly through the last of his orgasm. 

Harry dislodged a hand from beneath himself, reaching to lay a painfully serious smack across Draco's arse. The resulting crack rang out, sharp, seconds before an echoing clap of thunder. “Come on! Come on!” The words were nothing but a grunt, insistent and guttural. “I'm not done with you.”

He could tell it was torturous, bordering on painful, but Draco kept thrusting his oversensitive cock. He was shaking but he kept going, getting his regular abusing rhythm back in a matter of minutes; his muscles were probably on fire, nerves screaming, but he did it anyway. He would see it through.

“Keep fucking me,” Harry insisted around a mouthful of dirty bed linens, beating the bed with his fist. “Don't you ever stop fucking me. Don't you even think about it. Fuck me, Draco. Fuck me good. Finish what you started. Make me come.”

Draco let loose a blunt scream, slapping the side of Harry's ass as he fucked his tight hole. Harry retaliated with laughter, low and deep, sultry almost, locking his ankles in the sweetest, most gratifying form of torture known to man. Draco screamed again, longer, wailing, calling out Harry's name. He soon dissolved in begging. “Please, Harry, please, please.” 

It was just so good, Draco biting at the back of his neck like that, whisper-pleading, panting and straining over him as the thunder and lightning crashed, wind and rain rattling the windows in their panes. It was as though the storm raged as long as they did. He never wanted it to stop.

“I love you too,” Harry whispered back. He understood, then—every time Draco spoke his given name, it meant “I love you.” It was a fervent prayer, a hope, his very fragile emotion served up on a fucking platter. Harry would never take that for granted, nor would he accept any less. 

Draco bit at the back of his neck, groaning, pulsing in Harry as strong as a second heart beat. He sunk teeth into the meat of Harry's shoulder, at the juncture of neck and back, punishing, bruising, biting. “Yes,” he gasped. “Love you.” 

Trapping Harry between himself and the mattress, he bit down on Harry's shoulder and just screamed—long, loud and tortured.

Harry let himself fall over the edge. He was simply waiting for his lover to give in, to break, knowing Draco needed his strength as much as he himself needed to find it again. And he found it rutting against a mattress, face-down under his boyfriend's straining red cock—screaming each other;s names between unintelligible babble, cursing and hissing. You couldn't help what you needed any more than you could help the color of your hair or shape of your eyes. They were who they were. And this was it. Draco shook over him, drawing blood at his shoulder, teeth ripping into his flesh as he came for a second torturous time, forced his body beyond itself.

Draco's hot tongue passed over the bite, licking it clean. It stung, not quite burning. His teeth had gone deep, nearly to the muscle. Growing up, he'd always had a subtle layer of fat beneath his skin. The worst place was his stomach. No matter how little he ate as a kid, there was always that little bit of paunch there. It was disappearing now, whether because of the intensive training or his burgeoning manhood he couldn't say. But that sweet, spongy layer of boyhood was fast receding—disappearing, not so much becoming thinner as it was beaten out-right by strength, by raw physical power. He felt it now, a heady mix of adrenaline and testosterone flooding his system, making him lethargic and drowsy as his orgasm wound its way down.

He hissed when Draco rubbed a finger over the agitated skin of his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” the blonde mumbled, arms too shaky to push himself up on just yet. “I'll heal ya when I can see straight.” 

“S'okay,” Harry smiled into the sheets, enjoying the press of Draco all along his back, softening cock still inside him. “Jus' need to clean... so it won't get infected....” 

“It'll scar,” Draco warned. He blew over the wet trails left by his mouth, making Harry shiver. It caused Draco's cock to slip out of him a bit, still half-hard in spite of their wildly fantastic toss. 

“Good. I've always wanted a better scar.” 

Puffs of air disturbed his hair as Draco silently chuckled. “Happy to oblige.” He smiled against Harry's back, groaning as he shifted his weight. The man's narrow arms were useless. “Help me?” 

“Uh, sure?” Harry rolled to his side, bringing Draco with him. The boneless blonde slid away, flopping against their sopping wet sex sheets with a fresh groan. Harry saw the problem, then. Draco had conjured a strip of leather around the base of his shaft—probably to stave off an early orgasm. Fat lot of good it had done him... but Harry wasn't going to say anything. It didn't bother him any and would probably only make Draco uncomfortable if he mentioned it. Draco only wanted to please him these days, to make him happy. That much was painfully obvious. Harry returned the sentiment whole-heartedly. It was possible he was the only person in the world who truly cared for Draco Malfoy. Harry was determined to love the man enough for ten or twenty people, more than he'd ever been loved in his entire life. He would smother Draco with the voracity of his affection. He wanted Draco to feel it—choke on it, if possible. He'd put a bullet in his own head if it would prove his love. So he understood the sometimes crazy things Draco did for his attention, did to prove his mutual admiration, adoration and loving devotion. 

Harry shifted, rubbing a hand across Draco's stomach. In a few days he would know whether there were spirals of white-blonde hair there. The thought excited and pleased him exceedingly. He enjoyed Draco's masculinity perhaps more than he should—certainly more than was healthy for a supposedly straight seventeen year old bloke. But what could he say? Everything about Draco was beautiful and deserved to be worshiped. He only wanted to see it all. 

“You okay?” he asked quietly, bending to lay a kiss to Draco's pale shoulder. Shadows of raindrops slithered down his skin, mirrored ghosts from the window nearby. 

Draco gasped, a ragged sound that spoke of dry mouth and a blooming headache. “Not supposta leave it on tha' long,” he whimpered. 

“I didn't know,” Harry offered, defensive before he snapped to his senses. Draco didn't want his apology—he wanted Harry to fetch a wand and end the spell so the trapped blood could leave his cock. Harry threw out his hand, calling, “wand.” A lengthy bit of wood slammed into his palm a second later. “ _Finite Incantatem._ ” 

Draco breathed a clear sigh of relief as the scrap of dark leather faded away, his cock going limp against a slender thigh. Harry rubbed slow circles across his stomach, toying with his navel and the scars that littered his person. Harry could trace them in his sleep, he knew Draco's body so well. 

“Better?” 

“Of course,” Draco snorted, dragging Harry to his chest by the hair. “Yer here. Go to sleep.” 

Harry threw a leg over Draco's, not bothering with the sheets. They were both still boiling. With the heat of the fire, they'd last the night. Draco's fingers carded gently through his hair, sweeping sweat-soaked tendrils from his brow, heartbeat a steady bump and thrum against his ear. He listened as the man's breathing evened, cheek coming to rest on top of Harry's head with a contented sigh. 

“Draco?”

“Hmm.” 

“I love you.” 

“Love you too, baby. Sleep.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** For the record, bubalus bubalis is the Latin name for water buffalo. Sometimes you just can't make that shit up.  
>  **DISCLAIMERS:** “Lifeline” by Clarence Greenwood of RainWater Recordings, Inc., February 2010.


	36. Quidditch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quidditch: a game of precision and planning, skill and teamwork... and Harry Potter being an idiot, rushing into things without thinking. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** sexual content: French Language fetish, Parseltongue fetish, fellatio, D/s, T &D, scratching/bruising, mild bondage, predicament sex, exhibitionism, rimming, anal, consensual Imperius sex, Dark Mark/Death Eater fetish  
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** So... sex on a broomstick. As in: two gay men fucking each other while riding a broomstick. I've never read it. So, being innately _out of my bloody mind,_ I gave it a go. Enjoy.

 

 

They met Granger in the foyer that morning. She stalked up to them, frizzy hair secured in a tilting bun atop her head, a red Gryffindor jumper doing nothing for her complexion. The girl took little care in her appearance beyond basic hygiene; a pity, as a little could go a long way with a good set of bristols. Too bad she was a Mudblood. 

Her little hand came out of no where, cracking across Harry's face. 

“Gah!” The Chosen One shouted, a hand flying up to cradle his cheek even as he reeled backwards, bumping against Draco in his hasty retreat.

The sting was uncomfortable, to be sure—Draco would know, the bitch had smacked him back in third year with enough force to make his ears ring—but he was lost as to the meaning of her slap. What had they done to set her off this time? Exist? Love each other? Immediately, Draco had a wand to hand. Oddly enough, it was Harry's wand. He reasoned that his boyfriend's pocket had simply been closer. The wand cut through the air with a whoosh, stopping a scant half inch from Granger's throat. 

“Ever heard of a Privacy Ward?” she snapped, fiery eyes flicking between their faces and the wand threatening her. It seemed like she expected The Golden Boy to put a stop to this. Draco was exceedingly pleased when Harry didn't move a muscle. 

“Touch him again,” Draco vituperated in a low hiss, “and I'll kill you with my bare _fucking_ hands. Understand me, Granger?”

“Draco,” Harry mumbled, now blushing behind his hand; it wasn't every day that his boyfriend defended him. In any other situation, that color on his cheeks would have been adorable—but Draco's wrath was firmly settled on Granger. He couldn't be bothered with how cute Harry looked, how big and shocked his eyes were behind those round, freshly cleaned lenses.

“You _are_ aware,” the witch continued primly, “that our chambers are directly above Gryffindor Common Room? Your rooms share a wall with the girl's dormitory. Third years, if I'm not mistaken.” She waited, presumably for the old Gryffindor guilt to kick in. Harry looked clueless and Malfoys were immune to guilt trips—the trait had woven itself into their DNA centuries ago. It was practically bred-in, nothing Draco could do about it. He was blissfully unaffected. “If I heard you, the third years certainly did, too.” 

“Free show,” Draco shrugged. “Do inform them—we charge after that.” 

“Draco,” Harry whispered, in warning this time. His hand slipped down to Draco's forearm, silently asking him to lower the wand at the girl's throat. Draco heaved a mighty harrumph before dropping his arm. Harry's hand immediately closed over his, thumb stroking the tendons of his pulse point in a reassuring manner. 

“I'm only asking you boys for a modicum of discretion,” Granger announced in that typical Gryffindor tone of self-righteousness. The woman was always ten times worse when Harry was around, as though The Chosen One's presence spurred her on, an assurance that she would get away with it. “Here I thought you wanted to remain a secret! Good luck with that, Harry.” 

And the witch stalked off to breakfast. 

“She has a bit of a point, there,” Harry sighed, easing his wand from Draco's taut fingers and slipping it back into the pocket of his track bottoms. He carried his Firebolt in his other hand. 

“I _did_ have a Privacy Ward set up. Must've broken down,” Draco shrugged off any worry. “Besides—even if all a' Gryffindor starts spreadin' rumors about us—who in their right mind would believe tha' Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are an item? And tha' McGonagall condones our playin' How's Your Father under her roof? No,” he shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning up despite his best efforts. He looked stupid when he smiled. Harry didn't seem to mind, grinning widely back at him. “I don't think we'll have any problems.” 

“You're right,” Harry kissed his cheek. 

“Damn right I am,” Draco couldn't help the full-on grin blooming across his face. He smiled an awful lot when Harry was around. “Breakfast, then?” 

Their trip down to the Great Hall wasn't without incident. At first there were stares from the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws in the upper hallways—expressions warped with mingled incredulity and disbelief that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were walking side by side, having an amiable conversation, trussed up in Harry's Quidditch gear. Harry had insisted Draco take his Gryffindor sweatshirt while Harry wore an old muggle track suit and bracers, Seeker's gloves tucked in Draco's back pocket. Younger students gaped, the older years doing double takes before they began whispering behind their hands. 

“Just ignore it,” Harry said casually, throwing an arm around Draco's shoulders and leading him down a lesser-used side staircase. 

“I'm learning,” muttered Draco. 

Approaching the Great Hall, they heard voices singing a jaunty little tune. Harry didn't recognize the melody but Draco physically cringed, throwing Harry's arm off and surging down the stairs, wand drawn. Harry rushed after him, catching the tail end of the song. Ginny was easy to spot with her head of flaming red hair. Harry wasn't surprised to see Peeves the Poltergeist floating at the front of the little assembly, waving his stumpy arms like grand a conductor. 

 

_In the lap of luxury he was born,_

_Now from true love, he's torn!_

_Shall we see him wed?_

_Or just taken to bed?_

_The Dragon comes, he comes!_

 

_On the back of Longbottom's toad,_

_The Dragon will blow his load._

_With a bottle of rum!_

_And a bucket of—_

 

“Peeves!” Draco bellowed, wand raised as he vaulted the last six steps, landing with cat-like grace and a frightening scowl. He waved his hawthorn instrument in a practiced swish and flick, aiming his non-verbal spell in the old style above his head, wand resting lightly in the palm of his hand. The position reminded Harry of a hundred Death Eaters pouring into the courtyard at Ravenwood—he swallowed back the bile. It was only the pureblood way of showing power, asserting dominance. Nejobsa fought that way, too—so did Yuri,  Dušan and Chereshko. They weren't like the Death Eaters and neither was Draco. He wasn't. He was different... special.

Harry couldn't tell what spell his boyfriend had shot off but it appeared to have little or no effect. The poltergeist just cackled, turning upside-down and sticking his tongue out at Draco even as the little bastard zoomed away, tossing a dung bomb in his wake for good measure. The bomb caught several young Hufflepuffs coming up the stairs, engulfing them in a puff of purple and yellow smoke. The kids emerged unharmed, coughing and holding jumper sleeves over their mouths at the smell. 

The singing students had scattered in the commotion, some ducking into the Great Hall while others escaped to the grounds through the castle's looming front doors. Harry watched Ginny and her friends slink off down the classroom corridor. 

“Run!” Draco shouted heatedly at their backs, wand hovering threateningly over his head as he spun around, glaring after the red head. Harry made his way down the stairs as fast as he could, stopping at the blonde's side. “Before I take points! You vapid, soul-less, feral, feckless _cow!_ ” 

“Easy, there,” Harry cautioned. Draco huffed. “What's with the song?” he asked nervously, fearing the blonde's sometimes irascible tendencies.

Draco rolled his eyes, stowing his wand now that the ruckus was over. Curious faces still peeked out from the Great Hall each time the doors opened. 

“S'nothin'.” 

Harry lifted a reassuring arm to once again rest over Draco's shoulders. The gesture was casual enough—something he might do with Ron or Neville and nothing to arouse suspicion—but it was really just an excuse to be closer to Draco. The few stragglers in the entrance hall now sported raised eyebrows in the pair's direction. Draco met his gaze with a sigh, leaning ever-so-minutely into the embrace.

“Peeves can't keep on with 'Oh Potter, You Rotter,' now can he? I mean, five years an' nearly fifty verses—the tune has seen better days. I'm his new entertainment.” 

“ _The Dragon_ ,” Harry repeated from the song. “I see Hogwarts entertainment hasn't changed much.”

“My fall from grace, retold in shoddy rhymes,” the blonde gestured grandly across the empty entry hall.

Harry gave Draco's shoulder a squeeze. “Peeves is... well, he's Peeves. That last verse was really inappropriate, though. Can't you do something as Head Boy?” 

“I've filed incident reports; until I can prove the source is a student, there's not much tha' can be done,” Draco slurred with an agitated frown. 

“So you're sure it's a student and not Peeves?” Harry fought the urge to lean forward, the urge to kiss the worried wrinkle from Draco's soft, smooth brow.

Draco snorted. “Peeves started it, to be sure. But the recent content....” He let his eyes slide from the Great Hall doors to the corridor that lead to the Slytherin dungeons. 

“Someone who knows about... _us?_ ” Harry hissed the last word, making Draco shiver the slightest bit. A quick little breath escaped his lips before he nodded, once, haltingly. “Who?” 

“Your dearest ex-bint, fer starters. Daphne Greengrass, though on second thought, she was so shocked I doubt she actually believed me. And Professor Slughorn—tha' was yer mate Granger's doin', not mine,” Draco huffed. 

Harry's brows drew down, dark fringe tickling the frames of his glasses. Daphne Greengrass? Draco had probably been trying to shock the shit out of his former Slytherin cohorts. It probably worked. “Why would Slughorn contribute to some stupid song about us?” he asked.

“Thick!” Draco teased, slapping Harry's stomach with the back of his pale hand, black stone ring swishing against the nylon of his jacket. “The man's a filthy gossip! He'd probably think he was 'increasing my celebrity' by telling anyone who would listen. I tell you, tha' Granger has a very odd sense of secrecy.” 

“So... Slughorn's the one spreading the rumor. You think people believe it?” Harry's gaze dropped to the floor in worry. Draco wanted very much to take that chin in hand and lift his kind face, kiss him senseless, kiss away the worry and the fear until it was just the two of them again, world be damned. 

Draco was sour instead. “Oh, they keep running up and asking me,” he snipped sarcastically. “Asking if we've set a bloody date.”

“I... I'm sorry,” Harry spoke to the worn stone floor, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “I didn't really think it through—I mean sending you here, not... you know. I just wanted you to be safe. I never even thought of the risk, the secrecy I'd be asking of you.” 

“Shhh.” Draco closed his eyes, fighting the urge to reach out and touch Harry. They were already standing so close. It was torture. “Don't talk like tha'. The decision's already been made. An' I'll do as yeh say,” he smiled weakly, caught by the plump line of Harry's bottom lip, the shine of spit on that forgiving pink flesh he very much wanted to kiss, to sink teeth into and suckle and bite until their knees went weak. “You _know_ why,” he added in a serious tone. 

“I do,” said Harry, so softly. Already he was inching forward, mouth enticingly parted and eyelids heavy. Through swelling lips, he hissed, “ _fuck, I want to kiss you._ ” 

“I-I know,” the blonde stuttered. “Me, too.”

An involuntary shiver trilled up Draco's spine, Harry's warm hand shifting to rest between his shoulder blades, pulling Draco to him. In another second he was going to do it. 

“Harry, no.” 

“But... _I love you._ ” Already, their foreheads were touching, breath mingling in a hot cloud between wanting mouths. “ _How can I not kiss you?_ ” 

“Don't,” Draco insisted rather weakly. The sweaty palm he had put to Harry's chest in an effort to get away wasn't doing him any good. All he could feel was the hardness of Harry's muscles and the faint, fleeting thump of the Chosen One's gentle, foolish heart. He pushed but Harry was stronger—stronger than he remembered. A good shove did absolutely nothing. “Stop,” he begged. “People will see us.” 

“ _What if I don't care?_ ”

“Wha's gotten into you? You _do_ care,” Draco insisted, turning his face away before Harry could claim his lips. He twisted, working his shoulder against Harry's chest, an elbow to his tender diaphragm. The man was being so stupid! They would be caught any second, standing in the middle of the hall like a couple of love-sick ninnies. “You need to stop this before we're—”

“ _Draco, I want_ —” 

Whatever Harry wanted was cut off by a friendly shout. Longbottom, Thomas and Weasley were tromping down the main stairs, the last two wearing house colors and carrying broomsticks for the Quidditch trials in an hour's time. Draco used the distraction to duck out of Harry's embrace, stealing the git's glasses and casting a quick Cleaning Charm on them. If anyone asked, he'd say they were only standing so close because he'd spotted a smudge on Golden Boy's spectacles. He cast the charm very poorly, indeed: he blamed Harry's proximity and the subsequent tightness in his trousers, barely concealed by the baggy borrowed sweatshirt he wore. Gryffindor red was _not_ his color but he'd have to get used to it; after all, he'd be sporting it in his first match against Ravenclaw come the end of November. 

Flanked by Gryffindors, he and Harry were escorted into the Great Hall. Whispering filled the room, sounding like the beat of tiny owl wings as it bounced off so many hard surfaces. Heads turned, trying to catch a glimpse of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, walking side by side. By the time they passed the Ravenclaw table, the room had erupted in applause. The only group not clapping was the Slytherin table—even a few of the professors joined in, Slughorn notable among them, an over-enthusiastic smile plastered on his fat, joweled face. Even Percy Weasley put his hands together, though primly, as though he were observing a cricket match rather than the savior of the universe come down to breakfast. The adoring gazes were rather sickening. Draco was happy to take the seat Harry offered beside him, wedged in tight thanks to all the students wanting their chance to greet the long-absent boy hero. Harry patted Draco's knee beneath the table, wise enough not to look at his boyfriend as he sent smiles around the table, reaching for a nearby platter of toast. 

Draco slipped his wand from his pocket, casting the charm to prepare his coffee. He chewed the inside of his cheek as the spell poured far too much cream into the cup—just the way Harry liked. He floated the cup to Harry's place setting, borrowing his boyfriend's cup in order to prepare his own coffee by hand. When it seemed that everyone was done accosting Harry, Draco leaned close. 

“Did you use my wand, by chance?” If Harry had accidentally claimed his wand in the night, it would explain why his spells were so ineffectual now. Even his ruddy wand wanted to be with Harry.

Wonder Boy was busy dishing extra sausage and eggs onto Draco's plate. He was quite serious in his quest to get the blonde to eat more. 

“I might've,” he shrugged. “Couldn't tell, it was dark. Why?” 

“Never mind,” Draco shook his head, spearing a strawberry with his fork and munching on it. He was never one for heavy breakfasts. Harry pulled out his own wand, summoning a little tureen of preserves from further down the table. Two third year girls looked up—apparently it had been their jam Harry borrowed. One of the girls looked wistfully at Harry, sighing and batting her dark lashes. _Good luck with that_ , Draco thought with a toe-curling smirk. The other girl was blonde with very tanned skin; she looked right at the pair of them, eying the porcelain container as it landed in Harry's outstretched hand. 

The Chosen One proceeded to spread jam on no less than six pieces of already buttered toast, slipping three of the slices onto Draco's plate. He could smell the preserves: blackberry. It was his favorite. Harry remembered.

Quidditch talk was rampant as they ate. Hufflepuff and Slytherin had already held their house trials and looked to have decent line-ups for the year. Slytherin, of course, was hurting for older, skilled students; still, there were several Durmstrang transfers on the roster as well as a sixth year girl. It had been at least twelve years since Slytherin had female representation on the pitch. Their captain was in his sixth year, a not-quite pureblood named Maldon Rees. He was a bright boy, intelligent but rather hot-tempered. Draco already had an inkling how Rees would run his team—hard, unquestioning and brutal. The man would be best thrown off by surprise. And Gryffindor was nothing if not full of surprises these days.

Draco cut into his ample helping of sausages, letting the conversation wash over him without participating much. Harry's hand stroked slow circles along his thigh beneath the table. Granger kept to herself at Weasley's right, avoiding eye contact with either Draco or Harry. Presumably the girl was still miffed over last night.

Luna Lovegood came over to say hello... to Draco. 

“Good morning, Malfoy,” she said brightly. Harry suspected her jumper was on backwards but didn't say anything. Maybe the buttons were supposed to be in the back—what did he know? 

“Morning, Lovegood,” Draco replied, setting down his fork. “How's the, uh...” he cocked his brows meaningfully. She grinned rather mischievously at the pair of them, all but bouncing on the balls of her feet, little hands folded behind her back like a child with a secret to tell. 

“Still broken,” she chirped. “The Grey Lady's guarding the Common Room until Professor Flitwick can see to it.”

Draco didn't quite look guilty—more like embarrassed. Harry could read the emotion on his face as plain as day, the way one brow dropped as he cocked his head, lips pressing into a thin pink line. It was how he looked every time he kicked Harry out of the bathroom so he could shave without accidentally slitting his throat. 

“It was an accident,” the blond mumbled. “Didn't think it would react that way.”

“Please don't trouble yourself,” Luna waved away his almost-apology. True Draco apologies were quite rare, really—few and decades in between. “The Grey Lady's questions are actually much easier. I suppose I'll see you at the prefect's meeting tomorrow. Ta.”

Harry looked out across the room as he chewed, leaning into Draco at shoulder and hip, warm points of contact in the drafty hall. 

“There are so few...” he muttered. 

“So few wot?” Ron asked, mouth stuffed to breaking with greasy buttered toast.

“Students,” Harry finished. “I think we passed twelve people in the halls. I didn't realize the other houses were worse off.”

“I know,” said Granger. “It's odd, but... I rather like it this way.” 

“Why's that?” Draco asked, tone light as he set down his coffee. “Because there are two dozen Slytherins left? Or because the lines in the library are so much shorter?”

Harry couldn't help cackling, jostling his boyfriend with a quick, playful shoulder. Granger fixed Wonder Boy with a dirty look, ignoring Draco; from the ex-Slytherin Prince and Usurper of Chosen Cock, she didn't expect any better.

“What?” Harry begged, still laughing. “Hermione, it was a joke! A pretty cracking one, too.” 

Even Weasley laughed; so did the eves dropping pair of Finch-Fletchly and Macmillan at the Hufflepuff table.

“The lines _are_ shorter in the library,” the witch announced primly, turning her face away as her temper heated.

“I know,” Draco preened happily, spearing another strawberry with his fork and munching. “I love it.”

“Well, I just meant that the corridors are less congested,” Granger observed. “Makes getting from one class to the next much easier.” 

“The halls are so empty yeh could swing a second year by her pigtails,” Draco muttered, loud enough for the other men to hear. Macmillan and Finch-Fletchley got another good snicker from his sideways commentary.

“And library books aren't out nearly as long,” continued Granger. “Plus, there's something to be said for the reduced class sizes! Third year double Defense Against the Dark Arts has fourteen students—can you imagine?” 

“Sure,” Harry nodded, elbowing Dean Thomas at his other side for support as he built up for a joke himself. “Fewer bodies to hide behind when Percy rats you out for not doing the reading.” 

Between Harry and Draco, the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors were kept in stitches for the remainder of breakfast. It all felt very normal, Gryffindor's Golden Boy holding court. No one objected to Draco's presence, though he was certainly shot more than one confused look over the course of the meal. He and Harry sat close enough that even from behind, no one could spot their constant contact beneath the wooden table. At one point, Harry even held his hand, squeezing tightly as their palms pressed. Draco was forced to drink his coffee left handed; he found himself not caring. 

He kept an eye on Harry throughout the meal, that casual elbow on the table reminding him of waking up in the man's arms not an hour ago. And his easy smile was made up of the same coy lips which had pleasured Draco in the shower until he was a pudding-boned mess. It was good to be able to look at Harry like this, to be together in public and not have to pick a fight for appearance's sake. Perhaps he'd overdone it last night. So long as their fearless leader was here, the Gryffindors appeared willing to accept that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were on amiable terms—perhaps even “friendly” ones, at that. Still, he covered their joined hands with his napkin... just in case anyone with more curiosity than was good for them walked by.

All too soon it was time to head out to the pitch. The previous night's storm had taken its toll on the grounds. There were downed trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, the Whomping Willow scooping up its fallen branches and flinging them at passers by. He and Harry were surrounded by a crowd of Gryffindors the entire muddy trip. Harry wore that pensive expression that meant he had something to say—something which he'd wanted to say in private. Draco could only offer him a shrug. This was how things had to be. 

A good number of students had turned out for trials. Draco recognized much of last year's team milling about along with a few prefects. Off to the side of the group was the blonde third year girl who had stared them down at breakfast; reading the pinched, piercing look on her pretty face, Draco began to seriously wonder how much the third year girls had heard of last night's rather enthusiastic reunion buggery. Surely they hadn't been _that_ _loud_... had they? Back at Grimmauld Place, it had been just the two of them. Volume was never a concern. He liked that Harry was so vocal in bed—it was a major turn-on. Stronger warding, then. Maybe a Silencing Charm on the windows. The castle's stone walls were thick but there was no harm in being a bit more cautious. Besides, it made Wonder Boyfriend uncomfortable thinking that his friend had overheard their activities last night. He'd probably die of shame if a few dozen girls started asking nosy questions. Draco began to wish he was more skilled at mass memory modification. 

There were quite a few bodies in the stands—certainly more than had turned out for the Slytherin trials, though Draco had been there with parchment in hand. Slytherin's captain, Rees, was tucked up high in the stands, bundled in a thick woolen jumper and cap. There were a number of girls from other houses there for the sight of Potter more so than the Quidditch. Draco took note of their faces as he and Harry entered the pitch, mud squelching beneath their trainers—Harry had insisted Draco take the new trainers while he wore a pair of very faded and beaten up running sneakers. Those who had come to audition for the team waited off at the long, grass-less side of the pitch where team benches normally sat during games. Thinking on his feet, Draco conjured a few sheets of plywood leading out onto the pitch. The clump of students took the hint, clomping out to meet the approaching seventh years. Draco slowed his pace to catch Harry's attention. 

“Did yeh wanna say somethin'?” he asked in a low voice. 

“Er, yeah,” Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

Standing before the knot of shifting Gryffindors, Draco took up a place just behind Harry, slipping on a pair of sunglasses as the sun emerged from behind the last of dense gray clouds. Weasley and Thomas joined the group awaiting Harry's instructions. They were in for a rather rude awakening. 

“Alright!” Harry shouted to get everyone's attention. Conversation ceased as at least four dozen heads swiveled the Chosen One's way. Harry stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets as he spoke. “As most of you have seen, I haven't been around much this term. Expecting that to continue, I've talked it over with Headmaster McGonagall and Professor Firenze and we all felt the best candidate for my replacement would be our Head Boy, Draco Malfoy. I understand he's an unorthodox choice,” Harry yelled over audible grumbles, “but you've got to admit, this little bastard's cleaned the pitch with us quite a few times over the years. We're lucky to have him.” That statement received just a few nods from the small crowd. “From here on out, Draco is captain—even if I'm here to play. If anyone has a problem flying under him, you'd better speak up now.”

From the back of the clutch, Weasel chit gave a humungous snort. 

“Yes?” Harry looked right at her, singling the girl out. The crowd parted until the shorter girl was visible to all.

“I don't know about flying 'under' him—maybe you do,” the bitch simpered, “but I sure as hell have a problem with you calling him 'Draco.' Do we all have to kiss his arse, or is that just you?”

Harry stared her down, not moving a muscle. Draco watched the girl pale; indeed, the whole crowd lost their coloring at the stony expression on their former leader's face. 

“Right,” Harry said evenly. “My last act as captain. Gin, you're off the team.” 

She began to protest but the cold expression on Harry's face shut her down a few incoherent words in. She snatched up her broom and made for the locker room. No one followed her. 

“Would _anyone else_ like to make a gay joke?” Draco said loudly into the hard silence, voice ringing out with authority. He watched Harry's head move as he too scanned the crowd, observing as the assembly's eyes bugged out of their heads, color draining from shocked and scandalized faces. Confused, Harry peered back at Draco from under his dark fringe. 

The blonde was absently rolling up his sleeves for practice—though nothing about the gesture suggested he was unaware of its meaning. The Gryffindors all got a good, up-close look at his Dark Marked forearm. He didn't think anyone in Gryffindor would be making a joke, gay or otherwise, about him and Harry ever again. 

“Right,” Draco said crisply. He stepped up to stand shoulder to shoulder with Harry, worming the Firebolt out of the man's loose grip and setting it to hover at mounting height between them. “A spot on Potter's team does not guarantee a place on mine—quite the opposite.” He paused a moment until the purely evil smirk on his face set in. Most eyes were still glued, wide and terrified to the sight of his bare, tattooed arm. “After me, I think yeh'll find Harry was overly lenient. I plan on beatin' Slytherin ter a bloody pulp this year, so show me wha' ya can do. I want you lot broken into teams; keepers, chasers and beaters—I'm pitting team on team, first ta three points. Seekers grab a bench an' sweat it out, 'cause yer flyin' against me.” The crowd began to separate at a snail's pace. “I dunno 'bout you lot,” Draco barked, half-shouting to make himself heard over the griping, “but I'm only here til noon. Don't waste my time.” 

At that, the group of hopefuls began a legitimate scramble. Draco was already airborne, two meters off the ground when Harry reached up, snagging a few tail twigs to get his attention. 

“Like riding my broomstick, then?” Harry smiled up at him, toothy and bright. There were at least a dozen students lingering close enough to overhear. Stupid, _stupid_ git. It was like he wanted to be found out.

Draco schooled his face not to show any reaction to the sweet sight of Harry's face in the sunlight, the dusting of caramel freckles practically glowing on his cheeks, morning light glinting in his eyes. For a man who wanted to keep secrets, Harry was doing a very poor job of it. Everything was written plain-as-day across his handsome face. There was love there—so strong it took Draco a moment to find his voice again.

“Gay jokes will not be tolera'ed, Potter,” Draco said swiftly, accent blazing strong despite his best efforts. Everyone but Harry believed he was truly angry. He watched as comprehension dawned across Harry's face faster and harder than an International Bludger.

“Cor, I'm sorry,” the man blushed, releasing the tail of Draco's broom as though it had shocked him. “I didn't mean it that way, honest. I was gonna ask if I should borrow a broom for the Seeker trials later.” 

“You of all people should be more sensitive,” Draco articulated for show. He was observing the students as they separated out into teams, eves dropping on the pair's conversation like the pack of vultures they were. Harry seemed to take the hint and kept his expression impassive, looking up at Draco and only biting his fat bottom lip a little. “Laps, Wonder Boy. Twenty. Let's go!” 

“What?” Harry almost yelled, forgetting 'impassive' in a heartbeat.

“You,” Draco pointed at him as he rose further into the air. “Laps,” he showed Harry two fingers pointed towards the dirt and moving to suggest running. “Twenteh.” He held up those two fingers followed by a zero, shouting as a gust of wind swept up around him. “Betta get a move on or yeh'll miss flyin' 'gainst me fer Seeker!” With that, Draco turned his attention to the assembled teams and began barking orders, moving bodies around as he saw fit. If they wanted to play, they'd best show a willingness to play by his rules.

 

 

He wouldn't tell Draco—another ego-boost and the wizard's pretty white-blonde head might very well explode—but jogging had been a ruddy brilliant idea. Running was Harry's time to think, and thinking only solidified the seemingly disconnected strands careening through the back of his mind since Philippe Didier had shown up on his doorstep two days ago. The immediate danger and stunning violence had blinded him to the implications of all he'd seen and heard. If Didier was with Voldemort, then Voldemort knew about Harry and Draco. There was no way around it. Didier wouldn't keep information like that to himself. Perhaps it had been the cunning cunt's bargaining chip; after all, he'd been the one charged with capturing Harry Potter. Didier wasn't an idiot. The man knew how to use his money, influence and information to his advantage. He was a master manipulator; yet he'd shown his hand when he mentioned Draco that terrible night outside Grimmauld Place. He'd accidentally given Harry something to work with. Granted, it wasn't much, but information was precious and critical this early in the fight.

Assuming Voldemort already knew... what would change? Certainly the Dark Lord would be more eager than ever to strike at Hogwarts. He would want to shake Harry and the Order to their core—and soon. With the Ministry in shambles, there would be no one to come to Professor McGonagall and the students' aid. Voldemort would hold no qualms about attacking a fortress full of children; in fact, it was just the evil bastard's style. Nothing stood in the Dark Lord's way—not Harry's parents, not the Order, not even Albus Dumbledore, in the end. Voldemort would want to get into the castle, get to Draco and use him to lure Harry into the open. Whether or not Harry liked it, Draco was a part of this now. He'd become a part of it the day that Dark brand had been hammered into his skin and Harry couldn't change that. Even as a traitor, Draco could still serve his old master.

The difference this time was that Harry wasn't eleven and desperate. It wasn't just him and Dumbledore's Army against a looming dark mass of Death Eaters. There were people who believed in the cause rather than simply believing in him—people who were ready to fight. He would make sure Hogwarts and Hogsmeade were well fortified before leaving to find Leon Harper and deliver Moody's last letter. Professor McGonagall had provided Harry with Harper's business address in America. That's where Harry would start. As soon as he was fully recuperated and Hogwarts seen to, he would go see what the man knew that could aid in the fight. Everyone had a part to play. It's wasn't just about fighting. He hadn't understood that before. In a battle, lines of information were vital, as was having a safe place to fall back to. Maybe Draco, Ron and Hermione felt they were wasting their time sitting safe at Hogwarts. The truth was, they were his hold on reality, a last stronghold that he could always draw from, always run back to. It wasn't just about fighting. He'd tell Draco that after practice. The blonde probably needed to hear it. As good as Draco was at putting up a front, Harry could still tell when he was hurting.

Draco was running a great trial—better than Harry ever could have. Teams were pitted against one another with carefully calculated disadvantages, forcing the potential players to think outside the box and work around their handicaps. Demelza Robins, the best scorer of last year's team, was saddled with the slowest broom on the pitch. Two fourth year girls, best mates Samantha Young and Natalie MacDonald, were made to fly against one another. Rocks-for-brains sixth year Patrick Byrne was getting the up on Harry's top Beater, Jimmy Peakes. It was like Draco knew everyone's weakness and systematically set about exploiting them, forcing the players to take a good hard look at themselves, accept their faults and play around them... or be thoroughly embarrassed. Harry took it as a quiet statement about that ruddy song of Peeves'—that the more they called Draco out for his failings, the harder he would strike back at them. And they wouldn't like what Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater, threw back in their faces. _That_ was for damn sure.

Harry was drenched in sweat by the time he finished his last lap. He'd run hard, testing his speed and endurance, pushing himself through several sprints down the longer ends of the pitch. It was a good feeling, one that he'd missed over the last few days. He paced the side of the pitch to catch his breath, spelling the worst of the splattered mud off his trousers. He'd already stripped down to his tshirt and the soaked cotton clung to his back. Though he'd slapped on an old stick of deodorant that morning, he was probably still a bit ripe. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he watched Draco run a last drill for potential Keepers. The man soared through the air, a crimson and blonde streak with Quaffle in hand, scoring against a very surprised Ron Weasley. Several people cheered, and rightly so. It had been a pretty brilliant shot. Harry wasn't surprised Ron missed, the Quaffle sailing through his center hoop. He hadn't known Draco was such a decent Chaser—just as good as himself, or perhaps a bit better. Draco drifted down to the plywood at the end of the pitch, humming the unmistakable tune of “Weasley Is Our King.” Harry wiped the sweat from his brow and jogged over, joining the much smaller huddle of Gryffindors Draco had kept on as the new team. 

Draco had found a gem in third year Angelika Whipple. Harry wondered why the girl hadn't come to compete last year. She was just as good a Keeper as Ron, and only thirteen. Her long blonde hair was secured in a loose pony tail, ends whipping out as she landed. The girl was nimble and quite small—the top of her head barely reaching Draco's shoulder as she shook the Head Boy's hand. Several other girls rushed forward to congratulate her. Apparently Draco had just made her his first string Keeper. 

Ron was livid. “Second?!” he shouted, surging forward through the clutch of gibbering girls. “Malfoy—”

“Save it,” Draco snapped, tightening a strap on his gloves with an air of disinterest. “You present the same absentee-ism as Potter. You're lucky to be offered a position at all. Keep complaining and your spot on the bench will find itself vacant. Understood, Woolenby?”

“Woolenby” only served to cheese Ron off even more. He blushed to his ears, big hands taking up fists at his sides. Harry stepped up behind Draco, a silent and menacing enforcer of the blonde's authority. Ron looked to Harry, a moment passing between them before the Keeper very wisely let it go. For a bigger man, Ron was finally starting to act like one.

“Right,” Draco nodded. “Practice box, if you would be so kind,” he waved a hand toward the school's supply carton of Quidditch balls. Together, Dean Thomas and Patrick Byrne dragged it through the mud to Draco, flipping open the lid with a muffled bump. The blonde reached into the box, pulling out a practice Snitch. Practice equipment lacked Anti-tampering Enchantments of official game balls so that captains could modify them, making them a little slower for new players or changing the color or size to present a challenge to more advanced players wanting to hone their skills. Draco drew his wand, spelling the Snitch a vivid, double-decker bus red.

“An easy target,” he shrugged, releasing the snitch into the air. It took off in a whirl of wings, swooping down the pitch. “Don't bother bringing that back unless you're a first year.” He pulled out a second practice Snitch and cast a non-verbal spell. He held the little gold ball aloft, wings beating manically against his slender fingers. “This is now one hundred fifty percent regulation speed. First person to catch it is guaranteed a seat on the bench.” The golden Snitch was tossed casually into the air, zooming between the legs of the waiting players with mind-boggling speed before disappearing into the sunny sky. You'd need at least a Nimbus series to have any hope of catching it. 

Draco smirked to himself, throwing several silent spells at a third Snitch. It shrunk in his hand, reducing down to half its regular size and turning a murky, rain-cloud gray. Up in the sky, it would be near-impossible to see until you were nearly on top of it. 

“Three hundred percent regulation speed,” the blonde announced, eliciting a few gasps. He twisted to look at Harry, eyes turned up in an impossibly handsome and devious smile. “Get a good look,” he teased. Most people were shaking their heads, thinking this to be the Harry Houdini of Snitches. For Seekers of Harry's level, it would still be a challenge... but one he was more than up to. Draco released the gray Snitch, playfully tossing it in Harry's face. The brunet took a swipe at it as it flew by, missing by centimeters. A challenge, for sure. 

Most of the Gryffindors were tromping off to the stands to watch. Angelika Whipple approached Harry, offering her Nimbus 2001 with a shy smile. Hers was one of the better brooms on the pitch and kept in excellent condition. Harry accepted her offer with thanks. Before he had a chance to mount up, Draco swapped the Nimbus for his Firebolt. 

“I won't have anyone claiming unfair advantage,” he simpered, mounting the older model with a wink. 

“Oh, it's on, Malfoy,” Harry shot back. “Prepare to lose.”

“Likewise,” the blonde favored him with a dazzling smile from behind his sunglasses. 

And then they were off. 

It was almost like flying in an actual game, there were so many witches and wizards in the air. But everyone was a Seeker, all swerving about on edge, hoping to catch a glimpse of golden or gray wings. Two second year boys who hadn't made the cut could be seen streaking after the red Snitch; laughing, blagging and blurting all the way. They were obviously enjoying themselves, the fouls little more than jokes between mates. They kept themselves low to the grass, staying out of everyone's way. 

Harry scanned the pitch, catching sight of the golden Snitch. He wanted to leave that one for players who were certain to be around for the matches to come. The gray Snitch was for him and Draco, that much was clear. He flew a little lower to the ground while Draco went higher, each of them stalking their prey. Within five minutes, the speedy gold Snitch was caught by big-eared Euan Abercrombie and re-released for another round. The Gryffindors were enjoying themselves on and off the pitch. It was quite a sight to see four or five Seekers diving after a single Snitch. Harry had to work not to be distracted by the antics of his housemates, scanning the ground and sky for any sign of his and Draco's God-Snitch. It wasn't Hogwarts without Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy desperate to one-up each other.

Draco's posture shifted and then he was rocketing upward into the sky, nothing but a messy blur of Gryffindor sweatshirt, dark denims and wildly whipping blonde hair. Harry knew he'd spotted the Snitch and raced after him, dodging bodies mid-air in an effort to beat Draco to the prize. Harry put on an extra burst of speed, willing his Firebolt to rocket faster into the sky. Draco burst through a low cloud, Harry seconds behind. The Snitch swerved—left, right, left again—before resuming its upward climb. As fast as his Firebolt was, the Nimbus series had superior turn handling and Draco gained a few meters on Harry. The blonde was going to reach the Snitch first. Harry couldn't have that. 

He snagged the tail of Draco's broomstick—a clear foul but, this far up in the air and surrounded by clouds, there was no one to catch him at it. Draco tried to shake him off, growling something about Wonder Boyfriend being a filthy cheat. That gave Harry an idea. One hand on his Firebolt, he took hold of Draco with the other and began hauling himself up by the blonde's pant leg... then his narrow thighs, followed by the worn leather belt holding up his denims. Harry was sure to cop a feel. 

“Wot the—” spluttered Draco, taking his eyes off the Snitch when Harry groped his pert little bum. 

“No one can see us up here,” Harry cooed, his nose brushing Draco's crotch as he hauled himself up one inch at a time. The blonde was interested. Very interested, bulge apparent even through his denims, loose-fitting because they had once been Harry's. He'd commandeered them at the end of August. Harry couldn't complain—he loved those trousers, but loved even more the wonderful things they did for his boyfriend's curvy arse.

Draco's gaze shot back to the gray Snitch, fluttering just out of his reach as they continued to climb, Harry scratching his way up the blonde's bare back beneath the borrowed sweatshirt. 

“F-wuh-fuck,” Draco squirmed. “Harry!” 

He nipped at the other boy's neck—hard, dragging his teeth in a painful, stinging press. Draco hissed, arching into him involuntarily. At that wan, insistent sound, Harry couldn't hold himself back anymore. He kissed Draco, open-mouthed and wet, tongue tracing pink lips and gums, vaulting off his sharp teeth and caressing the slick roof of his mouth. Draco felt amazing and tasted even better—coffee with sugar, strawberries, poached egg and that spark that was just Draco, pure and simple. The blonde released his borrowed Nimbus to take Harry around the waist, crushing their bodies together, handles of broomsticks pressing their cheeks as wanting mouths worked hotly, opening again and again for tongues to slide, twirling together. 

Draco groaned, bucking against him. Either the air was getting thin or they'd both forgotten to breathe.

Harry took his chance, then, putting a hand to Draco's shoulder and pushing himself up. He used the superior speed of his broom along with the blonde's aroused distraction to slip ahead, laying hands on the fluttering silvery God-Snitch. 

Draco made a sound in the back of his throat—half-way between a snort of disgust and choking on incredulity. He swerved away, ripping out of Harry's airborne embrace. 

“Shoud've been in Slytherin!” he shouted, pretty pointed face contorting. He flipped Harry the bird before streaking for the far-away muddy ground. The pitch was little more than a thumb-sized smudge, they'd flown so high. 

Snitch in hand, Harry slumped over the familiar handle of his Firebolt. He'd just been trying for a little fun and it managed to blow up in his face like one of Neville's cauldrons. Harry took off after Draco, knowing the wizard would be in a righteous, raging snit by the time he reached the ground; on the bright side, maybe he'd still be horny. The prospect of make up sex got Harry smiling as he landed with a spectacular squelch, mud flying everywhere. Much of the team was on the field, waiting at the make-shift staging area Draco had created, hands shielding their upturned eyes against the sun. Maybe his and Draco's aerial stunts had been more visible than Harry first thought. He blushed a little, ignoring those who tried to congratulate him on a spectacular catch and charging single-mindedly after Draco. The blonde had returned Whipple's Nimbus 2001 and was stomping through the mud toward the stadium's exit.

“Draco, wait!” hollered Harry, a plaintive hand outstretched even as he ran to catch up. “Come on! Haven't you heard of a Boyfriend Feint?” 

Draco stopped in his muddy tracks. He turned around, back as stiff as stone, ripping off his sunglasses and positively glaring at Harry, stopping The Chosen One in his tracks with the intensity of that look. His eyes were so narrowed their color was impossible to make out. A bit of the goofy smile faded from Harry's face.

“ _Apologize_ ,” Draco hissed. If he were a Speaker, it might well have come out in Parseltongue. His anger was apparent—Harry didn't need the dark look or deepening voice, though they did make him worry about his chances for make up buggery. Did you buy your secret gay boyfriend “I'm Sorry” flowers?

“And then what?” Harry laughed nervously. They were speaking across a distance, voices raised. “More laps?” 

“Members of this team show respect when spoken to,” Draco vituperated in lofty tones, trying to mask his inner feelings. “Right now you barely qualify as a replacement Seeker. Change yer attitude or I'll change my mind, Potter.”

An “ooooh” came up from the team. Harry flinched at the sincere venom packed into the statement. Even though he was just being cheeky—and fuck if he didn't need the release after the week he'd had—he _had_ cheated. Draco had every right to call him out for it. Some paragon of Gryffindor morality Harry was turning out to be! He could feel genuine anger coming from Draco, the way the wizard enunciated Harry's surname sounding uncomfortably too much like the Draco Malfoy of years past. The blonde turned, storming off. 

“Draco!” Harry called after him, unsticking his feet from the mud and running after him. He intended to dig his way out of this fight if it killed him. He slipped and nearly fell as he took off at a sprint. The wizard didn't even turn at the sound of his name, pleaded from Harry's lips. “Draco!” he begged loudly. “Sweetheart, _please!_ ”

Draco stopped short—he seemed to freeze in place, hands balled in white fists and clutching the Firebolt like a broadsword across the front of his body. He positively seethed with rage. Back to Harry and the little congregation, his voice trembled, fury barely concealed beneath the bubbling surface. Harry was suddenly afraid to see the man's face.

“What. Did. You. Say?”

“I...” Harry blanked, realizing the enormity of what he'd let slip. He could feel everyone staring at his back—he imagined Draco felt it too, eyes boring into them both. He heard the whispers drifting past him on the wind. “I....” 

“Don't just stand there like a slobbering Mountain Troll, _poilu_ ,” Draco whispered in a thin hiss. He gestured to his side with the broomstick. “Fucking get over here.” 

Harry closed the distance between them but Draco didn't turn—wouldn't even look at him. Harry wasn't sure if it would be appropriate to touch the man. He was afraid of getting his bits hexed off at that moment. He hadn't seen Draco this mad since their last night at Grimmauld Place over a month ago. He hated seeing Draco upset—it tore him up, that one or two stupid things said or unsaid could do this to someone he cared for so deeply, someone who was like a part of him. Draco was more than a part of him, more than a hand or a foot or an eye. Draco was sacred, priceless. Draco was his heart, his soul.

Perhaps there was such a thing called “I'm Sorry for Outing Us” flowers? Harry would be purchasing several hundred galleons worth. 

“Have you lost your mind?” Draco enunciated at last, each syllable so clearly and ringingly announced by Draco Malfoy, pureblood heir and Slytherin—even though he was no longer either of those things, they still hung around him like nobility clings to a king. “Well?” One dirty blonde brow picked up. He smacked Harry in the shins with his Firebolt, polished wood connecting with bone not quite hard enough to bruise. 

“Could you... maybe do that a little harder?” said Harry weakly, sounding ill. His guts had Disapparated, leaving his belly oddly void and twitchy. “I bloody deserve it.” 

Draco snorted loudly, shoulders and chest jumping as the almost-laugh shook his lissome, bony body. “Goodbye, respect,” he sighed wistfully, staring off as the castle's tall spires. “It was nice knowin' ya. They actually saw me as their captain 'til a minute ago. Then Harry Potter had to stick his ruddy Chosen foot in it. Now I'm lucky ta be Wonder Boy's Bitch the rest a' the season.” 

Harry shook his head wildly. “Slytherin's bollocks! I'm such a fucking arsehole. Merlin—fuck!” He'd just irrevocably outed them both to all of Hogwarts. There was no possible way he could explain calling another man “sweetheart” in a non-sexual way. Harry kicked at a ball of mud. It went squelching and bumping across the grass, rolling away. Draco brought the broom handle up the side of Harry's leg, caressing the back of his strong thigh before landing a gentle swat on his ass. 

“Yeah, but yer _my_ fuckin' arsehole,” the blonde shrugged, smacking him a bit harder for good measure. It felt sort of nice, Draco saying relatively sweet things to him while taking increasingly wicked shots at his bum. It was as though; with each tap, things got a little more right between them... something about the physicality of it, the carnal and cathartic nature. Draco landed another broomstick spank, spelling out his displeasure even as a smile creased his eyes, lighting up the paleness of his face with bright eyes and a familiar pink blush. He looked good in the sunshine, the light catching on his lashes each time he blinked. Harry was looking at him like a goopy sap, grinning broadly as he was put over Draco's proverbial knee and punished—quite literally _spanked—_ in front of his entire house. He didn't bloody care. Things were okay between them. Everything else would work itself out. 

Draco's chest dropped as he exhaled. “Na how do we fix this bollocks?” He peered back at their audience. Harry couldn't manage to look. Just the weight of those watchful, speculating, rumor-mongering eyes was enough to make him squirm in his trainers. Draco shifted his weight just as uncomfortably. “Think any of 'em can read lips?” Draco sounded a smidge paranoid.

“How should I know?” Harry swallowed heavily. The Firebolt tapped the tops of his arse cheeks, sort of bouncing there, rolling along the swishy nylon of his trousers as though Draco were feeling the firmness his muscles through the broomstick. It was vaguely sexual and comforting at the same time. Harry relaxed into it, relaxed into Draco.“I'm sorry I fucked this up for you. You were doing brilliant; really, bang up job. You don't need me here messing with everything. I'll mind out.” 

“Apology accepted,” Draco said, looking over at him with a simple little smile. “Six laps.” 

“Why six?” 

“'Cause you were sweaty an' winded after five, so any more than six is superfluous. I want ya sweatin' when we go upstairs, not dead.” 

“Oh?” Harry raised an eyebrow. Draco rubbed the broom handle along his bum—openly suggestive, now. With a quick flick, he jabbed the end into the dimple at the side of Harry's ass. His aim was so good, he could only have done it from memory. He twisted the Firebolt like he was twisting a knife into Harry's back—or rather, the divot at the side of his rump. Draco might as well have taken up a hand full of his aroused bits, for all it did to Harry's rising blood. 

“Get on then,  _ mon petit  _ _enculé_ ,” Draco flushed, almost giggling. He waved Harry away with an imperious flick of his hand, black stone ring glinting in the light. Then he spoke much louder for the benefit of their eves dropping audience. “I've got a team ter run.” 

Why-oh-why did he always slur himself like a country bumpkin around Harry? He'd slipped up at least five times just this morning. His team would be wondering why Draco Malfoy was suddenly speaking like a West Country booby. He grimaced, taking his leave from Harry... and hopefully bringing his bloody self-control with him.

When Draco turned to go, Harry ducked forward to plant a fluttering kiss on the blonde's cheek.

“ _I love that filthy mouth of yours,_ ” he hissed happily against lemon and sage skin before pulling away. 

“...then sprint,” Draco whispered, catching Harry's bespectacled gaze and holding it without hesitation. His silver eyes were lovely and bright, full of crimson from his clothes and the sweetest sugary pink of his cheeks. He simpered under his breath. “An' you'll have it spewing filth stuffed full of yer cock.”

“Whatever you say,” Harry agreed loudly, all obliging practicality and good sense, starting to jog backwards—but his green-eyed gaze was that of a mad man. He couldn't stop the insane grin from cracking his face. Wonder Boy had dimples. “You're the captain!” 

“And don't you forget it!” Draco yelled back. He walked himself back to the waiting crowd as Harry tore off around the pitch. Draco had no idea Scarhead The Bumbling could move that bloody fast on his own two legs. Those muscles were good for more than fucking, it would seem. He schooled his features, struggling to keep the dangerous smile off his face as he addressed his new team.

“As you can see, there will be no favorites on my team. This may be a new concept for some of you—but I expect you'll wrap yer heads 'round it right now or get off my fucking pitch. The rules apply to everyone, 'Chosen Twit' or not.” There was a bit of twittering at this. Harry blew by on his first lap. People gaped, he was running so fast. “Everyone pulls their weight. Everyone participates. We play as a team; we win as a team.” 

Whipple and Byrne were nodding soberly. Coote looked wary while Thomas and Weasley schooled their features to neutrality—the effect left them looking mildly constipated. Peakes was too busy ogling Whipple to notice anything else and the rest of the team was far too knackered to care much what their captain said. Draco recognized the point of exhaustion. There were days to push past that point but this was not one of them. Harry passed by on his second lap.

“Back to the castle, the lot of you!” Draco waved an arm in dismissal. “Mandatory practices will be posted in the Common Room on Monday. Should you have conflicts... see me and I'll make them disappear.” A few of the girls looked frightened but the older boys got a chuckle. The team began to disperse, feet thumping over the plywood as they took their leave to the showers or back to the house commons.

Demelza Robins hung back, looking appraisingly between Draco and Gryffindor's Golden Boy still hauling ass around the pitch. She flipped her pony tail over her shoulder, petting it, combing the knots out with her fingers as she chewed her words carefully. 

“Malfoy... aren't you coming back to the castle?”

“No,” he shook his head, mounting Harry's broom. “I'm gonna go heckle my boyfriend.” 

And he took off after Harry, calling something about “move that sweet arse” and “I haven't got all day.”

 

\- - -

 

They flew on the Firebolt back to their room—Draco didn't want Harry's legs to be too tired from all those stairs leading up to Gryffindor Tower. And there was the smell of Harry's sweat rolling off him in waves, all nutmeg and rum and heat. Harry leaned into Draco, resting his cheek against the blonde's as they flew up to their room. Draco removed the complicated Locking Charm he had on the windows before spelling them open and drifting inside. 

“We could've used the terrace,” Harry muttered, dismounting after Draco. 

“Sure,” drawled the blonde. He tossed the broomstick onto the bed, Seekers gloves still covering his palms, milky digits protruding from the leather finger holes. “I thought we might be adventurous.” 

“Adventurous?” Harry repeated smugly, Quidditch arm bracers creaking as he reached for the hem of Draco's borrowed sweatshirt. “Well, as long as there's cock sucking involved.” Bold, he yanked the Gryffindor hoodie without warning, tangling Draco's head and arms in the fabric as he pulled it up and off. Draco emerged worse for the wear, his white-blonde hair sticking up crazily, aided by sweat and a hint of gritty mud from outside. Reflexively, Harry licked his palm and pressed the worst of it down. His other arm circled Draco's slender waist, pulling him close. 

“Maybe I don't feel like gagging on yer cock,” Draco teased. “Git.”

“That's bollocks, love,” Harry simpered right back, grabbing the other man's ass and pressing their groins together. “You haven't choked on my prick in, what? Two hours? Nearly three. I think it's about time. You must be dying for it.” 

“You think so?” Draco backed Harry against the open window. The breeze felt heavenly-cool against his skin, not to mention it brought the scent of Harry flowing over him, all power and man, sweat, musk and magic. 

Harry's hand tightened in platinum locks, bringing Draco forward for a single hard kiss on the mouth. Harry broke it off before Draco could do much, twisting his head to take a savage bite at that long pillar of neck. The blonde pressed into it, moaning and arching his spine to be closer, to feel more of Harry against him. But Harry pulled away, leaning back against the windowsill to regard Draco. Green eyes were swollen over with black lust, lids drooping heavily as his lips parted. 

“ _Suck me,_ ” he demanded in Parseltongue.

“ _Suce ma bite_ ,” Draco corrected, still vainly trying to teach Harry French. 

“ _Suce moi, Draco. Mon salop,_ ” Harry drawled, ad-lib. His accent wasn't bad when he was horny as fuck.

Draco rolled his eyes grandly, pushing at the sweat-drenched material covering Harry's chest. “ _Qu'est-ce que tu veux que ça me fasse_?” he drawled quickly, wanting to see if Harry could understand his meaning just by the tone of his voice. 

Harry's hand tightened in his hair, forcing Draco to look into his eyes. 

“ _You get on your knees,_ ” he said in a harsh hiss that left no room for argument, “ _and suck my fucking dick, you hear me?_ ” 

Draco snorted, pulling at Harry's shirt, stroking the hairs that grew high on his stomach through the fabric; he could feel everything through that thin layer of sweat-soaked cotton. He just wanted the smell of Harry on his fingertips—wanted to roll in it, inhaling him on the breeze that swept in from the window. Jasmine and lavender danced at the back of his throat with each breath, rum and salt and pheromones embedded beneath his fingernails as he scratched through Harry's shirt. He wanted it off, their bodies rolling together in that perfect press that was almost too much. But he wanted to tease Harry more. 

“ _Je ne crois—_ ” he began. 

A jolt of magic hit him hard in the chest, stealing his breath away. Before he could comprehend what was happening, he'd taken a step back and all but fallen to one knee. Harry menaced over him, chin jutting forward and teeth gritted, his jaw set in a hard, stubble-strewn line. His eyes were wild behind his spectacles, white and green and glaring. The air seemed to vibrate around him, the scent of his magic overpowering even the mud and wet grass of the rain-drenched castle grounds. He was heavy, like a smoke—the tang of incense, the warmth of wood, bergamot and cloves, sweetness that went down smooth as honey and a metallic hit that finished almost like blood. Draco bit back the taste, choking on it as his eyes watered. Harry still had him by the hair, his other hand braced against the window frame with his strong fingers digging into the ancient, crackled wood. He leaned, gripping Draco's hair until it hurt. Nothing had ever hurt so good in his entire sodding miserable life. Trembling, he reached for the tie on Harry's trousers, working the knot until it came loose and he could ease trousers and pants down. He pulled at the laces of Harry's trainers, the brunet quickly stepping out of them as he shoved at his pants, kicking everything aside to present his stone hard prick right in Draco's face. 

“ _Suce ma bite,_ ” Harry recited perfectly. 

“ _Oui_ ,” Draco agreed, taking Harry by the hips and diving forward. “ _Mon coeur, mon amour._ ” He swallowed Harry right down, nearly to the base, relaxing his throat and swallowing continuously so he wouldn't gag himself on the very first pass—as much as Harry loved him spluttering and coughing, he wasn't ready for that yet. He couldn't hold it for long and had to pull back, bobbing up and down the shaft in a steady rhythm. Harry hissed and moaned his pleasure, head tilted back as he thrust his hips forward. Draco hummed around him, feeling the magic under his tongue and between his gums. It felt like his jaw was about to break from the pressure. 

Harry let go of his hair, tugging his sopping shirt off over his head and throwing it across the room. The garment landed on the stone floor with a wet  _splat_ . Draco hummed his amusement, making Harry shudder and buck his hips. The blonde was good at this—and smug about it, pulling out every last trick to make the brunet's brain turn to mush. Harry was so into it that he didn't notice Draco covertly drawing his wand from a denim pocket. If Harry wasn't going to play by the rules—wandless magic just to get his boyfriend on his knees, bloody show-off—then neither would Draco. 

When Harry took up twin fists of his precious platinum hair, Draco reacted. He swished his wand, thinking the incantation with all his might. A thick leather band appeared, securing Harry's wrists together. He still had his hands full of Draco's hair, guiding the blonde's mouth to do his bidding... but there wasn't much persuasion necessary in that act. Draco cast another charm to relax his throat, getting up a steady rhythm that was sure to throw Harry over the edge.

“Fuck yes,” Harry groaned, yanking at Draco's hair as he pounded away. “ _You're so good at this. Suck it._ ” And he moaned in snake tongue: it was nothing but a solid hiss that sent ripples through every nerve in Draco's body. He redoubled his pace, nostrils flaring as he struggled to breathe. There was drool running from the corner of his mouth and he couldn't be arsed. Harry Potter made him drool. Harry Potter broke him, took him to his fucking knees. Harry slowed down enough to get his own breath. It was hard for him to move his hands—between the leather bands binding his wrists and the buckles of his Quidditch bracers, his brawny arms were well trapped. He wriggled his fingers and wrists. Warm, calloused thumbs brushed over Draco's eyelids, fingers cradling his head and face—the tenderness so incongruous to the words falling from those thick lips bitten red and wet, mouth hanging open as he hissed. “ _T_ _ hat's right. Take my dick so far down your throat you'll taste me for a week. _ ” 

Draco choked at that, throat closing around Harry's cock. His eyes bugged out of his skull, desperate for air. It was the most delicate burn, racing up his lungs to prick at his eyes, setting off wildfires along every inch of his skin. His throat closed completely, forcing Harry back in a great heave. He struggled to keep his breakfast down. Looked up at Harry, silver eyes wet, the back of his neck tweaked, seizing as he strained to look up.

“Guh,” the brunet grunted. Harry was so eloquent in English—even more so when he was coming apart at the seams like this. Draco had done that with nothing but his mouth. “Fuck me. Gods Draco, let's fuck.” 

The blonde took one last swipe at the head of Harry's prick—and it proved the man's undoing. He convulsed, growling as he gripped Draco's head and forced his curvy hips forward, coming in great bursts Draco had no chance of holding. He swallowed as much as he could. The rest joined the line of spittle leaking from the side of his mouth. Harry's thrusts became more and more shallow but he clearly wasn't stopping. Draco sucked him clean—but not spent. Still hard, Harry pulled his sensitive prick from Draco's now very-much-wanting mouth. The blonde may have made a little whimper of protest right there on his knees; supplicating, following that delectable red member as it pulled away from him. He reached out, stroking it with a reverent hand, swirling his spit in the thatch of dark curls that decorated the base. 

“Untie me,” Harry ground out, sounding a little hoarse. “I want you to fuck me.  _Baise-moi_ .”

Disentangling himself from Harry's slackened grip, Draco pushed himself up off his knees, sore from kneeling on the unforgiving stone floor. They needed another rug for this side of the room. He threw down a Cushioning Charm before running hands up Harry's sides, fingertips counting the ridge of each rib, each muscle and bump as he glided up to hold his lover by the shoulders. Harry was a furnace, hot as a July heatwave even in the cool breeze that pricked Draco's nipples and gave him goose bumps. He huddled close, enjoying Harry's heat. 

“No,” he whispered very softly in Harry's ear. “I don't think I'll untie ya just yet. Yer magic's gone mad.” Harry snorted against him. “But I will fuck yer ruddy lights out.” 

With gloved hands to Harry's shoulders and the element of surprise, it was easy enough to flip him over the windowsill. Harry's messy head hung out the window for all to see. Draco bent down, licking the slope of Harry's spine as he cast silent charms. Harry jerked under him—whether from the spells or because Draco was twisting his nipple, who was to say? Draco slipped his wand back in his pocket before admiring Harry's bum. 

“Gods,” Draco whispered, ripping off his gloves and dropping to his knees to take two firm handfuls of those perky round cheeks. Harry's skin was surprisingly soft beneath his bare hands, yielding in all the right ways. He leaned forward and took a bite, burying his face in the musky crevice. Harry smelled like dick and come and sweat—it got Draco drooling, desperately wanting another afternoon treat. “Fucking gorgeous,” he mumbled, licking. With a deep groan, Harry pushed back against his face, using the windowsill for leverage. He didn't appear to care that any Gryffindor or Ravenclaw looking out their dormitory window could probably see the shirtless top half of Harry Potter leaning out the Head Boy's bedroom window. 

He went limp when Draco suckled at his entrance, collapsing with a satisfied purr. Draco worked his tongue alongside the magic, stretching, leaving just enough spit. Harry liked a minimal amount of lubricant—he liked to really feel it, the slag.

“Mmm, agh,” the brunet spluttered. He was running fingers over his shaft as he fucked himself on Draco's tongue. “Draco—cock.” 

With a smirk, Draco pulled back enough to speak, running a finger over Harry's damp, loosened muscle. “You want my cock in you, baby?” He felt Harry nod, too busy slurping at the drool in his mouth to bother with words. Draco smiled, slipping a finger inside. “Filthy boy.”

Harry snorted and moaned in tandem: Draco was one to talk about filth, licking another man's arsehole without a Cleaning Charm and then sticking his lovely fingers up there. Harry squirmed at the second and then third. He really didn't need them. Draco had prepared him with magic. He growled as the blonde scissored his fingers, testing just how relaxed and stretched he was. A teasing fingertip brushed his prostate again and again, setting stars dancing across his vision but not quite enough to make him come. 

“Fuck me,” he insisted between jerks and gasps. “Draco...  _now_ .” 

Draco reached up, putting his wand in Harry's flexing fingers. He whispered against the man's hip, “Make me.”

Harry didn't think about what he was doing—he just cast the Imperius Curse, dropping the wand as Draco dragged him to his hands and knees. At least there was a Cushioning Charm on the floor. He didn't fancy bloodying his knees on an unforgiving stone floor when there was a perfectly good bed two meters away. 

He gave the order.  _Fuck me silly, Draco. Right now._

Draco was still kicking his denims off as his prick slid home of its own accord. He had no control over his body, hips slamming into Harry with the hard, wet slap of skin on skin. Droplets of sweat were flung into the air; others kept right on flowing over Harry's back, making him glisten in the afternoon light. Harry gave a yelp as Draco pounded him mercilessly—he was so fucking _deep_ and the position so foreign and new. Harry fell to his elbows at the third thrust, pressing into Draco as he arched his back, demanding more even as he spasmed around the thick piece buried inside him. Draco's body kept hammering, pushing, punishing. It was animal and wild. With only spit for lube, he could feel everything, those little bumps and ridges clinging to him as he abused Harry, gripping his muscled hips with bruising force. He could feel the injury about to happen, feel Harry's walls protesting, about to tear. 

“Can't—” he panted. “Harry....”

“Don't stop!” Harry growled, biting down on leather straps of his Quidditch bracers. There would be permanent teeth marks in his Seeker's gear. “So fucking good.” 

Draco's hips snapped forward again and again, the magic of Harry's curse overpowering him. Harry was moaning with each terrible thrust, hard prick slapping his stomach with every blow. Draco's scrawny legs shook, thighs practically vibrating as he tried to hold himself back. It was no use. His fingers curled into Harry's hips, digging in with blunt nails and scratching as hard as he could.

_I'm about to hurt you, idiot!_ Draco screamed in his head, praying Harry would pay attention. Even in his mind, his voice was high-pitched, scared and panicked as a child. _You'll bleed! We won't be able to fuck for days! Please Harry, please!_

“Stop,” Harry ordered around a mouthful of worn-out bracer straps.

Draco breathed a sigh, collapsing over Harry's back. He pulled out by a few inches in order to reach his mouth between the brunet's shoulder blades, licking at the pool of sweat gathering in the valley of those protruding bones. He drank greedily, circling his hips to give pressure to Harry's prostate, his dick sliding gently in a much softer rhythm. 

Harry ripped at his unruly hair. An unhappy growl resonated in his throat. In their link, it echoed, more like a roar of frustration. 

“Doesn't this feel good, though?” Draco pleaded. He couldn't stop licking Harry, licking his own lips. Everything tasted like the magic that oozed from Harry's skin. He was giving off power like one of those muggle ekalectric generators. It was almost a humming in Draco's ears, mingling with the sound of Harry's blood, his heartbeat, his vexation and boundless sexual energy. Draco wanted so badly to please him, sate him, satisfy his every want and need. “This feels so good fer me, baby. Can't we do it like this?”

Harry caught his breath, relaxing into Draco's gentler rhythm. He arched back, feeling the sour, stinging pain already blooming through his kidneys and the base of his spine. He tightened, pulsed, wanting the burn of it. “Deeper,” he managed. 

The blonde had no choice but to comply, propping himself up on Harry's back in order to sheath the length of him into his demanding partner. 

“Harder,” Harry told him next, bucking. Draco was so long, sometimes Harry really thought he could taste precome at the back of his throat like the blonde always teased. He pressed until he felt it, the head of Draco's prick breaching the very end of his channel, forcing through tight muscle that had never been violated before. “Yes,” he hissed, inhaling through gritted teeth. 

_This was a bad idea,_ Draco whined into their link. _Such a bad, terrible, fucking stupid idea. No more..._ his thoughts went numb as he thrust forward, hard, rattling Harry's bones with the surprising strength of his lissome, bony body... _Imperius sex—so wrong. Never again, never, never never gonna hurt you, baby, about to tear...._

Draco fought the curse with everything he had. He stopped working his hips and the pain took over, blinding him. He trembled, teeth chattering. Harry dove into action, pushing himself up with his bound arms to sit back—nearly in Draco's lap, his sweaty back pressed to a shivering scarred chest. He twisted, bringing their lips together in a simple kiss. 

_You're right,_ he thought desperately, licking at Draco's lips like a dying man. _You're so absolutely right. This was a dumb idea. I release you a thousand times over. Please, Draco, just... kiss me. Kiss me._

It took a moment for Draco to respond. The first thing was his needy grip on Harry's hips loosening, fingernails releasing so that the pads of his hands could soothe the irritated red marks left behind. Then he started to kiss back, sucking at Harry's lips in lethargy. Harry wanted to reach up and take hold of Draco's face but that was impossible with his hands still bound. Whatever spell Draco had used, Harry couldn't get out of it to save his life. Instead, he took up a pale hand from his hip, closing his fingers over Draco's narrow ones, rubbing gently, reassuring.

“Sorry,” he mumbled against Draco's sodden mouth. “Sorry, sorry.” 

“S'okay,” replied the blonde, nuzzling into Harry's neck. “I'm fine now.” 

_Quack like a duck_ , Harry thought. It was the most insane and unlikely command he could think of. When Draco just kept laying feathery kisses to his neck, that confirmed it. Draco pulled Harry into his lap, sitting back on his heels and rocking just-so. He rubbed inside Harry just right, sending little shivers up his spine. 

“Uh, we're not... finished, then?” Harry managed. After pain and a near torture flashback, Harry was shocked Draco was coherent let alone still horny. The blonde squeezed his hands, the other running up Harry's chest, gathering sweat as it went. He wound his fingers through Harry's messy hair, leveraging for an upward thrust that made pink and gold sparks shoot across Harry's eyelids. Words obliterated, he moaned. 

“I always want yeh,” Draco murmured into his neck. “So lemme get this right: ya want deep.” He dropped his hand to Harry's shoulder, holding him still. Draco leaned back on his other hand, thrusting up as he forced Harry down. The brunet gasped through his nose, gritting his teeth as Draco pushed against that painful, thought-searingly-good spot. 

“There,” Harry gulped, trying to wet his throat. He sounded less shagged out and more beaten to a pulp. He wailed, “gods, there.” 

“M'kay,” Draco sighed, squeezing his shoulder. “All yeh had ta do was say so, luv.” 

Harry sighed back, warmth mingling through his core. Sure it hurt but the pain was only a small part of it. The pain felt good, the same way it sometimes hurt to hear the truth. It was present and real. Draco didn't seem afraid now he understood what Harry wanted. He was breathing deeply now, working strong and steady. 

“Idea,” the blonde said suddenly, holding Harry's shoulder for leverage as he sat up on his knees. He kissed the back of Harry's neck, sucking at the wet strands of hair that lay over his skin. With a hand out, he summoned the Firebolt. 

Harry froze beneath his hand, eying the broomstick warily. 

Draco snorted. “Gryffindor's Gout. I'm not gonna violate yeh with it.” 

Harry remembered how to breathe. 

“Dinna trust me?” the blonde teased. 

“Oh, I trust you,” Harry muttered, shaking his head—mostly to get his sopping hair out of his eyes. He let his hands dangle in front of him, brushing the hair around his shaft. “I trust you're as twisted and freaky as I am.” 

Draco laughed, a high-pitched twittering as he slid the broom along the floor, the handle appearing between Harry's legs. Next Draco Summoned his wand with a little flip of his hand. He cast a few silent spells—Cushioning Charms. Harry felt the magic billow out around his thighs and arse; warm and pleasantly squashy, as though several worn old throw pillows had been stuffed between his legs. Draco Summoned the Invisibility Cloak, slinging it around his shoulders and tucking his wand in one of its pockets, just in case. 

Excitement welled up in Harry's throat, making it hard to breathe. “Are we going flying?” he asked. If so, that had better be the world's strongest Cushioning Charm on their asses and bits.

“Bet yer sweet arse,” Draco quipped. He was leaning back, a hand gripping the Firebolt's sleek tail. With a pleasant shove, Harry found himself bent over his broomstick, Draco's prick buried up his arse. He scrambled to get some sort of grip on the handle, shins clamping down around Draco's. “Care to see if this works?” 

“I'm gonna laugh so hard if we fall....” Harry chuckled. 

Draco giggled, prick jumping. It made Harry groan. “Moment a' truth,” the blonde shrugged. “Up.” 

When the Firebolt left the ground, Harry slipped his bound wrists around under the handle, circling his hands around the wood and gripping it with his palms. Draco teetered behind him but managed to stay on, gripping Harry's hip to keep his balance, stomach muscles flexing in a delicious wave that Harry felt against his bum.

“Somehow I doubt this is an intended use of a broomstick, professional grade or otherwise,” quipped Harry. His prick was leaking, gobs dripping down his shaft, beading up on the broomstick's wax coating and dribbling down to the floor with little wet splats. Were they actually going to fuck and fly at the same time? He couldn't think of anything more fantastic. 

“If my piano can serve as a sex toy,” Draco snorted, “don't think your racing broom is immune.” 

Harry shook with laughter at that, forehead resting against the broom handle as he rode out the chuckles. Draco groaned at the feel of Harry's body shuddering and pulsing around him. He pushed himself forward, leaning over Harry's back and working the Invisibility Cloak around them both. He pulled his wand and secured the ends under them with a few quick Sticking Charms. Draco's Sticking Charms were brill—if they could hold Harry to his bed by a scrap of silk, they'd certainly hold the cloak closed, no problem. 

“Yer two favorite things,” Draco whispered in his ear, bumping his hips forward in a suggestive grind. “Sex and flying. Tell me I'm a God.”

“ _My three favorite things_ ,” Harry corrected with a wonton hiss. “ _Sex, flying, and you_.”

Unsure what to say to such open pap, Draco gave a forceful thrust. Harry re-tucked his legs, twining his shins around Draco's. The blonde thrust again, pushing Harry's face into the broom while twiddling his nipple until he whined quite loudly.

“Draco,” he panted, biting his lip in a failing effort to keep quiet. “Did you put a Privacy Ward on the room?” 

“Nope,” Draco smiled deviously. It was a good thing Harry couldn't see the excitement lighting up his own face. He probably looked like a muggle child in Honeydukes.

“Fu-uck,” Harry groaned. It was such a pain to have to be quiet. Draco made him want to screech his bloody head off.

“Can you steer?” Draco mouthed teasingly against his shoulder; licking him, knowing how mad these things made Harry and doing them anyway. The brunet let out a groan beneath him, pressing back with the Firebolt for leverage. “While I'm fucking you, Potter? Are yeh a good enough Seeker ta perform with my Death Eater cock up that tight arse?”

Harry gasped so he wouldn't scream. Everything Draco did and said felt so good, he thought he might come right there, hovering barely a meter off their bedroom floor. “Time we found out, Malfoy.”

With a twist of Harry's wrists and a squeeze from Draco's thighs, they were shooting out the open window, cloak flapping in the wind as they flew. They left Gryffindor Tower behind them, soaring out over the grounds with impossible speed. You'd think a broomstick would be slowed down by two riders but that wasn't the case; granted, together they weighed maybe nineteen stone... it was more like the broom's enchantments sensed their excitement, the magic practically rolling off their skin and was as spurred on by the power as its riders. Harry closed his eyes a moment, letting Draco steer with warm hands on his body.

“Fuck yes,” he whispered, overwhelmed. 

“Perfect,” Draco said back, just as quietly. The feeling really was amazing, the two of them whipping through the air, skin against skin as ground and sky flew by. They rolled, swooped and dived, each angle changing the weight and pressure between them. They hung upside-down until most of their blood rushed to their heads and pricks; dizzying, breath-stealingly good was what that feeling was. Harry turned the Firebolt toward the grass before he passed out. 

“Ground, Wonder Boy,” Draco pleaded, watching the dirt come at them with gathering speed. “Pull up, you idiot. Fuc—Harry!” The blonde grabbed the broomstick at the last possible second, pulling them out of a perfectly executed Wronski Feint.

“Mmm,” Harry purred. “Love that move.” 

“If I didn't love fucking you so much,” Draco seethed, “I'd bloody kill you, cunt.” 

“You mean if you didn't fucking _love_ me so much,” Harry corrected cheekily. 

“That's it, I'm steering before your quest to thrill yourself to orgasm gets us both killed,” Draco growled, closing a hand over the handle just above Harry's bound ones. Draco's silky thumb stroked his fingertips briefly, checking that he still had circulation and feeling. Harry just sighed, relaxing into the caress, the feel of Draco pressed flush against him and grinding through his frustration.

By the time they looped the Whomping Willow, Harry was treated to getting his brains rammed out; tasting dick at the back of his throat, Draco was pounding him so hard. They'd flown together before but never like this—so clearly how it should be, flying together in every sense. 

One hand on the Firebolt and the other wrapping Harry's torso, Draco landed on the perfect angle, driving into Harry's sweet spot with every thrust. Trapped between Draco and the waxy broom handle, Harry tensed, feeling himself about to come. Draco felt it, too. He pulled sharply on the handle, sending them into an upward race just like their battle for the Snitch. Draco leaned back, dragging Harry with him until their torsos lay at a ninety degree angle from the broom, hitting Harry with wind resistance that drove Draco's cock deep inside him, pressure holding it there as they accelerated higher and higher. They came together, screaming in the clouds. 

Drifting slowly back to earth, literally and figuratively, Harry pressed his face against the broom handle and closed his eyes, letting Draco steer from on top of him. He managed a knackered mutter. “How'd you dream this this up?” 

“When we were chasing the Snitch,” Draco told his shoulder, guiding them back toward the dark blob that was the castle so far below. “I couldn't decide whether yeh moved better on a broom or on my cock. I realized I didn't wanna choose.” 

Harry nuzzled the Dark Mark beside his face, tracing his tongue along the coiling snake until Draco shivered in delight. He could have sworn the inky snake shivered, too. “ _Good choice, dragon._ ” 

 

\- - -

 

They skipped lunch, preferring to lie naked in bed and hold each other. It wasn't a spoken consensus—they simply fell into bed, mushy and sated, and there they stayed for the better part of the afternoon.

Draco pushed Harry's filthy wet hair out of his eyes. “Ya sure it was such a good idea lettin' them know we're together?” he mused. “Won't it get out—an' get back to the Dark Lord?” 

Harry rolled onto his side to face Draco, stroking a hand up his bony hip. 

“I had to think about it before I realized—Voldemort knows about us. Since the end of August.” 

“Wot?” Draco spluttered, eyes going wide. “How?”

“Didier,” Harry sighed, his hand winding higher. Calloused fingers walked along Draco's ribs, thumb trailing behind to stroke the coral skin of his biggest scar. Harry liked to map them with his fingers, the shape and feel of each one already written across his mind, embedded in his heart. Draco felt amazing—he dreamed of the blonde, this shagged-out vision lying before him now. “That cunt wouldn't keep information like up his sleeve for long. This way I can at least hug you in the common room. Or kiss you,” Harry winked.

“Ya think tha's wise? Kissin' Draco Malfoy, scourge of Gryffindor?” Draco wrinkled his nose in mock-disgust. “Yeh may lose a few fans. 

Harry took Draco's hand, looking at the ring on his hand before going up to meet his eyes. He knew the man was scared and making jokes to cover his worries. 

“Fuck the fans,” Harry said firmly. “You know I don't care what anybody thinks.”

“An' wot if someone comes after me?”

“You're not made of glass,” Harry smiled. “And you're at Hogwarts. No one can touch you here.”

Draco laid back against the mattress, white-blonde head nearly disappearing in a mound of pillows. “I'm not so sure, _poilu_. Ya know somebody slipped Veritaserum in my pumpkin juice the first day a' term.”

“But you don't drink pumpkin juice....”

“ _Gods_ , yer thick!” Draco huffed, half playful but half angry because deep down, he was scared and afraid to admit it.

“No, no, I get it. I understand the danger,” Harry asserted, rolling after Draco and propping himself up on an elbow to hover over him. He used his free hand to trace the lines of Draco's chest without looking, eyes trained on the boy's pointed, handsome face. “And I guess... I should've talked to you before blurting about us in front of everyone. I should've made sure it was okay with you before I stuck my foot in it. It's your life, too. I'm sorry. I reckon I'm getting used to doing things my way and having everyone follow. But that's no reason to trample over you. I value your input, especially about this kind of stuff. I promise I'll pay more attention and talk to you about it in the future. Can you forgive me?”

Draco lay stunned, blinking up at the caring face above him. Since when had Harry Potter learned to consider others in his Chosen decision-making process? Draco swallowed down his pride. If Harry was prepared to act like an adult, he could return the consideration. 

“There's nothing ter forgive,” he reached out, stroking a thumb over Harry's cheek. “Yer Wonder Boyfriend. As hard as it is, I leave these decisions to you. But I'd appreciate it if you'd inform me before changin' yer mind, okay?”

Harry's brows rose. “Wonder Boyfriend, huh?”

“Oh, shove off!” Draco pushed his muscled shoulder, blushing. “Tha's wha' I call ya in my head.” 

Harry pushed closer, pressing his tight body flush with Draco's side. He kissed a warm path over the blonde's shoulder, whispering, “In your head or in your fantasies?”

Draco smirked into black, sweat-matted hair. “Can't it be both?”

“Come 'ere, you,” Harry purred, slinging an arm around Draco's middle for a tighter embrace. “I don't think I've thanked you properly for that little escapade.” He jutted his chin to the broomstick and Invisibility Cloak piled at the opposite end of the mahogany sleigh frame.

Draco kicked the Firebolt away. Its tail twigs had been tickling the undersides of his feet for the last twenty minutes, anyway. He relaxed into Harry's arms, letting everything else go.

“No thanks necessary,” he sighed. “An' it was more of an indulgence, really.” 

“Then let me indulge you back,” Harry kissed Draco, forcing him deep into the blankets until they both dissolved. Draco felt so right, so perfect in his arms. The man's lips were soft. He pulled one into his mouth and sucked, savoring the taste and feel of him. He grazed its tenderness with his teeth. Kissing Draco was still the most erotic sensation of his entire life. He would never get tired of this. Tonguing Draco Malfoy would never get old. Every press of lips, every slide of spit-slicked tongue was perfection. And the world be damned, he'd never want or need anything more than this: Draco, _his Draco_ , melting in his arms.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translation of Draco's French**  
>  _mon petit enculé_ – my little cocksucker/faggot/bastard/asshole  
>  _Suce ma bite_ – of course, the classic “suck my cock”  
>  _Qu'est-ce que tu veux que ça me fasse?_ – “Do you really think I care?” or “What do you want me to do about it?” Essentially, an expression of utter indifference.


	37. Beretta: Rabbit Will Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has a nightmare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** dream-sequence non-con, a dash of incestuous four-way, fellatio

**PODCAST:** This chapter is now available as a podcast, read to you by, well, myself. Because my devotion to this epic beast knows no bounds. The podcast is available in two versions; one with the [narrative only](http://www.mediafire.com/?rlrru4j4tga50kl) and the second featuring [a brief musical introduction](http://www.mediafire.com/?xic68p76dr5xp7c) (don't worry, I'm not singing). As always, the entire _Conscience_ Podcast Collection is available for download [HERE](http://www.mediafire.com/?3qa7tzx5bx1d5).  


  


 

_...A rabbit will run, and a lion has nothing to fear_

_We bricked up the garden and oh, what it means_

_We’ve all kissed a virgin as if she were clean_

_And I still have a prayer, despite all the colors I’ve seen_

 

_And judgment is just like a cup that we share_

_I’ll jump over the wall and I’ll wait for you there_

_Well past the weeds and our vision of things to come_

_We’ve all heard the rooster and all been denied_

_And we’ve seen through the haze and the spit in our eyes_

_And I still have a prayer, a well-weathered word to the wise_

 

 

“Rabbit Will Run”

Iron & Wine

 

 

 

The fire flickered hot and crackling at his side, sending light and long shadows to dance across the red blackness inside his eyelids. The air was full of woodsmoke and the musk of wet earth, rough warmth of night surrounding him. Somewhere in the distance a hawk screeched, descending on its prey.

A hand crossed his stomach, calloused and strong, dwarfing him with its size. The touch was at once familiar and unknown—it haunted him that he should recognize it but could not. It felt good, though, running the length of his abs and ribs with delicate care, seeming to count the ridges of him as it went. Reluctantly, Harry forced open his eyes.

Night sky met his eyes, cluttered with brilliant twinkling stars, the pleasant picture rimmed by the tops of tall pines and not a cloud in sight. The orange light of the fire didn't quite reach the tree line, making them little more than looming shadows in the dark, more black than green. He looked to his side to find Dmitry smiling up at the sky, brawny arms behind his head. The Thestral tattooed on his arm was stirring, galloping down beneath the collar of his shirt. The fabric seemed to bubble, showing the beast's path down his broad chest and flat stomach, slipping below his belt. Dima shook his leg, banishing the Thestral as it ran out his pant leg and off into the night.

That auburn head turned toward Harry, smile broadening to a full-on smirk. But his eyes were far away, looking not at Harry but just beyond him. Harry twisted around to see Nebojsa behind him, his hand still gliding up and down Harry's chest.

“Is there another blanket?” he asked. “It's awful cold.” Gooseflesh pricked his arms. His fingers were chilly and numb, his limbs uncooperative as he stretched to retrieve the woolen camp blanket down around his shins. When he laid back down, Nebojsa slipped an arm behind his neck, reaching out to touch his cheek with those long, ghostly fingers. His skin was rougher that Harry expected—somehow he thought Nebojsa would be genteel and refined, like Draco. There was dirt beneath his nails, his hands smelling of firewood and horses, whisky and magic. He leaned, hovering close to Harry's face, long nose and bright blue eyes taking over the sight of moon and stars.

“Shhhhh,” he cooed. His hand drifted down to Harry's neck, thumb grazing the stubble of his jaw. The side of his thin mouth quirked up ever so slightly, like he was pleased with what he saw. And then those lips descended on his, meeting in the softest, most gentle crush.

“Er—no,” Harry managed, a hand to the man's sinewy shoulder and pushing him away. His lips didn't want to leave, moving over Harry's with quiet insistence, asking for more from the kiss. The harder Harry pressed, the stronger Nebojsa became, the closer he got—until their chests pressed, bodies flush against one another. Nebojsa was bigger and just as strong. Another set of hands held him down at hip and shoulder—Dima, chuckling softly. “No,” Harry said again. “Draco.”

Neither of them stopped. Dmitry worked Harry's shirt up to his armpits so that his skin met the night air. His nipples hardened to nubs, standing at attention. The hawk cried again, making off with its meal. The couple had a meal of their own. Nebojsa had Harry well pinned to the dirt, straddling him, mouth working a shivering wet path down his neck.

“Stop it!” Harry shouted. “Not funny!”

Dima's big hand shot out, closing tight around Harry's throat. The man took the slender line of his boyfriend's neck in his other hand, crushing a soul-searing kiss to his thin lips. Their mouths opened again and again, tongues meeting frantically. Harry could feel the Serb's arousal against his stomach, pressing into him as it grew. The men kissed right in front of him. Harry couldn't breathe; he kicked and struggled to no avail. A new set of hands pinned his hips to the ground, his legs held to the ground by what could only be a third man. Steady hands worked the buckle of Harry's denims, dragging his trousers and pants down past his knees. He was utterly exposed, his bits hanging out for the taking.

Nebojsa rolled off him, still kissing his boyfriend over Harry's torso. They each had an impossibly powerful hand on him, keeping him still. He looked down to see Misha between his legs, honeyed eyes glazed over near to black. The boy stared hungrily, frank gaze gone primal and dark, roving over Harry's body. With a sort of awed reverence, he took Harry into his mouth, slurping and sucking with his eyes shut tight.

“Stop! Please, _please_ stop!” Harry pleaded. He didn't  want to be hard, didn't want to be turned on, didn't want Nebojsa's thin wet lips trailing down his neck or Dima sucking on his nipple, bucking greedily against his thigh. But they wouldn't stop no matter what he said, no matter how he shouted or begged. “No! God, no! _Stop!_ ” 

He started to cry, still thrashing with all his might. Fat tears ran down his cheeks, helpless sniffles interrupting his screams. He was close. He couldn't imagine coming like this but it seemed inevitable. He kept begging, voice breaking, praying they might just stop before....

At the cusp of orgasm, he managed a wandless Light Shield, knocking the men from him. There was an audible thud as they hit the dirt, sprawled out and disoriented from the shock of magic.

Harry grabbed at the woolen blanket, trying to cover himself. He felt so ashamed, dirty, used... raped. They were raping him. It was cheating on Draco and he didn't want it. He let out a sob that shook his shoulders, doubling over as the shameful tears tracked down his face in earnest.

 

 

“Harry? Harry, are ya okay?” Draco was right above him, fragile fingers splayed out over his chest and kneeling over him. Those fond silvery eyes were wide in panic, lips swollen and red, Harry's cock wet and spent between his spread legs. He started putting the jumbled pieces together.

“You were...” Harry mumbled, still half-asleep.

“Yeh were enjoying it an' then...” the blonde trailed off, laying his head against Harry's chest and listening to his stampeding heart. “Was it one a' yer nightmares?”

“No, not one of those.”

Draco's brows drew down in concern, pale fingers tightening against Harry's pec. “Yeh kept sayin' 'no' and then my name. Wot were ya dreamin' about?”

“Nothing important,” Harry said, trying to roll away.

“Bollocks,” Draco insisted, pinning Harry down to the mattress and staring him down with narrowed eyes. There was just a hint of ardent warmth to his face from the dying embers in the hearth. He looked really and truly beautiful—the last thing Harry wanted to see after a dream about cheating on this perfect creature and physically enjoying it. Never mind that it was Draco sucking him off in reality. Draco could _always_ make him come. It was a very sick gift of his.

“I'm fine,” Harry spat the words, pushing Draco off his chest and folding his arms. The blonde flopped to the old mattress with a squeaky bounce. “It was just a nightmare.”

“Tell me about it,” Draco replied, propping himself up on his elbow in preparation to listen. It was hard not to talk to him when he gave Harry that look, so open and dear, eyes lighting from the inside. He was so clearly in love.

“I dreamed that Dima and his brother were... taking advantage of me.” He couldn't manage to include Nebojsa out loud. But why not? The Serb had been doing the same as Dima. Why should he be excluded from the post-nightmare finger-pointing? “It was just a bad dream,” Harry asserted. “It doesn't mean anything. It's not like I'm attracted to them or anything.”

“I didn't think yeh were, Oh Straight One,” Draco shrugged playfully, sneaking a hand under Harry's folded arms and toying with the coarse hair in the valley between his pectorals. “Not tha' it would be a problem. I'm attracted to lots a' people—doesn't mean I'm gonna run off an' shag 'em.”

“Dima and Misha are my mates, Draco. Good looking mates, I guess. They just don't do anything for me, sexually,” Harry unfolded his arms, placing a hand over Draco's. He sighed, shrugging a little. “Honestly... I think Nebojsa is more attractive.”

“See? I prefer the brothers,” Draco quipped with a classic Malfoy sneer.

“You would,” Harry said a little waspishly. “You've already slept with one out of three.”

“And Vuk was very attractive, too,” Draco said blandly; even his tone refused to be drawn into an argument at this hour. “Are ya in the mood ter be an arsehole about this or can we drop it?”

“What am I being stupid about?” Harry asked honestly, not entirely sure where he'd set Draco off. Conversation was a veritable minefield that would only get worse as time went on, especially with the war and choices Harry would have to continue to make on Draco's behalf. He usually tripped over sensitive things, stumbling along without a clue. At least now he was asking for some direction. He wondered whether Draco would provide any, given the opportunity. The blonde was just as secretive as Harry.

“I've slept with other men. Women, too. You haven't,” Draco pronounced these facts as though he were reading from an ancient almanac, like they were articles of information no longer relevant to the modern world. “Can you get over that? I'm happy with this,” his eyes flicked between their bodies, silvery gaze settling on their joined hands resting over Harry's heart. “I don't fancy sleeping with anyone else. Do _you_?”

“No,” Harry replied quickly.

“Good,” Draco flopped back beside him, curling his hand on Harry's chest so that their palms pressed. He wound their fingers together in a familiar contact, sighing as his bony frame sunk into the softness of the bed. “I've learned a valuable lesson, here: don't perform sexual favors on Wonder Boy while he's sleeping.”

“I've learned a lesson, too,” Harry said back, smiling weakly.

“Yeah? What's that?”

“Next time I'm having a sex dream that feels real, I'll just go with it and deal with the shame later.”

“Good boy,” Draco let out a happy breath, dropping his head against Harry's shoulder. Within seconds, he was snoring through his mouth. Harry had never heard a sweeter sound. Time to return said sexual favor.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Rabbit Will Run_ music and lyrics by Samuel Beam, licensed to and released by Warner Bros. and 4AD 25 January, 2011.


	38. A Broken Wand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Hogwarts really as safe as Harry thinks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** some mud  & blood, kissing

 

 

 

“Harry, ya alright?” 

A disgruntled “yeah,” came back at him along with a delayed, weighty sort of sigh. “Just frustrated.” 

Draco knew that sound, knew what it meant—The Boy Who Couldn't Leave Well Enough Alone. Harry had been sighing all afternoon, discontent manifesting in so many little looks and gestures that made his thoughts overwhelmingly clear. Draco sighed, too. He knew what this was about.

The Chosen One had sat through that afternoon's prefect meeting with a permanent frown etched into his features, taut forearms exposed by his muggle tshirt and folded across his chest as an outward sign of his displeasure—as though they needed an indication beyond the chill of those narrowed emerald eyes behind round lenses. He'd leaned back in his chair, glaring at the Headmistress the entire time. The two had had words before the meeting; obviously it hadn't gone Harry's way and the man was still bristling over the snub now that they were back in their rooms. Draco had finished his schoolwork and was relaxing in bed, hoping Harry would finish the letter he was writing and join him soon. It was nearly time for supper and Harry had promised Weasley a game of chess after the meal. With the exception of Quidditch, prefect obligations and the occasional meal, the couple had remained sequestered in their quarters over the weekend. Tomorrow, Draco would go to classes—and Harry would confront Headmistress McGonagall with whatever plot that letter was cooking up.

“Yeh think McGonagall's makin' a mistake.” 

Harry sighed again, twisting around on the sofa to look at Draco. The blonde lay sprawled across the bed with an especially squashy burgundy pillow thrown over his stomach, staring up at the shadows stretching across the spider-veined ceiling. 

“I think she's underestimating Voldemort,” Harry scratched the back of his neck. “That's a dangerous thing. She could get everyone at Hogwarts killed.”

“So,” Draco rolled onto his stomach, trapping the pillow under his hips. He regarded his boyfriend with his chin propped on one hand. “Wot's Harry Potter gonna do about it? Charge in an' save us all? Brilliant plan, _mon ange_.”

The Chosen One snorted, setting down his quill. “I've learned my lesson about that—running into things without thinking. I have a plan. This is a letter to Dmitry, Nebojsa and the guys. I'm asking if they can bring Yuri or even Gregorovich to have a look at the wards. I'm not stepping on the Headmistress' toes and it'll make me feel like I'm doing something instead of sitting on my arse, waiting to be attacked.”

Draco didn't react to the prospect of Hogwarts coming under attack. It was a looming possibility but he'd kept it from entering his thoughts. _If_ he thought about it—Death Eaters and Dementors storming the castle with him on the other side of the fence this time around—he might begin to feel that most alien of emotions... fear. And he couldn't be afraid, not now. He was responsible for the welfare of Gryffindor and all the other houses. If Draco Malfoy, defected Death Eater, looked the slightest bit frightened, the world would surely dissolve into chaos. He had to keep it together, even if it felt insane to walk around with a smug little smirk on his face; it was what was expected of him—and a Malfoy always aimed to please.

“An' how might yeh be gettin' this letter to them? Didn't ya say they're in Valaam?” Draco kicked a blanket off his foot. “We haven't had owls in or out since Thursday.”

Harry signed his name to the parchment before sealing it with a spell, a magical wax forming along the crease of his single sheaf of parchment. He slipped it into a dragon hide carrying case and crossed the room to the window. Draco slithered across the bed to find none other than Dumbledore's ruddy phoenix waiting patiently at the windowsill. The whole fucking castle was as Harry's beck and call, it would seem.

“Ya think the phoenix can get out?”

“Let's call it an experiment,” Harry grinned a little sadly, opening the window to get to the bird. He greeted it, offering an owl treat before hooking the weatherproof satchel over its long, red-feathered neck. 

“Can you take this to Valaam, please?” he asked the creature, all politeness, stroking its gold-plumed head affectionately. Draco was jealous. He wanted Harry's hands on _him_ like that before dinner. “The recipient should be Nebojsa Radić or Yuri Batushansky—whomever you find first. Does that make it easier for you?” he continued in a gentle tone, the phoenix nuzzling into his hand more like a cat than a bird. With a doleful trill, it took off into the cloudy sky. Harry pulled the window shut but watched the phoenix as it swooped off into the distance. 

“If Fawkes can get out,” the brunet said, more to himself than anything, “then we might have a problem. I think if Fawkes gets out, then there's a chance other magical creatures can get in.”

“Other magical creatures?” Draco pondered. “The castle is warded against Dementors an' Inferi, tha' much I know. Wha' else did ya have in mind?”

“Well, I asked for Misha or Dima to come, too. I want them to test the wards in their Animagus form. There's no telling if there are other Death Eaters who've undergone the same ritual or whatever. I'd rather not take chances if this is something we can prevent. They know an awful lot about the Dark Arts—maybe they'll catch something the Order missed. It's worth a shot.” Leaning forward, Harry's forehead made contact with the cool glass of the windowpane. He was rubbing slow circles into his temples, glasses balanced precariously at the very end of his nose. The stress was getting to him. 

“Why don't you come over here, baby?” Draco offered, patting the mound of eiderdown beside him. 

“I...” Harry began. His mouth hung open, unsure of what he wanted to say. He looked tired despite these last two nights of rest. 

“You have a headache, right?” Draco pressed, crawling to the edge of the bed to stop on his knees. He held out his hand out to Harry, beckoning. “Let me take care of it for you. You promised Weasley a game of chess tonight and you always keep your promises.”

Harry Potter took his hand, favoring him with a slow, impossibly handsome smile. Emotion softened his features, banishing the worry and doubt that came with his maturity. Green eyes sparkled in the lamplight. He looked like the little boy of eleven who'd rejected Draco all those years ago. Now he was a man—and there was a certain depth to his eyes, an understanding of magic and the world that only made him warmer, sweeter, more like home.

 

~ * ~

 

Ron scanned the Common Room before casting Muffliato. 

“Malfoy,” he said quietly over the chess board. The prat was winning... again. Cunning ex-Slytherin bastard. “Those guys... who are they, exactly?” 

“Those guys” gave Ron the creeps worse than a whole barrel full of spiders. He thought he recognized them from the Order meeting after Ravenwood—but not a one of those foreign blokes had given their names then. They barely spoke, just sat there brooding until called upon to demonstrate that fire spell of Harry's. Ron didn't like the looks of them at all. 

Three of them had been waiting for Harry down by Dumbledore's mausoleum that afternoon. They'd looked murderous, standing out there in the drizzling rain like a couple of assassins sent by You Know Who himself. They'd greeted Harry and Malfoy with hugs and kisses on the cheeks, of all things. Though Harry had introduced the fellows, Ron would be damned if he could tell one Slavic name from another. With that classic casual wave, Harry had tromped off into the Forbidden Forest with them. That had been several hours ago. Now Ron sat by the window with Malfoy, pretending to play wizard's chess. Neither of them had their head in the game, each glancing out the rain-splattered windows, watching for Harry to emerge from the enchanted forest. He'd been gone since lunch and was now missing his dinner.

“They're mates of mine,” Malfoy said carefully, contemplating the board. “From Durmstrang. They've been helping Harry quite a bit, from what I understand. Saved his life a few times.” 

Ron frowned. _He_ was supposed to be out there, skiving off class to traipse through forests in the rain. _He_ should be out there saving Harry's life—not those bohunks. He was Harry's best mate. But because he'd reacted to the sight of his best mate boning Draco Malfoy like any Gryffindor would—with absolute horror, mind you—Harry didn't trust him like he used to. That much was clear. Ron had offered to accompany him to the Forbidden Forest today but Harry just smiled and reminded him of his fear of spiders. Like he'd forgotten or something. “You stay in, mate,” Harry had said, clapping Ron on the shoulder. “It's nothing to do with the Horcruxes, just something I wanna take a look at. Why don't you stay dry? Draco says I'm bollocks as a chess partner. Mind him for me, will you? I'll be back before you know it.” 

And so Ron was here, proving his mate-dom by playing a second round of wizard's chess with Draco sodding Malfoy when Seamus had a perfectly good bottle of Irish Mist up in the dorms which he was more than willing to share. Sodding friendships. Ron really loved Harry more than a best mate should, to put up with this pants.

“Yeah, but,” Ron protested. “Who are they? Who are their families?”  _Can I trust them with Harry?_ was certainly implied.

“Well, the wide fellow with the beard is Yuri Batushansky,” Malfoy drawled, moving his pawn within striking range of Ron's knight. “The Batushanskys supply potions shops and wand makers with hard-to-acquire materials—dragon hearts, unicorn hair, Vampire fangs. You know, that sort of thing. Dangerous work but they're quite reliable.” 

“So they deal in Dark stuff, too,” Ron surmised, since someone like Malfoy knew about them. 

“That's neither here nor there,” the git shrugged, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his scrawny chest. Honestly, did Harry like that androgynous, emaciated waif look? Ginny was curvy—maybe that had been the problem. “I suspect that certain aspects of the family business aren't strictly legal... but Yuri's a good man. He left the Death Eaters when his girlfriend was kidnapped. He has a much better chance of staying alive to find her by siding with you lot.” 

Ron winced. He couldn't imagine how torn up and raging he would be if the Death Eaters laid a finger on Hermione. This Batishunsky guy was alright in Ron's esteem, shady family or not. 

“What about the tall guy?” 

“Chern?” Malfoy smirked. The expression made his eyes scrunch. “Chereshko Toleanu. I've known him for ages. Good chap. Queer as a corner, though. Lost his entire family defending Durmstrang from the Death Eaters. With his uncle dead, he stands to inherit the Cleansweep fortune.” 

“The broomstick manufacturer?” Ron spluttered. 

“No, Mrs. Skowers,” an annoyed tick rippled around Malfoy's left eye. “Of course Cleansweep broomsticks, you mad twatter.”

In retaliation, Ron took Malfoy's pawn with his knight. 

“So who's the third bloke? The one who didn't talk much.” 

“Mikhail Ionescue.” 

Ron peered out the window, thinking as Malfoy considered the board. “The name sounds familiar. Wouldn't be related to the Potions Master Ionescue, would he?” 

Malfoy nodded. “His father.” 

“Those Ionescues are bloody Death Eaters, the lot of 'em,” Ron huffed. 

Malfoy spoke very quietly, hands in the pockets of his school robe. “Their mother wasn't.” 

Ron folded his arms across his chest. “How do you figure that, Malfoy?” 

“Tihomir Ionescue had three sons,” he explained, counting each on a knobbly finger. “Vukasin, Dmitry and Mikhail. I had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Vuk while he was here for the TriWizard. We got utterly lashed one night and he told me the entire story,” Malfoy shook his head, looking a mite ill at the recollection. “His brothers were too young to realize what had happened but, shortly after Mikhail was born, Tihomir Ionescue murdered his wife and made it look like a suicide. It wasn't long after the Dark Lord's fall that Ionescue discovered his wife's political sympathies were less conservative than he'd been lead to believe during the war. He made her death appear to be the result of a postpartum depression. His sons grew up without a mother.” 

“Merlin's beard, that's awful,” Ron cringed. 

“Oh, it gets worse,” said Malfoy quite soberly. “Vuk told his brothers when he felt they were old enough. The three made a pact that when the Death Eaters invaded their school, they would use the confusion as a cover to make an attempt on their father's life. Patricide. They failed.”

Ron waited for Malfoy to go on. The skinny Head Boy looked lost in thought, staring off into the storm clouds. “So what happened?” 

“The Potions Master came after them,” Malfoy said matter-of-factly. “They were fleeing Durmstrang with the rebellion when Ionescue caught up with his progeny. Vuk collapsed an underground passageway, allowing the rebels to escape.” Malfoy stopped there, wrapping his woolen school robe a little tighter around his bony frame. It was Harry's robe—Ron recognized the stretched out neckline and little potion burns on the sleeve. Harry always forgot to hold back his billowing robe sleeves when stirring potions. So did Hermione. Anyone who grew up watching their Mum stir a potion in the hearth would know better. 

“So... Ionescue murdered his son,” Ron finished Malfoy's grisly story, shivering. “His first-born. His heir. That's just ghastly.”

“Still think Mikhail is a Death Eater? And Yuri and Chereshko?” 

Ron ran a hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, were they there when it happened?” 

Malfoy nodded tentatively. “All of them were in the passageway... heard the entire thing. I can't even imagine,” Malfoy folded his long hands on the table, looking at Ron. “Chern and Vuk were... lovers? Certainly more than mates, that much I knew. But to hear someone you love murdered by his own father—and you powerless to stop it? To have that sacrifice hanging over your head for the rest of your life?” Malfoy shook his head. “I couldn't handle it.” 

It became clear that Malfoy was talking about more than these foreign fellows—he was talking about Harry, slyly informing Ron that under no conditions was he to allow Harry to do something so selfless, heroic and stupid as sacrifice himself like Vuk Ionescue. 

“I agree,” said Ron. “I'd rather die myself than have Harry or Hermione do that for me.” 

Malfoy sighed, his shadowed, sunken eyes falling once more to the chess board. “Glad we understand one another.” He picked up his squirming rook. “Oh. And checkmate, Weasley.”

 

\- - -

 

Yuri and Chern took the lead, the taller man cutting his way through the thick underbrush with a conjured machete and the stouter, bearded wizard navigating with an undoubtedly more occult version of the “Point Me” spell Harry had learned back in fourth year. The Boy Who Lived tromped along a few meters behind with Misha. The Romanian had taken a few sips of whisky from a flask as they walked, his big dragon hide boots crunching twigs and dry leaves, heavy wool cloak brushing the dirt as he climbed over roots and fallen trees. It was remarkably dry this deep into the forest. They all had their wands out, ready for anything. 

The two older men ahead were holding a conversation in hushed tones, speaking in the dialect of their native Moldova. Harry turned to Mikhail. 

“So where's Dmitry? I sort of thought he might come with you....” 

Misha shrugged his hulking shoulders. It was hard to remember the boy was just fifteen, what with those hooded honey eyes and thick limbs wrought with muscle, shifting beneath the cotton of his muggle shirt and denims. Good genes and a very early puberty, Harry supposed. Mikhail probably had facial hair as a first year. His voice betrayed his age, though—that soft, fluttery tenor with a rolling patrician accent compared to his brother's rib-rattling brogue. 

“ _Fratele meu_ _i_ _Nebojsa_ are fighting. Ve couldn't find them.”

“Wot?” Harry spluttered, nearly tripping over a tree root. 

The boy smiled crookedly, a shadow of his brother's rogue, sexual smirk. “Vuk alvays said that Nebojsa is just like our Mozher. She used to think that if she dragged you away somevhere to shout at you, no one vould know she vos angry. Nebojsa does that. Perhaps he thinks emotions make him veak.”

Harry nodded his understanding. Draco was like that sometimes. 

“Any idea what they're fighting about?” Harry asked, accepting Misha's arm to steady himself as they climbed over an oak tree that had fallen in the recent storm. The sky was a very nasty sort of gray, though the pelting rain had let up for the moment.

“Our father, of course,” Mikhail sighed. “Nebojsa thinks the pair of you killed him.” 

Harry stumbled, a pair of large, warm hands steadying him... and felt himself go pale, remembering. Had he killed Tihomir Ionescue? The man was more than a dangerous Death Eater—he was Dmitry and Misha's father. Vuk's father, too. Harry felt sick to his stomach. He took Misha's elbow, stopping him. The boy was nearly six feet tall and at least thirteen stone to Harry's ten. It was a long way up to look the younger fellow in the eye.

“I'm so sorry,” Harry said seriously.

“Don't fret, Harry. I'm glad. He vouldn't have stopped until he killed Dima.”

Harry's brows drew down. “Um... would your Dad kill you, too?”

Misha shook his head, the metal bar pierced through his eyebrow catching the light from their wands as they went deeper into the forest than Harry had ever gone before. 

“The Dark Lord vants our next generation. My brother is exclusive to men, making him useless to them. It's me they vant.”

A few more things made sense, then: the way Mikhail had panicked at the sight of his father, the way Dima and the others were so protective of the boy. He was a target, like Draco. Harry felt a little guilty for calling Misha all the way out here... but he was with Yuri and Chern, after all—the eldest of the crew, already in their twenties and perhaps the most ruthless as well as most skilled in their respective fields. 

Harry felt as safe in the Forbidden Forest with Yuri as he had with Hagrid as a first year. There was a physical resemblance there, too; Yuri looked like he combed his unruly black hair about as often as the half-giant and with similar results. And Yura knew his way around a forest. He found centaur paths and pixie nests Harry never would have noticed otherwise, pointing everything out to his companions, voice hushed and husky as he wound spells around them all. With his damp hood thrown up over his head, he looked less like a man and more like some sort of mythological spirit-guide, trusty warrior Chereshko at his side. 

The woods were eerily quiet, as though the trees and very dirt beneath their feet sensed the breach. Harry was thankful they hadn't bumped into any wildlife as of yet. Perhaps Yuri was warding against that, too. The man's black-bearded face was a study in concentration as he waved his wand first this way, then that. At one point he pulled out a sort of amulet on a chord of red leather, muttering spells over it until the bone-colored shape glowed faintly. 

“Close,” he muttered, holding the amulet out. It grew brighter. “Over there,” and he pointed to a clearing off to the side of the narrow path they followed. He nodded to Chern, who pulled off his pack and withdrew a dirty canvas sack. There were dark splatters gathering at the bottom—blood dripping from whatever was in the bag. Harry couldn't stop his face from contorting. 

“Alright,” Yuri nodded to Harry and then Misha, his face unreadable beneath the darkness of beard, hood and shadow. “Let's give zhis a try.” 

 

\- - -

 

“I don't like this one bit,” Hermione fumed, pacing before the Common Room fireplace. Ron couldn't help but be reminded of last year when she used to pace before the hearth and fret exactly like this whenever Harry went out to tail after Malfoy. Except now that misbehaving Malfoy was sitting by the window clad in Harry's Gryffindor uniform from white-blond head to pureblood toe, watching the drizzle slap against the windows, his ferret face a careful blank. 

“Harry said a couple hours,” Ron offered. “Maybe the weather slowed them down. I'm sure he's fine. He knows how to send a Patronus if there's a problem.” 

“I know you're right, Ronald,” Hermione sighed, fidgeting with a lock of her hair just below her ear. “I just hate all this waiting. I feel like he's not letting us help him, like he's keeping things from us, holding us at arm's length.” 

“For your protection, Granger,” Malfoy drawled from his seat on the window bench. “Lovely feeling, isn't it?” he snipped, clearly peeved. It was weird having Draco Malfoy in the Gryffindor Common Room. Everyone kept looking at him funny. Malfoy always stayed in his room; the ponce probably sensed he wasn't wanted. Maybe Harry had asked him to wait down here. That was the only thing Ron could think of that would get the prissy Head Boy to show his face down here with the plebes. 

No one knew how to react to Malfoy's presence. It was awkward. Rumors were still flying from Saturday's Quidditch practice. No one knew what to think. It was clear enough that Harry wasn't sleeping in the boys dormitory. He and Malfoy showed up for meals together, eating side by side, Harry piling grub on the git's plate like he might not see food for another week. Malfoy always ate it, too. The prick was almost pleasant with Harry around—he didn't snap at people or deduct obscene quantities of house points for the most mundane offenses. Lavender Brown had already lost Gryffindor thirty points for necking with random blokes in the hall. Malfoy didn't exactly go out of his way to gain popularity... but everyone was certainly a little afraid of him. Ron suspected that was exactly what Malfoy wanted. 

Not a single student, Gryffindor or otherwise, was brave enough to come right out and ask Harry if he was shagging Draco Malfoy. And approaching the dragon himself for confirmation would be like asking for a swift and ugly death, your body parts never to be found. It was whispered about, though, scribbled on bits of parchment and passed around classes all day. The rumor mill was churning awful fast for a Monday. No one knew what to think—the idea was too outrageous to be true but... there was the way they smiled fondly at each other over meals and in the corridors, the way Harry leaned to kiss the bloke on the cheek and whisper in his ear, making him snicker into his ghostly-pale hand every ten seconds. The silver-ringed hand hid his actual smile. Malfoy, fucking giggling. Ron very wisely kept his mouth shut. This was Harry's business: let him handle it.

Malfoy bolted up to his knees, pressing his pale hand and ferret face to the window, entire body gone stiff as a board under his hand-me-down robes. 

“What is it, Malfoy?” Hermione said, kneeling next to him on the padded bench in order to peer out the window. Ron hurried over, leaning in above her head. Wiping fog from the window, he could smell her shampoo, brown frizzies tickling the underside of his chin.

“Bloody hell.”

Two ghostly shapes streaked across the grounds: a familiar silver stag accompanied by what looked like a huge dog—no, a wolf. The Patroni were moving at an incredible speed, the stag making for Hogwarts castle while the wolf tore off around the lake and out of sight. As Ron, Malfoy and Hermione pressed their noses to the glass, a burst of red sparks shot up from the Forbidden Forest. First one and then several, great volleys of light going up in the air until there was a wall of red swirling with the raindrops. 

Gryffindors ran to the windows, parting the drapes and peering out in confusion. One of the younger girls shouted in alarm as yellow sparks appeared among the red, flying ever higher into the darkening sky. It was impossible to ignore. Another volley went off, this time purple and white, looking almost like fireworks. If he wasn't so scared, Ron might've thought they were beautiful. 

Malfoy was absently rubbing the ring on his index finger. “Come on,” the man whispered, over and over in a sort of mindless chant. “Come on, _poilu_. Please.” 

Four cloaked figured burst from the edge of the forest, throwing spells behind them as they ran. They bolted, full-out sprinting across the lawn. Two peeled off, heading toward Hogsmeade while the other pair ran after Harry's Patronus. Ron recognized Harry as the smallest body making for the castle, the hood of his cloak falling back as he ran through the rain. Malfoy let out a breath of relief—Ron did too, not realizing he'd been holding it. His lungs burned. 

“What's going on?” demanded Denis Creevey, looking between Ron, Hermione and the other prefects in the room, eyes impossibly wide and dirty blonde hair flopping as his head swiveled for answers.

“Is there something wrong with the wards?” Ginny voiced, reaching for her wand. “Are we under attack?”

“I'm scared!” wailed Abigail Brown, Lavender's sister in first year. 

Malfoy turned to the room at large, his face like stone, so pale you could see the bluish veins of his neck and the faintly purple discoloration around his eyes. He stood tall, taking control of the situation in every sense.

“We need to get the students back to their houses immediately,” he said quickly, monotone, nearly reciting Professor McGonagall's words from yesterday's prefect meeting. “I'll alert the portrait network. Granger, can you use that Patronus trick to get Longbottom back here? I believe he's out in one of the greenhouses. He can sweep the halls on his way up,” Hermione nodded, drawing her wand. “Weasley, we need to keep everyone calm and in this room. Can you handle that?” 

“Yeah,” Ron nodded. Malfoy's voice was low, placid. He sounded a bit like Harry. It was eerie. Malfoy swept off in a swirl of school robes, leaving the smell of crab apples and Quidditch lawn in his wake. Ron looked around, taking stock of the Common Room. It was a bit after dinner, so more than half the house was already in for the night. Bodies were thumping down the dormitory staircases, adding to the din of questions and shouts as more magic poured from the Forbidden Forest. It wasn't like he had answers to any of the countless questions; if anything, they only made him wonder more. It was all he could do to keep people from running out the portrait hole. They seemed keen enough to mumble and fret between one another at increasing volume and pitch.

Malfoy was out talking to the Fat Lady when it started. 

Fawkes came swooping around nearby Ravenclaw Tower, letting loose the most startling and powerfully magical sound. You could feel the walls of the castle vibrating with it, feel it behind your eyeballs and ringing up in the bridge of your nose. The sound was unearthly, a siren and a song. Some of the first years started to cry. Something was definitely wrong. It felt like, with each quavering note, a blanket was falling over the castle, snuffing out the outside world, isolating them for their own protection. This hadn't been part of the safety procedure McGonagall had described only yesterday. He wondered if this was something Dumbledore had cooked up and simply forgot to warn anyone about. It felt like they were being sealed in. It was almost suffocating, each trill louder and louder as the phoenix passed by Gryffindor Tower, flashes of red and gold feathers breezing past the high windows, almost blending with the curtains as the bird flew by. 

A group of third and fourth year boys were making for the open portrait hole. Ron darted in front of them. 

“We need to stay in one place,” Ron told them, keeping his wand in hand but down at his side. “We're best off together, right?” he spoke rhetorically, keeping his calm. One of the boys, Nolan, nodded up at him, realization settling into the boy's pudgy face. “Good lad. Think you boys can help me move word around? We don't have enough prefects and I could really use your help.” 

“W-what would you need us to do?” asked Euan Abercrombie, looking nervous. 

“Can you just go round and ask everyone to stay where they are until we hear from the Headmistress? If we need to make announcements, it's easier to do that with everyone together in one place.” 

The fellows all nodded, seeing his logic. Having grown up with Fred, George and Ginny, he knew there was little point talking down to young people in a situation like this. They had brains, after all. The more you gave them information and something to do, the more useful and in control they felt. With everyone focused on a goal, there was less likely to be a mass panic. Hermione, Demelza and Ginny were already going around, comforting the younger girls who were by far the most worked up. If only Fawkes would shut it, the situation wouldn't be half as nerve rattling.

Ron took a peek out the window but Harry was already out of sight; hopefully he'd made it into the castle already. Malfoy left the Fat Lady's portrait wide open, standing in the middle of the corridor and waving students in with an impatient hand. The blond was all business, drawling “in you go” and “try to keep it down, please” as though this were nothing more than a drill. Malfoy had to be as freaked out as the weeping firsties but he didn't show it in the least. That was a Malfoy for you. At least the ponce was good in a crisis.

A harried-looking group came in from the library lead by Dean and Parvati—they'd obviously packed up in a hurry, books poking haphazard from their school satchels. A few still had parchment or quills in hand. They were all as pale as that parchment as them clambered in past their Head Boy. Neville climbed through the portrait hole next, bringing what appeared to be the last of the house with him. Malfoy signaled roundly to Hermione to get a head count, peering up and down the hall for any stragglers with his lit wand in hand. The Bloody Baron floated up to him and they exchanged hurried words. Soon the ghost was drifting off down the hall, leaving Malfoy biting at his lips. Ron watched as the wizard's chin rolled to his chest. He seemed to whisper to the red rose pinned to his chest, stroking a perfect petal with the pad of his thumb. 

Ron worked at keeping everyone calm and still while Hermione and Neville went about systematic head counting. 

Hannah Abbot and Wayne Hopkins came by, wands drawn, escorting a black-haired first year boy. Poor thing must have been down in Hufflepuff when the warning went through the portraits; the expression on the lad's snow white face was pure unadulterated terror. The wand-bearing prefects flanking him didn't appear to provide much in the way of comfort. Ron watched—the portrait hole like a picture frame around the scene—as Malfoy took a knee before the boy, holding teeny shoulders and looking him in the eye. Ron tried to read their lips—something about the boy's mother. He couldn't make it out. Malfoy soothed the little one, carding fingers through his thick hair. If Ron didn't know better, he'd say the kid was angling for a hug; what with the way he gave Malfoy the big-eyed, lip quivering “love me” look. The little lad sidled close as Hannah and Hopkins left, resting his forehead against Malfoy's and closing his eyes as the older boy continued in what had to be a comforting tone. 

Ron turned at the clicking sound behind him—Colin Creevey was snapping photos, his camera lens swiveling from pretty Angelika Whipple peering out the window to point at Malfoy and the first year. 

“Knock it off, Colin,” Ron chided. 

“Yeah,” echoed Patrick Byrne, a burly sixth year fellow Malfoy had taken on as a first string Beater. “There's an appropriate time, mate, and it ain't right now.” 

When Ron looked back, the first year was slipping out of Malfoy's embrace with a determined look on his face—Merlin, how that expression made the little thing look like Harry. With a nod and a very weak smile, the black-haired boy ducked up the stairs to the Heads' Suite. Malfoy had sent the boy to fetch something, probably just to give him something to do. Maybe the kid's mother was one of the Aurors guarding the castle? That made sense. Malfoy ruffled the boy's hair in parting, an oddly affectionate gesture... especially for this rather stoic new Draco Malfoy. The Head Boy certainly had a soft spot for that particular firstie, though the rest he couldn't give two figs about.

Neville came down from checking the boys dorm. “That's all of us,” he said loudly, leaning over the railing as he called out to the rest of the prefects.

Nearly Headless Nick floated in just as Malfoy closed and locked the portrait hole. Whispers passed between the ghost and the blond before Nick took off, disappearing through the thick stone walls. Lightning flashed outside the windows, making a few people jump. The storm was getting worse. Malfoy strode to the center of the room, raising an arm to get everyone's attention. He vaulted up onto one of the study tables so everyone could see him clearly. 

“Quiet down,” Malfoy said at a normal volume, waiting for silence to fall. Every anxious face turned towards him, a few of the smallest still puffy and tear-stained. _This isn't exactly the finest example of stalwart Gryffindor bravery_ , Ron thought, _but Hufflepuff probably looks a lot worse_. “Here's what we know so far: there's been a breach of the grounds. A small contingent, probably a scouting party, got in through the Forbidden Forest. We had a team out there reinforcing the wards. The team was able to activate several of our defensive shields—the lights seen a few minutes ago—preventing any additional threat from entering the grounds. Aurors are on their way from Hogsmeade. With the shields engaged, we are perfectly safe inside the castle. So we sit tight. Prefects, Form One.” 

Form One was part of the new security protocols. Under it, prefects were responsible for gathering their house together, taking a head count and waiting for the all clear—it was the lowest measure. The second formation sequestered the students in their houses with several pre-elected prefects and staff remaining in-house while the others patrolled the halls and grounds. Hermione and Malfoy were the elected guards for Gryffindor House; being Head Boy and Girl, it made the most sense that they stay behind to watch the students and disseminate information. The only scary protocol was Form Three—a full-on evacuation of the castle. It was unlikely, McGonagall had promised, but provisions had to be made for even the worst of scenarios. 

The coolness of Malfoy's voice was uncanny, his calm assurance like a Cooling Charm in August. His energy seemed to wash over everyone, the younger years especially. Just the way he said it, “Form One,” so blasé and detached, made you think the man was almost bored. Even those with no idea what Form One meant were nodding absently, retiring to conversation with a renewed sense of safety.

Malfoy leaped down from the table with a swish of robes. When he ducked his head, Parvati and Lavender fell to whispering, giggles passing between them in tittering, bird-like bursts. Apparently Malfoy had a pretty spectacular love bite under his starched white collar. Malfoy ignored the girls, instead meeting up with his dark Irish first year friend by the fireplace. The boy—damn if Ron could remember his name—had Harry's rucksack in hand. Malfoy dug through it, pulling out Harry's Invisibility Cloak and what had to be the Marauder's Map. So Malfoy knew about the map, too? Well, that made sense. Harry seemed to be turning over a new leaf where secret-keeping was concerned. The summer's spectacular rows—first over him and Malfoy shacking up and then Harry's succession of lies to the blond—must have made an honest man of him in the end. Harry could probably do with fewer secrets in his life. But there was that sneaky, deceptive part of his personality Ron had never really understood. Malfoy got it, though—bastard. Maybe they deserved each other after all. 

Malfoy's head shot up, color suddenly coming to his cheeks, his eyes open and bright, almost blue. A second later he was racing for the portrait hole, unlocking it from ten paces, wand flicking wildly. The Fat Lady swung open to admit Harry; tousled, damp-haired and breathless. The brunet panted, one hand to the passage wall and the other clutching at a stitch in his side. He hissed as Malfoy approached. The blonde nodded sharply, turning back for the cloak and map only to hand them off to shadowy figures out in the corridor. Ron heard heavy footsteps as several people took off, pounding down the hallway, shouting between them—one voice squeaky and the other bone-jarringly deep. It could only have been Professor Flitwick and one of those Durmstrang fellows. That Harry was parting with his Invisibility Cloak gave Ron the shivers worse than Fawkes' waning song.

Harry hardly had his breath before dropping into the Common Room, Malfoy supporting him at the elbow as he wheezed after sprinting through the castle. The blond took a moment to _Scourgify_ the mud from Harry's trainers, drying him a second later. Harry caught Hermione's eye, signaling to her with a jut of the head. He raised his brows to Ron, then Neville and Seamus, meeting each man's eye in turn. They all gathered around the portrait hole, pressing in close, listening as Harry panted. 

“Going... to Form Two,” he said as fast as he could, pushing his glasses up his nose as he straightened. “I want prefects of age, plus any seventh years or old DA members willing. The Aurors will probably be enough but we're not taking chances, alright?” 

“I'll use the portrait network! Just a second,” Hermione took off up the hidden stairwell to speak to the portrait of mad mystic  Hadewijch the Flemish Beguine that hung beside her bed. 

The guys separated at once, racing for the dorm to retrieve boots and cloaks. Even Malfoy made for the Heads' hidden staircase, disappearing after Hermione. 

Up in the seventh year boys' dorm, it was a mad dash to get into cold-weather clothes. Waterproofing spells were hurled around the room indiscriminately, everyone getting each other's backs. Neville distributed what looked like barely ripened blueberries, saying they would improve night vision. With the nasty weather and the hour, it would be pitch black outside in the next twenty minutes. They tumbled down the stairs to the sound of raised voices. 

“You think I'm just going to sit here while you run off and risk your bloody neck?!” Malfoy was shouting. He wore a black wool traveling cloak, wand in hand and positively screaming at Harry from across the room—pink-cheeked, bug-eyed and livid. The entire house was silent and staring. Harry was vibrating with rage, not holding back an ounce as he returned fire.

“That's exactly what you're gonna do!” he yelled right back, advancing on the Head Boy. He gave a great hiss of Parseltongue, sending a collective shiver around the room. It only seemed to make Malfoy even more angry—like he understood. But that was impossible.

“I'm going with Yuri,” Malfoy seethed, stepping close enough to jab his wand at the taut line of Harry's throat. 

Harry seemed to pitch forward—and grow about a foot. The air around him warped like a sheet of plastic bent to breaking. He took a great breath, filling his lungs before bellowing in Malfoy's face. 

“YOU'LL DO AS I _FUCKING_ SAY!” 

The room went dead, Harry's voice ringing up in the rafters.

Harry hadn't screamed like that since Sirius died—but something was different about this, much harder to watch. He wasn't red in the face, nor were his hands clenched to fists at his side. He was just leaning into Malfoy, right up in the other boy's face and staring him down with a deadly mien. This was new and powerful frightening. There was so much more to it than the words. Something swirled between the two of them, the air itself tightening, winding in on the pair as silent seconds ticked by.

Malfoy blanched, making to pull away but Harry got him by the silk tie, dragging him back. Harry growled something, a hiss of Parseltongue so low in his throat. It rumbled. Ron had never hear Harry's voice go that deep before. It was a dangerous hiss, menacing and strong. Malfoy's eyes slid shut; the blond's nostrils flared, breathing deep as he listened. Slowly, he nodded, resting his forehead against Harry's. 

Harry cupped Malfoy's flushed cheek as they breathed each other, oblivious to the stares and whispers surrounding them. Malfoy had Harry by the waist, narrow fingers gripping at his cloak with red-rimmed knuckles. They only had eyes for the other, staring hungrily. 

“Entrance Hall,” Harry said through gritted teeth. It took a moment to realize he wasn't talking to the blond but to his men on the stairs. “Five minutes. I'll meet you outside.”

Ron pushed Seamus, Dean and Neville in front of him, tossing Neville's hood up over his head. There was a reason he wanted to bring up the rear and it had nothing to do with the fucking show Harry and his stupid sodding _boyfriend_ were putting on. People weren't going to wonder after this—they way they looked at each other was so plain, angry magic fairly crackling at Harry's fingertips, sex all but written across their near-to-brushing lips. 

Ron took a wide path toward the portrait hole, blocking more than one person's view of the odd couple. He came up at Hermione's side, taking her hand in his. 

“Don't, Ronald,” she tried to pull away. _Don't go, don't do this_ or _don't do what I think you're about to do—_ it was unclear. He gathered a handful of jumper from her shoulder, pulling her close, forcing her to meet his gaze. He'd never felt so strong, so insistent in his entire life. Leave it to Harry and ruddy Malfoy to bring this out in him. 

“It's not goodbye,” he told her fiercely. “It's good luck.” And he kissed her to within an inch of her life... in front of the whole of Gryffindor. She squeaked and fell into his arms like a proper girl. And it was fucking amazing. No wonder Harry and Malfoy did it. What a rush! 

The cheers, jeers and snippy remarks didn't quite reach his ears even as he pulled away, setting her right on her rather wobbly feet. 

“Good luck,” she whispered. “Be safe.” 

“I will,” he nodded. “Me and Harry, both.”

“Good,” she sighed, a hand ghosting over his cheek. “Come back to me, Ron.”

 

\- - -

 

Harry kissed him one last time beside the fountain—hard and on the mouth, no room for anything but the meeting of lips in an impossible press that would have made even the stone lions beside them roar. Draco imagined he could hear the cubs mewling... or maybe that was his own choked sob, buried deep in his throat. 

Harry backed away, Draco's bottle of bourbon tucked under his arm. Draco didn't understand at first. Then he saw the giant speckled Granian waiting for Harry out on the terrace, great grey wings blending in with the storming sky. Harry tucked the bottle inside his cloak, forced to use the stone balustrade to launch himself up onto the beast's back. There was no saddle, bridle or bit, forcing Harry to take up rain-slicked fists of the creature's mane before it spread its white-tipped wings and cantered right off the edge of the balcony. They swooped upward into the night sky a moment later, turning gracefully toward the front of the castle. Draco wished he could breathe a sigh of relief. 

“I'm sure you told him to be careful,” said Granger's voice behind him. He could hear her arms folded so didn't turn to see it confirmed. 

“Among many other things,” Draco replied flatly. “Who's minding the house?” 

“Ginny.” Her tone made it clear she hadn't expected that to be her counterpart's first concern. It demonstrated how little she knew of him, even after these several months in proximity.

“If Harry's mobilizing prefects, I reckon it's worse out there than McGonagall wants us to believe,” Draco announced slowly, chewing his words carefully. “I think we should ward ourselves in.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Perhaps the two house elves in my chamber,” Draco snipped. “Which Harry summoned to do exactly that.” 

Sure enough, Dobby and Kreacher poked their noses out from the Head Boy's chambers, two sets of bulbous green eyes fixed on Draco. 

“Master should forget the brats, he should, and come inside,” Kreacher mumbled, wringing the edge of his grubby attire in an even more grubby hand. “Kreacher can't seal the tower.” 

“And my chambers?” Draco posed tersely. “Those you _can_ seal, elf?” That sounded like Harry's doing, alright; setting him up in a suite that could become a prison at a moment's notice. Fucking Wonder Boy.

“The Heads' suite, young Master Malfoy,” Dobby offered. 

“Don't call me that.” He shivered. That squeak, that tone, that particular appellation reminded him of things he'd put away a long time ago. He didn't care to pick that up again, even in name.

“It's actually a fair idea, Malfoy,” Granger shrugged. Sure enough, her arms _were_ folded across her stomach. Unusually full red lips stood as evidence of her and Weasley's upstaging downstairs. Draco was secretly grateful—Harry had a knack for making a ridiculous scene wherever his beautifully chosen arse went; never mind that Draco would be the one dealing with the resulting scandal. Whatever Harry Potter wanted, he got. That was the way things went in this very twisted little world. Still, even an evening shut up with Granger and a pile of Gryffindors was better than torture.

He summoned a sigh. “Fine,” he groaned.

“Wait—you'll do it?” Granger sounded shocked.

“It's as decent an idea as any,” he intoned with a shrug, beyond caring at this point. Whatever kept the largest number of students happy, safe and most of all quiet. The crying—Veela-buggering-troll-fellating-fuck, the crying! He lifted hair from the back of his neck, fingers ghosting over the bruise Harry's mouth had left that morning in the shower. He could do this—for Harry, he could. “Bring them up here and we'll seal ourselves in. So long as Patil, Brown and the Weaslette keep to your side of the foyer, I believe I might survive the night.” 

A squinty little grin crossed Granger's face. “You know,” she simpered, flexing her knowledge like Weasley flexed his nonexistent muscles. “A simple Glamor Spell and no one would see—”

“Fuck off... Granger,” Draco sneered, the urge to spit 'Mudblood' almost overpowering him for a moment. Only the knowledge that Harry would be disappointed held him back—and wasn't that new? “I don't meddle in your love life, miniscule as it may be. Don't you dare presume to tell me what to do with my body.” 

“I just—” she began. 

“I don't rightly care,” Draco cut her off. “Unless you've forgotten, we have a job to do. So get the 'kiddies' up here—quiet ones in my chambers. You get the snot-noses and anything with lipstick. Agreed?” 

“Fair enough, Malfoy,” Granger nodded once, curtly, before shooting an unlocking charm at her door and disappearing down the hidden staircase. 

Draco let out a puff of air he hadn't been aware of hording, walking to the terrace and shutting the french doors before any more rain and cold air could seep into the anteroom. He dried the floors with a charm, looking up at the rising moon through the glass, sheets of rain and rolling clouds obscuring most of the starry sky. He thought he saw something dark at the edge of the forest, twitching in the shadows, waiting to get out. Tree limbs shook and it wasn't from the stiff evening breeze. 

“Harry,” he whispered to the darkening night. “Wha' the fuck do ya think yer doin'?” 

 

\- - -

 

Hermione had never had so many people in her room before. The forth and fifth year girls were up in her spire library discussing, of all the ludicrous things, the new Weird Sisters album. There were at least six people on her bed, another half dozen crowded in the sitting area and a pair of third year boys engaged in a very half-hearted game of Exploding Snap at the foot of the bed.

“I want to go to Malfoy's side,” announced Abigail Brown. She placed her fists on her hips, glaring around at the older girls as though her cute face and vehemence would be enough to convince them to take her across the foyer. 

“Why would you want that?” Lavender asked indignantly, trying to get her little sister to sit back down. “The house elves brought him the same tea and cakes as us, love.” 

“You're truly much better off here,” put in Ginny, who was sipping tea while having her hair braided. 

“But...” Abigail's big brown eyes began to fill with exasperated tears. 

“What is it?” Hermione asked. 

Abigail seemed to screw up her courage, taking up fists of her school robes before answering. “Kieran's over there.” 

“Oh, Merlin!” Ginny snorted. 

“Kieran Gweir?” asked Parvati. “Oh, he's such a little doll of a thing!”

“Isn't he just?” Lavender cooed. “I think he looks just like a miniature Harry Potter! And he's so shy and sweet!” 

There was an unnecessary amount of giggles as most of the ladies agreed. Hermione tried not to roll her eyes. Gweir was a glassy-eyed boy quite small for his age; energetic and a bit of a trouble-maker, Gweir harbored an inexplicable and undoubtedly unhealthy attachment to Draco Malfoy. The dark haired boy was like Malfoy's shadow, following him around the castle, tugging on his sleeves and asking questions. Hermione suspected the only reason Malfoy hadn't told the pesky lad off was that uncanny resemblance to Harry. 

Gweir had thought it quite a treat when Malfoy opened the door to his Head Boy's quarters, ushering the tiny boy in with a grandiose flip of the hand, complete with bow. Presumably Gweir was still there, tailing Malfoy so close that the blond bumped into him with every other step. 

“Alright, Abby,” Hermione said, her curiosity getting the better of her. “I'll take you over there.” The girl actually clapped her hands, bounding up and racing for the door. Hermione caught the back of her jumper. “But you have to promise: no crying, no giggling, no anything that would set Malfoy off. He won't hesitate to send you back.” 

“Oh, I know,” Abby nodded, hands on the door knob. “He's a right pisser, that Malfoy.” 

“Abigail!” Lavender gasped. “Language!”

“Your sister's right, dear,” Hermione added. “You ought to speak like a young lady.” 

Abby opened the door and started across the anteroom, swishing her fingers through the fountain. “But Malfoy talks like that sometimes and Kieran positively adores him.” 

“Yes, well,” Hermione huffed. “Draco Malfoy is an adult wizard capable of making his own choices regarding his choice of language. Just because he's colorful doesn't make it appropriate.” 

“Oh, you sound just like Mama,” the girl rolled her eyes, already at Malfoy's door and positively bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. It felt wrong, that a child should be so thrilled to pay a visit to Malfoy, but there it was. “May I knock?” 

“Help yourself,” Hermione shrugged. She steeled herself for another conversation with Malfoy—each one was a supreme effort in self-control. Malfoy was a little better behaved with Harry around but not by much. She hoped the ex-Slytherin would have the presence of mind to let this little first year girl down gently.

The door opened to reveal the pot-marked face of Patrick Byrne. Beyond, most of the Quidditch team was gathered around Malfoy's fireplace, a collection of younger girls curled up on the large fluffy bed with the dark-headed Gweir right in the middle, coddled and fussed over. The boy looked tried for patience, his eyes seeking help from Malfoy seated at the piano. The blond was playing an unusual tune, soft and lilting. He must have put up Silencing spells, as the anteroom had been all but silent save the trickling of water from the fountain and rolling of wind outside.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Byrne called. “Granger for you.” 

The music stopped and Malfoy sauntered over. Many eyes watched his careful movement, a sort of court watching their king progress across the richly colored throne room. It was mightily strange that, at a time like this, half the house was clinging to a man bearing the mark of the enemy. Maybe it helped that Harry's trunk and coat were in the room, his Gryffindor robes on Malfoy's back. 

“Yes?” the wizard raised a thin brow, his face a sculptured study of self-assurance and composure. Then he looked down, noting Lavender's young sister fidgeting beside Hermione. He sighed. “Ah. And the harem is complete. In you go.” 

He stepped aside and Abigail shot forward, making right for Malfoy's bed and crawling over to sit by Gweir. The boy shot Malfoy a confused look, looking remarkably like Harry had after Cho Chang kissed him under the mistletoe. Boys. 

“You too, Granger?” Malfoy chuckled, noting where her gaze had landed. He waved an arm, ushering her in. “Might as well. Why don't we try an' cram the entire bloody house in my quarters? I'm sure we could stuff a few in the loo....” 

Hermione had to physically shut her mouth as Malfoy strode back to his piano, seating himself with a little flair of robes and a shake of his shaggy-looking white locks. She stepped in as the man began to play, taking in the warmth from the fire—balsam wood and birch with the faint scent of clove, as though someone had been baking. There was a crack of lightning near the tower and the younger girls squirmed, inching closer to Gweir. Malfoy raised his brows at the boy, almost smiling, cajoling with a series of eye-squints and a jut of the chin. The lad got the idea, putting an arm around one of the girls and a hand on the knee of another. Abby Brown rested her cheek against his shoulder from behind. Malfoy locked eyes with Angelika Whipple, the blondes exchanging knowing eye-rolls. Even at eleven, Gweir was still a bit more aware than Harry himself.

Hermione closed the door behind her, sealing herself firmly in Malfoy's territory. 

Every possible seat being taken, she went to the piano to peruse a book of music left lying out—and was surprised to find it familiar. Harry must have bought Malfoy the muggle book, piano versions of nearly every Beatles ballad and love song. It didn't strike her as something a fellow like Malfoy would ever play on his own. Leafing through it, she found 'Real Love.' The song had been her parents' first dance on their wedding day. Every year, Dad would dust off his record player and the two of them would slow-dance in the sitting room, smiling at one another like in all their wedding pictures. She slid the book over to Malfoy when he'd finished the last movement of his wizarding piece completely from memory. 

“Do you know this one?” she asked, pointing to the page. 

He scrunched his face at her. “Of course not.” 

“Oh,” she looked away. “Never mind, then.” 

Malfoy heaved a very large and exasperated sigh before holding out a thin hand. “Give it here, Granger. I can read sheet music.” 

With a little nod, Hermione set up the book for him, standing by to turn the pages when it came time. Malfoy stole a glance out the window, pale hands hovering over the keys. 

“Coote,” he called to the boy who was observing Byrne and Colin Creevey play chess. The boys had throw pillows thrown down on the floor, the board resting on a pillar of Malfoy's textbooks between them. “Close the drapes? Awful drafty in here.” 

Coote nodded and got to his feet, doing as Malfoy asked. Hermione barely caught the hint of frost gathering at the edges of the glass panes. It was too early in the fall for frost and hail, which could only mean one thing—there were Dementors on the grounds. Malfoy took up the chords with talented fingers, a ready distraction. He really was an excellent musician, for all his airs and personality defects. He played well, swelling and falling in all the right places. 

Hermione hummed along with the melody before she began to sing. 

 

“ _All my little plans and schemes, gone like some forgotten dreams,_

_Seems that all I really was doing was waiting for you._

_Just like little girls and boys playing with their little toys,_

_Seems like all we really were doing was waiting for love._

_Don't need to be alone....”_

 

Malfoy interrupted her, hissing through his teeth, “Stop it, Granger, or you'll call the Dementors.” 

So she wasn't the best singer and that note  _was_ a smidge high but... she stuck her tongue out at Malfoy and stepped away. Blushing, she watched Kieran Gweir disentangle himself from the gaggle of girls surrounding him, creeping over to Malfoy and taking a seat beside the blond. He laid a hand to the higher keys and began to play the melody along with the blond. Malfoy slowed down the tiniest bit, giving the lad time to read the music and move his fingers in time with Malfoy's long, slender ones.

When the second verse came around, Gweir sang it in the sweetest little boy soprano. Every heart save Malfoy's melted. 

 

“ _From this moment on I know exactly where my life will go,_

_Seems like all I really was doing was waiting for love._

_Thought I'd been in love before but in my heart I wanted more._

_Seems like all I really was doing was waiting for you._

_No need to be afraid, no need to be afraid._

_It's real love. Yes it's real._

_Yes it's real love. Yes it's real love.”_

 

The girls clapped loudly over the boom of thunder rattling through the castle. Gweir was in good spirits as he turned to Malfoy, beaming. He gestured to the rose pinned beneath Malfoy's badge, speaking too softly to be heard over renewed chatter and the storm outside. Malfoy's face remained calm as he considered his reply; drawing his wand, he severed the first page of 'Real Love' from the music book. With a wave and a silent spell, the sheet of paper transformed into a golden pin—a miniature rose, identical to the one fixed to the Head Boy's chest except this one all in precious metal. Malfoy secured the pin to the boy's robe, earning a fantastic, face-splitting grin. The boy looked less like Harry when he smiled and more like himself, glassy blue eyes blinking his thanks up at Malfoy. The blond just ruffled the lad's hair and went into a wizarding duet, again playing slow enough that his young partner could keep up on the soprano keys.

Hermione leaned her weight against the back of the sofa, regarding the pair for a long time. Their relationship was unclear—more affectionate and genuinely caring than a mentor and student, that much was certain. They were almost like brothers or a parent and child, the way Malfoy laced his genteel, silver-ringed hands over the boys, teaching him to extend his fingers with the same ease with which Malfoy himself played. Gweir couldn't stop smiling to save his life, snuggling into Malfoy as the blond wrapped an arm around him to trill on the highest keys in conclusion to their most recent duet. The Gryffindor audience couldn't get enough, especially the women. Even the Beaters were applauding a bit, appreciative of Malfoy's skill in seemingly everything he picked up. 

Malfoy _was_ a good tutor. Before long, he had Gweir playing from the songbook on his own. First year girls laid out on their stomachs, chins in their hands and legs kicked up in the air as they watched Gweir and Malfoy with rapt attention. Hermione observed as first their legs drooped, then their eyelids. Moments stretched into hours and soon the younger students were fast asleep, empty tea cups and half-eaten sweets littering Malfoy's tidy quarters, pillows tossed about the floor and the bathroom door left wide open, spilling a long triangle of brighter light across the candle-lit room. A few students were still awake, most staring into the embers of the fire or lost in thought, hands folded quietly in their laps as they waited for sleep to claim them. Hermione felt her own energy waning as she added a log to the fire. Malfoy had stopped playing piano, walking a half-aware Gweir to the mahogany sleigh bed and tucking the lad in with the girls, a throw tossed over them. It was as close to tucking the firsties in as Malfoy would allow himself to get. Hermione read it in the wizard's face, lips a thin white line and shaking his head all the while.

Malfoy rushed over to Hermione, taking her elbow and tugging. “They're back,” he whispered. 

A second later there was a great thud, like an elephant landing on the terrace. Footsteps could be heard pounding up from Gryffindor Commons. Together, the two Heads entered the anteroom just as Ron, Dean, Seamus and Neville burst out from behind the secret passage banner. The boys were impossibly muddied but otherwise looked unharmed, though it was hard to be sure through the grime. Neville gave her a thumbs up, Seamus beamed and Dean couldn't get the mud out of his eyes—it looked like they'd all taken baths in it. Ron was no better. Either it was his coloring or there was a hint of blood mixed with the dirt covering parts of his face. 

“Sweet Salazar,” Malfoy huffed, aiming Cleaning Charms at them, pointed nose wrinkling. 

“Yeah,” Ron agreed sheepishly, considering their appearance for what appeared to be the first time. “Filch is gonna kill us when he sees the tracks we left through the castle.” Neville laughed nervously, pulling his wand and helping Malfoy spell them and the floor clean. Ron didn't take out his wand, nodding nervously to the blond when he cast silent charms at the red head's face. 

“So where's Harry?” Hermione asked, ignoring the minor cuts and bruises that were now visible. There was still quite a bit of dirt, too. Ron smiled at her and shrugged, pointing past the fountain to the terrace where Malfoy was looking. Harry stood out there in the rain, patting the neck of what had to be a Granian, its speckled back half again as tall as Harry. The beast rubbed its long face against Harry's before cantering off over the balustrade, flying into the storm clouds. Harry hobbled to the glass-paned doors, looking more tired than his comrades. His near-limp suggested he'd taken a fall at some point, probably off the back of that winged horse. Hopefully its hooves had been firmly on the ground when that accident occurred. Malfoy opened the door, slipping an arm around Harry's waist and taking most of his weight, all but dragging him into the foyer. It was easy, the pair being the same height give or take a few centimeters—and that was mostly unruly hair on Harry's part. His limp became more pronounced, practically sagging against Malfoy.

“Oh my God!” Hermione gasped. “Harry, are you alright?” 

“Nothing a hot shower and a Pain Potion won't fix, right?” teased Seamus, winking at Harry. 

“Right,” Harry agreed very quietly. “Thanks you guys. I appreciate it.” 

“Of course,” Ron smiled broadly. “That's what we're here for.” The rest of the boys nodded before heading off to their dormitory to shower. Ron took one last look at Hermione, his eyes lingering on her face. A smile traced his lips, hands shoved in his robe pockets and hair dripping rivulets down his shoulders. “I'll swing by tomorrow morning, yeah? Before breakfast, fill you in.” 

“How about tonight?” she offered suddenly. It seemed important to know what had happened out there, surely, but there was also the pressing need to know that Ron himself was alright. He could be hiding something—in fact, she was sure of it. “If you're not too tired, that is. Stop by once you're cleaned up. There's tea and cakes from the kitchens.” 

“Alright, then,” Ron agreed with a sheepish grin. There was a blush evident under a few streaks of mud. Hermione could have floated back to her rooms but the sound of Malfoy and Harry's whispered conversation brought her back down to earth. 

“Merlin's balls,” Harry swore within a groan, leaning against Malfoy just past the doorway into their room. “Our bed has been usurped by... are those firsties?” 

“Don't ask,” Malfoy rolled his eyes, hitching up the arm which held Harry to his side. He had the soaking man around the shoulder blades, cradling under his arm to take most of his weight from his aching feet.

“Um, I can take care of it,” Hermione stepped forward. “I mean, I'm getting everyone out of my rooms, too.” 

Malfoy's face appeared over his shoulder, looking back at her with scrunched features. He gave her a critical once over, clearly wondering why she would ever offer him any favors; truthfully, she was only concerned for Harry. But spending some “alone time” with Malfoy would put Harry at ease... and they certainly couldn't do what they usually did with a gaggle of Gryffindors around. Slowly, Malfoy nodded. 

“How about we go somewhere, _poilu_?” the blond said to Harry, his voice oddly tender as he slipped into French, brushing sopping wet hair out of Harry's eyes. Several sentences left him in rapid succession, the foreign language sounding especially beautiful, comforting, the way it trickled off his tongue like honey wine, slurred and muzzy and the slightest bit sexual. With her limited French, perhaps one of every five words were discernible. Hermione stood transfixed, watching them in silhouette.

Harry sighed. “Can't understand you, love. _Je ne comprends pas._ ” 

“Right,” Malfoy snorted at himself. “I said we ought to go to the Prefects Bathroom, take a nice long soak. You'll talk about nothing while I rub your feet. Sounds nice?” he waggled his eyebrows, squinting much the same way he had at Gweir—suggesting with his silver gaze, subtly implying what Malfoys were clearly incapable of putting into words: affection, caring for another human being. It figured Malfoy would view that as a weakness. After all, caring was Harry's greatest strength.

Harry leaned against the blonde, touching their noses and foreheads. Water dripped onto Malfoy's cheek from Harry's wet hair, sliding down his gaunt face like tears. But Malfoy was smiling softly, mirroring the expression on Harry's face. 

“Gods, I love you,” Harry whispered. And then they were kissing—tonguing, oblivious to their young audience. The noise in the foyer had disturbed the sleep of a few students. Those people sat silently, watching through puffy eyes as Harry and Malfoy snogged in the doorway, Harry in the blond's arms and pressing up so close. Hermione half imagined she could hear their teeth clacking as the kiss intensified, Malfoy's skinny hands clawing up Harry's cloak like spiders, water droplets flung out as their bodies came together in a wet squelch. Malfoy had Harry by the bum, the brunet's strong arm slung around the Head Boy's neck as much for balance as closeness. There came a wet gasp from the couple followed by a little squeak from within the room. Hermione caught sight of Samantha Young and Natalie MacDonald on the sofa, each holding back giggles as they nudged beauty Angelika Whipple awake. More and more bodies were roused, rubbing at their sleepy eyes and tuning in to the show.

“Boys,” Hermione cautioned under her breath. Harry moaned a bit, arm tightening around Malfoy's neck as his back hit the nearest wall with a muffled slam. The nearby portrait rattled on its hook. “Malfoy, take it somewhere else.”

Harry hissed something in Parseltongue, tonguing his way up Malfoy's pale neck. Malfoy laughed, slipping an arm from around Harry to Summon them each a change of clothes. Harry seemed to regain what little sense he'd been born with, looking about to see who-all was awake. He still slid his hand into Malfoy's, letting the blond pull him toward the door. 

“Thanks, 'Mione,” he said. 

“Ron is... he's okay?” she asked quickly, not knowing what else to say. 

Harry shrugged. “He'll tell you 'bout it when he's ready. Night.”

“Yes,” Malfoy gave her a strange look, his pointed face unreadable. His voice was cool as ever; drawling, so different that the way he'd murmured to Harry only a moment ago. “Thank you for seeing to the House. Good night, Granger.”

Holding hands, whispers and hisses passing between them as easy as smiles and squeezes of the hand, the couple slipped out into the castle. Feeling her eyebrows rise for the umpteenth time, Hermione just shook her head. There were things in this world—strange, magical and fantastic things—that she would never understand.

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** Lyrics are by John Lennon, first recorded in 1977.


	39. Beretta: Falling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A skirmish on the Hogwarts grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** This is probably one of the most physically violent, blood-strewn and all-out-gorey chapters yet for Beretta. Be armed with the knowledge that blood, guts and a healthy amount of death lie here-in.

  
  


_ She’s not gonna choose you for standing so tall. _

_ Go on and take a swig of that poison and like it; _

_ And don’t ask for silverware, don’t ask for nothing. _

_ Go on and put your ear to the ground. _

_ You know you'll be hearing that sound. Falling down. _

  
  


“Falling Down”

Tom Waits

  
  
  
“ I'm not so sure 'bout this...” Michael Corner muttered, adjusting his grip on his wand. 

“ Harry said five minutes,” Neville spoke up, strangely confident despite the paleness of his round face. 

“It's barely been six. I'm sure he'll be here any second.” Neville's squinted blue eyes swept the Entrance Hall but there was no sign of movement, no sign of Harry or the other defenders. Even the picture frames were empty, their occupants passing messages through the castle by way of the fortress' hidden passageways of paint. They'd seen no movement save ghosts during their sprint through the many halls and stairwells—not even Peeves was around to accost them. For that, Ron and the Gryffindors were thankful. 

They'd found Michael in the Entrance Hall along with Wayne Hopkins, Ernie McMillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley. It made a certain amount of sense that Susan and Hannah had stayed behind to monitor Hufflepuff—and Ravenclaw had as few returning students as Slytherin, so Michael coming down solo was that much more of a statement about his loyalties to Harry and the old D.A., as he could easily claim he was needed upstairs to see to his house. Ron gave him a small, proud nod, backing Neville's statement as silent seconds ticked by. There was nothing but the rain splattering against the castle's ancient windows, nothing but the flickering candles, the sharp illumination of lightning and answering rumble of thunder.    


Someone pounded on the entrance doors from the outside. Then there was shouting, big fists rattling the door with their fervor. Seamus jumped about a foot in the air, fumbling his wand. It clattered across the stone floor as he gave chase. Dean started. Michael let out a nervous moan thinly disguised as an exhale. It was Ron himself, wand raised, who made for the door. Neville followed in his wake, casting a quick  _ Lumos _ and preparing to jut his wand over Ron's shoulder the second the taller boy pulled the door open. 

Rain splattered in as soon as the door was cracked, smacking Ron in the face and soaking the floor. He had to use his full strength to drag the huge wooden door open just a hands-breath. Squinting, he peered out into the night past the tip of Neville's raised wand. “Harry?”   


“ Veasley?” slurred a heavily accented baritone. The timbre of the foreigner's voice matched the storm, quaky and deep.    


“ Yeah. Where's Harry?”    


“ Out here!” Face shrouded from view beneath a heavy, rain-soaked hood, the tall fellow rolled his eyes. Ron watched the whites of them glow in the enchanted light of Neville's wand. Both he and Neville had to look up to meet the newcomer's face; this guy had to be well over six feet tall but he was reed thin, carrying a short wand of oak in one hand and two long, curse-tipped daggers in the other. His voice was sharp when he spoke, condescending, syllables melding effortlessly together like the puddles pooling at their feet. “Harry said you vould be outside. Come. He's vaiting.”    


Neville signaled at Ron's back and the boys made their way out into the gale. The wind hit like a George Weasley Special to the gut, knocking Ron sideways and causing him to stumble, crashing side-long into Dean. Cloaks and muttered oaths were lifted up in the winds, swirling around them as they squelched across the muddy grounds. The tall man—Malfoy had called him 'Chern'—was leading them to the north side of the castle, away from the lake. They skirted the edge of the school, mimicking the foreigner's bent posture and staying low to the ground, unobtrusive. It was hard to imagine there was a battle going on at the other side of the castle. Perhaps the wind was blowing the wrong way, blowing the sound away. The grounds could be like that in a storm.   


They rounded the greenhouses to a sound like a firecracker echoing out from high above—issuing from Professor Flitwick and and the other foreigner in the Astronomy Tower... up there with Harry's map and cloak, coordinating the castle's defenses from a bird's eye view.    


“ Zhere,” Chereshko pointed off toward the vegetable gardens. When Ron squinted, both hands holding his cloak's hood as it flapped wildly around his face, he could make out human shapes skirting between the pumpkins, sliding in the mud as they ducked and covered, dampened sparks of ineffective spells swept up in the storm.    


A ball of white-blue fire descended from the sky, the size of a Bludger and streaking just as fast. The bodies on the ground didn't stand a chance. Unearthly screams went up as the kitchen's potato patch was lit in jewel-like shades of sapphire and azure—screams that couldn't be entirely human.    


“ In-ff-feri?” Justin Finch-Fletchley stuttered at Ron's shoulder.    


“And verevolves,” Chereshko confirmed under his breath, ducking even lower to the ground in an attempt to make his tall frame less visible. “ _ Da _ . Stay down. Move qvickly. Cast fire.” And the man slipped off, slithering through the long grass as he wove his way closer to the fight, shooting silent red spells that had to be far more deadly than the average Ministry Stunner. Nothing here would have ever received Ministry approval—but this wasn't the Ministry, wasn't the well-oiled gears of Great Britain's Auror Office. These were killers dispatched to destroy killers. It was evident by the silent, swerving wandwork, the palpable veil of dark, ancient magic. It made the skin at the back of your neck crawl. This was war; flutters in the darkness, glimpses of light in too much black shadow, screams in the distance. Screams.   


Wet grass beneath his knees, Ron began to crawl.   


“ Ron...” Seamus whispered, hands in the mud as he squatted down and then dropped to all fours, praying not to be seen for just a moment longer. He’d always procrastinted on his homework, too, but this was a little bigger. Shadows began to take shape at either side—a line of defenders crouching in the rushes at the edge of the gardens while only a few like Chereshko engaged the enemy directly. “Where's Harry?”    


Another fireball crashed in from above, this one much larger than the last. The wind carried burning hair, cooked and decaying flesh, meting out a rain icy-cold against the skin. The chill crept right through Hermione's Warming Spell in his cloak and into his bones, leaving an uncomfortable, clammy tingle as droplets from the wet fabric danced down his skin.   


“ Potter? Look up,” whispered a woman's voice from up ahead. Her gray-streaked auburn braid peeking out from horribly muddied robes was the only indication of her presence in the all-consuming dark. For these Order members who hadn't had the advantage of Neville's berries, the night had to be black as pitch. Craning his head up toward the sky, Ron still felt blind.    


A third ball of flame lit up the night, flashing as bright as a miniature blue sun and lighting up the speckled back of a winged horse in flight. Years of Hagrid’s Care of Dangerous Magical Creatures told him the animal was a Granian, probably the fastest of all flying horses and more vicious than a Hyppogryff in heat. Riding on its back was Harry—round glasses little more than two panes of white in the light of the spell gathering at his wand tip—forehead crinkling as his brows drew down in concentration, gathering yet more magic into the Norse fire spell before releasing it upon the bodies lurking in the vegetable patch.    
So it was Harry hurling fireballs at the enemies in the garden. In the instant it took Harry's spell to streak across the sky, Ron wondered what the men in the Astronomy Tower were up to if they weren't acting as a fire-turret.    


A particularly burly half-werewolf half-man caught Harry's magic straight between the shoulder blades, falling to the ground with a  _ slam _ that shook the earth and rattled teeth. More weres, partially-transformed with the aid of magic, howled their rage. Snarls were hurled at Harry as well as spells. His mount careened out of the line of fire, drawing attention toward himself up in the sky so the enemy might show their backs to the waiting line of defenders.    


“ Now!” cried a man, standing up at the end of the row and bellowing to make himself heard. The wind blew back his hood, revealing a round red face and head of blond curls. “Charge!”    


Men and women drew themselves up with screams and battle cries, mud making their robes heavy as they scrambled into the gardens. There were maybe twenty five of them to the thirty Inferi, dozen wizard-weres and Death Eaters. Ron watched in awe as two small groups stationed at the east and west ends of the gardens sent bright volleys of Harry's blue flame hurtling through the garden, streaking like tiny comets until they struck their mark, Inferi quickly catching fire and falling to the mud with sticky, gurgling screams. None of these spells were half as large or bright as Harry's but they were still effective against the Inferi, cutting them down like dominoes under a toddler's foot. More Inferi replaced the fallen, seeming to ooze out of the shadows and the rain, all clammy and smelling of decay through the sharpness of wet vegetables and fertilizer. Beside him, Neville muttered something about the dead flesh ruining the winter squash. Ron snorted, aiming a Stunner as he hoisted himself up from the muck, robes sopping, and jogged into the fray.   


It was all so blurry, so unclear. He tried to stay low, ducking behind a conjured barrier here and there, getting off spells whenever he could. The kitchen gardens were large and some of Hagrid's oversized pumpkins had been transplanted here, their bulk regularly exploding under the strain of Burning and Slicing Hexes tossed through the night. Half the curses used he couldn't recognize and hardly anyone used verbal incantations at all unless it was for the Norse fire spell. It looked as though less than half the defenders could actually perform it. The most noticeable was Chereshko, wand in one hand and those two long knives in the other, blades protruding from between his fingers like spectral, green-glowing bestial claws. Perhaps the man was wearing brass knuckles, too, the way he punched and cut bodies out of his way. Pumpkin guts flew as readily as Inferi limbs, littering the already slippery ground. Ron soon gave up on keeping his footing, slipping and sliding from one bit of cover to the next as he rotated through his measly arsenal of spells.   


Harry was flying high above it all, not unlike when he was Gryffindor's Quidditch captain; scoping out the pitch, shouting orders and communicating information between the warders in the Astronomy Tower and the Aurors on the ground. He threw down fireballs whenever he could, their booming and crackling cutting through the rain and the din. Howls of pain and rage always followed. Between the noise, the distance and the wind, it was useless trying to communicate on the ground. If only there were more witches and wizards in the air, more who could perform the spell—people were getting injured, perhaps even dying all around... it was just too dark to tell for sure. He didn't want to see it.   


A familiar sound caught Ron's attention—it was Neville's voice not too far off. “Please!” the Gryffindor shouted. “No! No! Just let me go!”    


Ron slithered on his belly, peering around the rock he was sharing with a frightened-looking, vaguely shaking Wayne Hopkins. Some ten meters away, a were-witch had Neville restrained, elongated teeth centimeters from the flesh of his once-plump neck. Neville was thrashing as much as he could but the witch's attention was elsewhere; her glowing amber eyes were focused on a statuesque figure standing between her and Ron's vantage point. Cloaked back to him, the figure had a wand raised.    


“ You don't want to do that, Melinda,” warned the figure—an elderly woman by the sound of her voice. By squinting and wriggling in the muck a bit more, Ron was able to make out the gray-flecked auburn plait of the woman who had addressed him earlier. She had her wand leveled at the werewolf woman holding Neville by the throat and poised to bite. “I know you don't want this.”    


“ The hell I don't!” hissed Melinda, stretching Neville's neck until it looked as though it would break. He kicked and struggled but it didn't do him any good. In her partially transformed state, she was too strong for the less-than-athletic teen to overpower.   


“ Let the boy go,” the old woman insisted in an even tone, “and I may spare your life.”    
Melinda snarled. And at that moment, the life left her eyes in a haze of damp green light. The color plumed out from her back as her arm, once taut around Neville's middle, went decidedly limp. Someone had hit her with a Killing Curse to the back, the unforgivable words lost to the din of fighting, the snapping of flames and the cries of the injured and, presumably, dying. Neville nearly fainted, falling to the muck with a look as though he were seconds from vomiting. Landing on the toppled pieces of Inferi corpses probably didn't help. Ron tried to crawl to his fellow Gryffindor without being seen. 

The old woman's wand twisted and flipped, finding her mark in the darkness by following the illegal curse's light to its origin. A whipping wind blew back the hood of her cloak, exposing a stony face contorted in anger.    


“ Hector!” she screamed.    


Hector's answer was to throw another Killing Curse, this one at the old bird. The woman dived, her long plait severed by the eerie green light as it shot by, upending mud, mushy vegetables and corpse chunks as it hit the ground.    


“ This wasn't the plan!” she screamed from her hands and knees, fingers curling in rage. “You promised me!”    


“ You were too blind to see!” Hector snarled. He was nothing but a large form lurking in the darkness, his outline visible only when Harry's Bludger-like fireballs rained down behind him, back-lighting a black cloak and head of wild white hair that stuck away from his head like a mad muggle. Ron recognized him as Hector Remous, one of the Hogwarts Governors. The old woman had to be his wife, Hortense, another member of the board. They kept right on screaming at one another across the empty space, Melinda the were-witch's lifeless body between them. 

Ron snatched Neville by the ankles and pulled him away through the mud. His classmate slid easily so Ron didn't stop until they were behind a grove of berry bushes, waist deep in what he kept telling himself was plain old mud. There was no blood mixed in there—Inferi, human, werewolf or otherwise. Just mud.   
He took Neville roughly by the shoulders, looking him square in the face. “You alright, mate?”    


“ Thought I was a goner, there,” the young man croaked. Apparently he'd been choked: his voice was a scratchy, hoarse mess. Neville's blue eyes wouldn't focus; twice, they nearly rolled to the back of his head in shock. “A little different than the Ministry last year, huh?” 

All Ron could do was nod.    


“ We'll pull through, though.”    


“ Yeah,” Ron agreed. Pushing hair out of his eyes only splashed muck across his already dirty face. He quickly gave up, content to leave it alone rather than use a simple spell and risk their hiding spot's detection.    


“ We've got Harry,” Neville said, some of the firmness back in his voice. His eyes were focusing as he began to take stock of himself. One last tremor of fear ran through his frame before his shoulders straightened and he was more or less himself again.   


“ Damn right.”   


Another very animal scream rent the night. The ground itself, mud and all, seemed to vibrate as the sound grew steadily louder. Ron thought his eardrums might very well pop as the pitch rose in intensity to a screech. Then he felt big, heavy hooves hit the ground and everything made sense.    


Peering out through a screen of prickly leaves, Harry's speckled mount could be seen in the middle of the uprooted potato patch, white-tipped wings glowing like an angel in the darkness. The reason for the illumination was of course the multitude of hexes and curses aimed the creature's way as soon as it landed, wings splayed up in a sort of cocoon to protect its rider from harm. Ron didn't bother to wonder where the hell Harry had found a trained Granian—he only crossed his fingers that the beast's intrinsic magic would be enough to stave off the Unforgiveables being sent its way.    


There must have been others patrolling the grounds to prevent more enemies from coming in because their numbers weren't increasing. If anything, the number of Inferi had been more than halved and the werewolves were running lean. Ron chanced a peek at Hortense and Horace—both dead in the mud, probably by the other's hand. He shivered, wanting to wipe the grime off his face but knowing his hands would only make it worse.   


Harry must have come down as a distraction, buying time for those on the ground by putting himself in the line of fire. That was just the sort of thing he would do, running into harm's way because he thought it would buy his allies even a moment of advantage.   


“ Go!” an Auror-looking wizard bellowed at Harry. “Go! Back up!” He was the same red-faced, curly-haired man who had given the initial order to attack. Now he waved frantic arms at Harry and the Granian, trying to shoo them off. His attention-getting movement earned him a hex to the back. The man's face exploded in blood-filled welts and boils and he sunk to the ground, howling in agony.    


Not much of Harry himself could be seen behind the shield of mighty white wings—only his strong fingers gripping, wound through the animal's snowy mane, the cuffs of his black robe sleeves and what might've been the bend of an elbow. His hands tightened, signaling his mount to pull back and return to the skies.    
It was already too late. A wizard appeared out of nowhere, blunt pocket knife in hand. The Death Eater struck quickly and landed true, slicing a deep gash across the Granian's breast. The creature reared back on its hind legs, wings shooting out and flapping madly for balance. Harry was thrown from the animal's back, small body sailing through the air, momentarily weightless, limbs spread almost in welcome before slamming to the ground several meters away.    


He landed oddly on his leg--though still conscious, as his arms were already moving to hoist himself to his feet. But it was obvious he was injured by the way he favored one leg, dragging the other behind him. Before he was even aware, Ron was on his feet and running to his friend.    


A mud-blackened arm caught him 'round the throat, dropping him to the ground as swiftly as a fork falling from the dinner table. The next thing he recalled was staring up at the night sky, the raindrops like falling stars coming down on him. Every drop landing on his chest physically hurt, the wind knocked from his lungs and breath a distant memory.    


His vision filled with the sight of a grimy woman, teeth barred like Melinda but these were much longer and already tinged with blood. There were traces of hair on her face—not beard-like hair but an animal's fur. Her grin was feral, carnal. She licked her fangs like a cat looking at a freshly caught fish.   


Wand. Wand. Where was his wand? And why wouldn't his arms respond? Were his fingers even there at the ends of his hands? Because even with the Warming and Drying Charms, he couldn't feel them anymore. Maybe this was it—the end. He'd failed to protect Harry, failed to defend Hogwarts and all those innocent students, failed to come back in one piece for Hermione and Ginny and Mum. He was a failure. As the were-woman leaned closer, breath metallic and spittle dripping onto his face, Ron closed his eyes. He wished for the end.    


A fine, tepid mist feathered across his lips. It was the first warm thing he'd felt in hours, days,  _ ever_. He opened his eyes to find not his murderer's face but the gaunt, marble features of Chereshko Toleanu, two bloody knives held together in a meaty fist. That foreign face was set in a not-quite frown, black brows drawn down over unreadable eyes. The woman who had attacked Ron lay off to his left, gasping her last wet, gurgling breath.   


Chereshko offered his hand. “Try not to die, Veasley. I zhink Harry likes you.”   


“ You think?” Ron quipped from his back. Somehow, he managed what felt like a smile. Rivers of mud redirected around the lines of his expression, delivering muck and hot blood over his lips until he spat. Chereshko quickly spelled Ron's mouth clean before hoisting him to his feet with one big hand clamped over his freckled wrist.    


Ron was a tall chap. It was a rare day when someone dwarfed him or Bill, the tallest of the Weasley boys. But this fellow, Chereshko, was really something else—had to be at least six and a half feet tall, perhaps more without the sinkage of muddy soil. Ron felt his neck crick as he peered up at the bloke's rough-hewn face. The foreigner looked him over critically.    


“ Your vand is broken,” he observed in a casual drawl reminiscent of Malfoy except for the strong accent. Ron glanced down to see that, crumpled between two broken fingers, lay the remains of his Ollivander wand. Fibers of silvery unicorn hair seemed to melt over his fingers in the rain, becoming nigh invisible as they attempted to meld themselves to his skin. “Here,” Chern offered. “Take zhis.” 

The bloke pushed one of his knives into Ron's uninjured hand. The blade still faintly glowed, imbued with Dark Magic. There must have been a trace of wand core material—unicorn, phoenix, dragon,  _ something— _ in the handle or worked into the blade itself because the weapon reacted to his touch like a wand, coming alive beneath his fingers. He could feel the blade connect through his arm, becoming like an extension of his bones, as much a part of him as a hand or a foot. He knew instantly that he could control it just as he could control a wand. Maybe better.   


“ Thanks,” he mumbled, still looking at the blade. It had to be some kind of Dark Magic to feel like this, to be so effective against Inferi and werewolves.    


Chern spun around, sinking his other knife into the belly of an attacking wizard. With a swift upward twist and a muttered incantation, the foreigner slit the wizard from navel to nipple. There was a sizzle of magic and the smell of cauterization, the attacking wizard cooked from the inside out as the magical blade ripped through him. Guts spilled out over Chereshko's hand as he yanked his knife free, spinning away and back into action seamlessly.    


The foreigner muttered under his breath in his native tongue as he went, some sort of oath—a bit of blaspheming to pass the time or perhaps distract his conscious mind from the terrible deeds his hands carried out. The phrase was sing-song, like a child's rhyme but pronounced with a hint of annoyance, as though he were bored. He appeared focused, using the unpredictable terrain and his unusual size to his advantage by slipping and sliding up to each opponent, utilizing the momentum gained to strike home with blade, curses and fists. It was a very good thing Chern Toleanu was on the Order's side.    


With his new knife in one hand, his other hand broken and cradled to his chest, Ron set out to find Harry. The Granian was presumably back in the air but well out of sight. There wasn't a single star visible for massive wings to block out. Since those wings couldn't be seen in the light of volleying spells, Ron hoped the creature had gotten away alright. It had been helping Harry, after all.    


He ducked behind the remnants of a giant pumpkin, ignoring the almost savory scent of its fried innards in favor of catching his breath and looking around. Wayne Hopkins and Michael Corner worked together to set fire to an Inferi. Neville was leading several witches in a turret-style defense of the berry bushes with decent results, spelling all the hard little potatoes nearby to act as flaming projectiles against approaching Inferi. Dean, Seamus and the other Hufflepuffs weren't within his limited range of sight so Ron set out in the direction he'd last seen Harry. The numbers were evening out but the skirmishes were no less intense. Duelers had more room to move. The less-skilled of the attackers had been whittled away leaving only the best, those who wouldn't go down without a serious fight.   


At last he spotted Harry off a little ways past the vegetable gardens, standing in the rushes that came up nearly to his waist. Harry limped, favoring his left leg heavily. There were two enemy wizards closing in on him—one from the north-east and the other from the south—while Harry dispatched another Inferi with a textbook fire spell. The shock of orange flame engulfed the corpse, lighting a brush fire as it careened and fell. Flames spread quickly, running out through the grass despite the rain. The way Harry was facing, he couldn't have seen the man closing in from the north-east. Ron put on a burst of speed, hoping he could make it to Harry before the enemy wizard did.    


Getting closer proved that the man was a werewolf—his sinewy muscle and particularly scraggly body hair telling a story of lean months spent in the woods under You Know Who's regime. The man looked rabid and wild, big eyes set on Harry not so much as The Boy Who Lived, enemy of his Dark Master, but as the were-wizard's next victim, his next meal. Ron ran faster than he'd ever run before. He was almost there.    


He slid through the mud like Chereshko, letting momentum and the slick gunk on his boots carry him through the thigh-high wall of burning rushes. He lept on the werewolf without thinking, clobbering the skinny fellow from behind, burying the length his knife in the man's neck. He threw his weight into the deadly gesture, mud making the handle slick in his fist. Vessels and tendons ripped as the knife thrust home. The force of the tackle toppled them, blade pushing forward as Ron made to break his fall. It tore through the wizard's windpipe, cutting his throat open like the muggle Pez dispenser Ginny had as a kid.   


Blood splattered, joining the mud and gunk as they fell face-first, the splash and plunk of gore somehow louder in his ears than the rain, than the distant tumult and incoherent shouts. The world was so very far away. He heard with perfect clarity the sickening sputters and pops of air bubbles escaping the dead man's throat, felt the heat of blood wash over his hands as they met with wet earth, his blade sticking into still-smoldering grass. The smoke reached his face, then the stench. He gagged.    


Sticky blood coated his hands. He released the knife, needing his good hand to prop himself up on his knees over the fallen corpse. It didn't bother him so much that he was sitting atop a dead man—a man he'd killed. That he was still alive was what counted. He and Harry were alive.    


Ron looked up to see Harry, hard-jawed and brows drawn, staring at him.    


“ Did you...?” The Boy Who Lived mouthed.    


He didn't know quite how to respond to that. Rather than acknowledge that yes, he had just murdered a man, muggle-style, Ron forced himself to his feet. He used his foot to loosen the gifted dagger from the ground, eventually pulling it out with his good hand. When he straightened, Harry was at his side, wand out and covering his back while he recovered.    


“ Where'd you get that, mate?” Harry asked, jerking his chin toward the knife as he sent several Stunners into the garden in rapid succession. Two heavy thumps indicated his spells had hit their mark.   


“ Tall guy,” Ron shrugged. “Loaned me one when my wand broke.” 

Harry took a moment away from defending their position to squint, taking in for the first time Ron's mangled fingers, the bits of wood and unicorn hair that had once been his wand wound around them. There were long willow splinters in his palm.    


“ You had my back,” Harry said. He sounded a little stunned. “Thank you.”   


“ 'Course,” Ron shrugged. “I... well, it's your sodding boyfriend I don't like—no offense, mate,” he added quickly, flinching. “I figured you and I were okay.”    


“ We're good,” Harry agreed. “But we can't really talk right now, yeah? I might need you to do that again,” and he gestured toward Ron's knife before patting his injured leg. “You've got my back, I've got yours?”    


Ron smiled ruefully. “Just like old times.”    


But it wasn't like old times. He knew that now. He probably wasn't fooling Harry, either. They'd always done everything together, shared the burden, the three of them against the world. And it had worked rather brilliantly. Now there was an undeniable, irreparable shift. He wasn't Harry's lieutenant anymore—that Chern-guy was, genned up on all of Harry's plans and in on all the action. It was like he and Hermione had been written out of Harry's life, his needs, the six years they spent as friends erased because of... well, he wasn't really sure about that. It had happened before Harry shagged Malfoy, though; that much was certain. Harry had been pulling away for a long time, shirking his duties and drawing into himself. Even now, fighting back-to-back, Ron could have been any soldier in the fight against You Know Who. They guarded one another not because they were best mates but because they were soldiers in the same fight. It wasn't the same. After a few minutes of fighting, Harry slipped away—called off by the Auror with curly blond hair, half his face still covered in blood.    


The Hogwarts boys began to find him. Ron was their leader now; Harry merely a figure-head. Ron was the one they sought when trouble came, the one they looked to when the score was down.  _ He'd _ pulled Neville out of the Governor's battle, not Harry.  _ He'd _ seen the blotchy, tear-and-snot-streaked face of Wayne Hopkins as he cried his sodding eyes out behind that boulder, not Harry.  _ He'd _ comforted first years and patrolled the castle at all unsavory hours of the night. Not Harry. The Boy Who Lived had abandoned his duties, his promises, leaving Ron in charge, uninformed and utterly equipped. He was supposed to be out there with Harry—wherever _ there _ was—learning how to really  _ fight _ the Death Eaters instead of just getting by. He was supposed to help destroy the Horcruxes. That was what Dumbledore had wanted and, deep down, Ron still hoped Harry wanted it, too.   


So he fought on. Not because he wanted to stick his knife in unsuspecting backs but because it was all he could do to save his friendship. He trailed Harry, the Hogwarts boys catching on as The Chosen One and his shadow guard passed by. It was fitting, actually, that they trailed Harry through the night—they were all left in the dark, just the way Harry wanted.    


He, Dean and Seamus formed a triangle, facing out and guarding Harry's back from several meters back. Hopkins and Michael Corner flanked Harry's right, Finch-Fletchley and McMillan hovering a few meters out to the left. Neville brought up the rear. Their spells didn't hit as hard as Harry's but they got the job done. It was clear that the minimal Healing and Pain-Management Charms Harry had performed on himself were insufficient. He was all but dragging that bum leg, gritting his teeth because, in his mind, he had no other choice. Harry was a stubborn son of a bitch. Not once had he ever chickened out on a fight: he hadn't backed down in first year when Malfoy challenged him to that stupid duel and he wasn't about to start. The man could be eternally frustrating that way—reliable as hell, but vexing just the same.    


“ Wot the hell is tha'?” Seamus stage-whispered, eyes on the castle.   


“ Looks like frost,” Ron murmured back. He cradled his bad hand to his chest, knife poised to strike. Harry was skirting the fight, seemingly making rounds, checking on some status only his trained eye could see. They weren't getting attacked as much—probably because they weren't casting any spells. In the pitch black, they would be near-impossible to spot. 

Neville jogged up to join the other Gryffindors. “Can't be,” he shook his head, quite convinced. “It's too early for frost. And not cold enough.”    


Dean rolled his eyes. As one of the few seventh years in N.E.W.T. Herbology, Neville probably had the fall’s first frost on file.    


“ Then what would you call it?” Ron pointed off towards the castle, struggling to keep his voice down. “I mean... its magical, that much I'm certain.” There was a haze gathering at the base of the building, swirling and ebbing with the wind. It seemed to be rising out of the ground like a cold steam, snaking up the walls in thick, opaque tendrils. The way it moved reminded him of frost spreading across a window-pane but on a much larger scale. The effect on the castle was frightening. Soon the massive structure would be engulfed in the stuff.   


“ You don't think... Dementors?” Seamus posed.    


“ Nah,” Ron shrugged. He wasn’t quite sure in his mind but he didn't want the chaps to panic.    


The mist expanded rapidly, creeping over the craggy stone surface, blocking the windows and then closing up over the roof. It swirled and shifted, then flashes of light came from inside and the surface solidified, resembling ice. Spidery cracks appeared everywhere at once, pumping magic through the sheet of murky ice like blood and oxygen beneath human skin. The structure resembled a barrier to keep the enemy at bay, thrumming with the magic of Hogwarts in its veins.   


“ Professor Flitwick's up in the Astronomy Tower,” Ron offered. “And he's got some help. Bet you four sickles it's his work.”    


“ Since when do you have  _ two _ sickles to rub together?” Dean muttered under his breath. Seamus chuckled softly while Neville blushed beneath the dirt and grime on his face.   


The magical mist began spreading out from the castle, solidifying as it went. It flowed past the Womping Willow, the tree's wild branches slowing... finally grinding to a halt as a shimmery sheen settled over its limbs, man-high icicles hanging in places. The mist was gathering speed as it went, rolling toward the gardens. Ron wondered what would happen when it hit the lake.    


One of the werewolves gave a mighty howl. It spoke clearly of defeat. The Death Eaters were calling a retreat.   


The castle’s icy shield was calming the rain, slowly clearing out the storm in favor of a chilly calm. There was just a disheartening drizzle now, faint-glowing stars peeking out of the late-night sky making it easier to detect the shadowed shapes of bodies pulling back into the Forbidden Forrest. A contingent of defenders gave chase—the angry blond Auror at the head of the charge—but most remained behind, attempting to detain those still caught in duels and skirmishes. It wasn't long until the last fell. Not a one was overpowered: they fought to the last, ready to die for their lord. Ron watched through the spotty rain as a blood-streaked Chereshko took off at a sprint toward the castle. The man cut a sharp path away from the gardens, calling out as he went. The bark of his voice echoed against the greenhouse glass, sending the sound back out across the grounds.   


Hiding behind the greenhouse was Harry's Granian, wings folded down along its body and the wound at its breast fully healed. Beside the beast stood a hefty man with an impressive beard, the unmistakable shimmer of Harry's Invisibility Cloak stretched over his chasm-wide shoulders. The big man must have healed the winged horse and was leading it back. Harry began to hobble his way over when he noticed Chern's path. They all met up in the middle, the large man leading the Granian straight to Harry. Ron watched as his best mate threw his arms around the beast's neck, pulling its speckled head down in an unmistakable hug and speaking in its ear. He stroked the animal’s ears for a long time, exchanging words with Chereshko and the bearded fellow.   


The defenders were scouring the bodies, pulling out their dead and checking for any enemies still live-enough to glean information from. So far there was a growing pile of bodies and no knowledge to be had. Harry flew his Granian out toward the Forbidden Forest to round up the witches and wizards who had chased off the last of the Death Eaters. While he was gone, Ron kept a careful eye on the burly man with Harry's Invisibility Cloak. He found it strange that Harry hadn't taken the cloak back, knowing it had belonged to his father and carried so much sentimental value.   


His suspicions paid off after a few uncomfortable moments. The fellow drew the cloak around himself and disappeared. With a wary eye, Ron traced the path of fresh footprints appearing in the mud as the invisible man squelched and slid along. The man stopped when he reached the body of a Death Eater at the edge of the gardens, difficult to see as the Death Eater Had fallen in a divot mostly concealed by rushes. Ron crouched down, pretending to nurse his injured hand in order to get a better view of what the newcomer might be doing with the corpse.    


He heard the unmistakable sound of a knife entering flesh; funny that he knew that sound now. The dead Death Eater's chest opened, slowly at first. There was some muttering, cursing and at last a spell. The knife dragged through bone with the aid of magic, exposing the dead wizard's heart. The foreigner reached inside and sliced the organ free, bringing it inside his borrowed cloak and out of sight.    


Taking the heart of a freshly dead man indicated one of a very few specific and ancient spells—the sort of magic nobody talked about anymore but you knew it was practiced somewhere, whispered about, handed down through generations. Ron was willing to bet the deed to the Burrow that he knew what this fellow was up to. It could only be one thing: he was feeding a blood ward, designed to keep the Death Eaters out and the family of Hogwarts safe.    


Good.

 

\- - -

  
  


Ron slumped out of Hermione's room much later that night, closing the heavy door behind himself with a dry click of the latch. He had to remind himself to breathe.   


He hadn't told her. She'd pushed and prodded and even pouted but when it came right down to it—telling his girlfriend that he'd killed a man tonight, stuck a knife in another person's throat, committed out-right physical murder— _ that _ was something he couldn't go through with... having her know he was capable of such a thing. He didn't want her to treat him differently, like some kind of monster. Because that's what he was: a monster. He'd killed with his bare hands.    


It was his to deal with, anyway. As much as Hermione put up a strong front, she was actually very sensitive to matters of bullying and violence. Even as a first year, she would always cringe when he and Harry got in fist fights with Malfoy and the Slytherins. She didn't approve of violence as a means to solve one's problems. It wasn't as though he could have talked that were-wizard out of slaughtering Harry, though. The man was determined to feast on The Chosen One's innards and Ron had prevented it. He comforted himself with that fact. Hermione was going to be mad at him for a while but what else was new? He had his pride to consider. Her anger he could live with; other emotions were a different story.    


He looked up at the sound of shuffling feet that weren't his own. Malfoy was weaving his way up the sloped hall, probably drunk if his sloppy gait and hunched torso was anything to go by.    


“ Oi,” Ron said, his voice a little raspy after telling Hermione 'no' more than he had in a lifetime. “Malfoy. You on the piss?”   


The blond shushed him violently. Spittle practically flew from his thin white lips. As the Head Boy wandered into the lamp light, Ron realized the reason for his staggering gait; Malfoy carried a sleeping Harry piggy-back, the brunet slumped to one side and drooling onto Malfoy's shoulder. They both had damp hair that clung to their foreheads, skin freshly scrubbed and smelling strongly of those fancy soaps in the Prefects' Bathroom.   


Ron lowered his voice to a whisper. “Harry okay?” 

“ Fine,” Malfoy sniffed. He adjusted his grip on Harry's thigh, hitching his snoozing boyfriend up a bit higher on his back. It was still strange to think of them as 'boyfriends.' Malfoy was poncy enough that if you looked at him just right you could definitely see it. But Harry? Too butch. Maybe it worked because Malfoy was so waspish and finicky, like a girl.    


“ I... er,” Ron floundered. He rubbed at the back of his neck. He kept feeling fingers there—dirty, clawing fingers.   


“Spit it out, Weasel King,” the blond drawled, speaking under his breath. “Wonder Boy isn't one of those light-in-the-loafers faeries, if you catch my drift.”  
Ron's brows shot up. “It's... um....”   


A familiar smirk twisted Malfoy's pale face. “Don't tell me—you and Granger were having a late-night tryst and you would be most appreciative if I didn't go spreading it around?” He snorted loudly. “Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me,” the blond rolled his eyes grandly, turning towards his room. “Who would believe me... or care?”   


At that moment, Harry hissed in his sleep—Parseltongue hissing. He seemed to go on for several sentences, burrowing into Malfoy's neck and, to Ron's utter horror, nibbling on the man's earlobe. The sides of Malfoy's thin mouth turned up just a bit, forming a very odd smile, indeed. It was like he was trying to hold back the joy so Ron wouldn't see.    


“ What'd he say?” Ron insisted quickly.    


Malfoy shrugged, hitching Harry up again. One of the git’s spidery hands curled around Harry's bum, keeping him steady as Malfoy pushed the door to their room open with his free hand.    


The blond spoke over his shoulder, not bothering to turn round. “He said he's happy. Can you say the same?”   


With that, Malfoy went inside—shutting the door in Ron's stunned face.   


Malfoy wasn't a Parselmouth. There was no way he understood what Harry had said, just as Ron hadn't. Malfoy was making stuff up. Nothing new.   
Ron sighed. When he thought about it, he couldn't say he was happy; after the way Harry handled himself, breaking things off with Ginny only to throw himself at Ferret Face, how could he not be the slightest bit upset? Harry was like family—as near and dear to him as a brother. A so-called brother who had shown a decided lack of decorum in dumping his best mate's sister for a spineless, pointy-nosed, ex-Death Eater poofter  _ git _ . And there was the fact that Malfoy was a bloke—the bloke who'd teased, insulted, bullied and verbally abused them all for the last six years. That wasn't the sort of thing a fellow got over in a few weeks... unless that fellow was Harry, apparently. He'd been on Malfoy's side most of the summer. It only started to show after a few weeks; perhaps shortly after Malfoy, Hermione and Krum were attacked in the underground, but Ron had noticed the shift. That was when Harry stopped being Harry—Ron's Harry, anyway. He was Malfoy's man now. And that was probably what hurt the most.   


But he couldn't deny that there were parts of Harry and Malfoy's personalities that fit together rather seamlessly. They were both intensely secretive, fiercely competitive and a tad paranoid. In the past, they both depended on their friends but didn't always treat them well—though Ron and Hermione had certainly received more respect and consideration than Malfoy's goons, Crabbe and Goyle. They were both so protective of the people they loved. It blinded them, helped them justify some of the riskiest decisions of their lives. Ron couldn't help but feel that it was happening all over again, that Malfoy was just another Sirius that Harry would chase after, needing the love and family he’d been deprived of for so long, blinded to the shortcomings because he needed so much to have people in his life who would care for him. Harry was getting irascible like Malfoy, moody and temperamental. He drew away like never before—away from his old network of friends, his family, playing right into Malfoy's Dark-Marked arms.    


No good could come of it.    


It wasn't that he was homophobic, like Hermione accused in her more bitter moments. He didn't exactly dislike Harry for being gay or curious... or horny. That was fine. It happened. He'd never understand kissing a bloke when there were plenty of perfectly decent girls around but it was Harry's choice not to grab a bird and have at it. Malfoy looked a bit like a bird but that didn't change much. The choice of Malfoy was something he'd never wrap his head around as long as he lived. It was... well, it was  _ Malfoy— _ Malfoy the poncy Slytherin git who'd made their lives a living hell, threatened their families and friends, put them in danger with his antics and stupid, stupid schemes. Maybe Harry saw some of his own flaws in Malfoy. Maybe making Malfoy into a slightly better person would somehow help him work through his own issues. It was worth a shot, anyway.    


Ron harrumphed. It was all moot; looking back to that very first day of first year on the Hogwarts Express... even then, there hadn't really been a Harry without Draco Malfoy. Maybe things hadn't changed so much, after all.

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** Falling Down music and lyrics by Tom Waits, released by Island Records, 1988.


	40. Draco Malfoy, Bad Ass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** mutants, copious cursing and several healthy doses of bigotry  
>  \- Malfoy is in a full-blown state of PTSD madness. Those who have experienced it will recognize; soon, it may get a little painful to read/watch.  
>  **DISCLAIMERS:** _February_ is a poem by Boris Pasternak. I based Malfoy's song quite roughly on Regina Spektor's “Apres Moi,” which features lines from the poem.

 

 

 

“Ron! Ronald, wake up!”

Her boyfriend came alive with a grunt. The second his brown eyes took in her face, he snatched up the sheets and wooly blanket, bringing them up around his neck to hide his bare chest from view. There were all of four hairs there—and about a thousand more freckles—about which Ronald was rather sensitive of late.

“Herr-Hermione,” he wheezed, blushing as red as his Gryffindor blankets. “What're you doing here?”

“Look!” she pointed out the window. Last night's storm had nearly cleared and through the remaining drizzle, a weak plume of smoke could be seen coming from the gamekeeper's hut at the edge of the forest.

“Hagrid's back?”

She warmed at the boyish grin cracking Ron's still-sleepy face.

“It would appear so,” she grinned back. “Find a jumper and meet me in the common room.”

It was a quick jog through the castle and across the grounds. Hermione practically sprinted. It had been months since the Order had heard from Hagrid and Madame Maxime, both of whom had traveled to meet again with the giants and attempt to gain some allegiance before the war really got underway. Secretly, Hermione suspected that Headmistress McGonagall and the others had given up on Hagrid and the Beaubatons Headmistress returning alive—this would show them. Hagrid was rarely given enough credit, even from his so-called friends; Ron and Harry—Hagrid's greatest advocates after herself—only believed in the half-giant when it suited them... and whenever they remembered the man existed, so caught up as they often were in their own problems. After Dumbledore's death, Hagrid had fewer and fewer people to count on. It made sense that he took this dangerous mission to prove his metal. Whether successful or not, at least he was now home in one piece. She redoubled her pace, eager to see her old friend again.

“Wot the bloody hell is—?” Ron began, peering off into the overgrown pumpkin patch. But Hermione was already rapping loudly on the cottage's well-worn door.

The door swung open to reveal a stubby wand tip jammed quite rudely in her face. It took a moment for her eyes and wits to adjust, allowing her to see the burly, black-bearded wizard glaring down at her from within the cottage. He wasn't large enough to be Hagrid but his wild thatch of hair—along with the state of his beard and general personal grooming—gave her reason to double-check that Hagrid hadn't been slipped a Shrinking Solution somewhere along his journey. The plain flannel shirt and rough brown corduroys could have easily belonged to Hagrid had they not been sized to this hulking pile of less-than-hygenic man. He appeared to be chewing on a bite of bread, if his undulating jaw and the crumbs in his coarse beard were anything to go by. Past the great beard and weather-beaten skin lay a pair of intelligent eyes, narrowed down to slits that spoke of distrust and suspicion. No warmth, no open kindness—no, there was no way this man was Hagrid.

“ _Valea_ ,” he spat, making to shut the door in her face. She caught it with a forearm, leaning her full weight so that the door wouldn't close before she got a word in.

“Who are you?” demanded Hermione. “And where's Hagrid?!”

Ron threw his shoulder against the door as well. On the other side of the crackled wood, the man with the unkempt beard made a sound half way between a grunt and a groan. His stout wand reappeared around the door as he called across the room.

“ _Mă leşi. Frate, vino aici._ ”

Whoever he was, the man on the other side of the door had about the deepest voice Hermione had ever heard—deeper than Hagrid, deeper than James Earl Jones. He sounded like one of the mountainous opera singers in the London shows Mum and Dad always went to, a bass who could shake the floor boards and rattle your fillings with nothing but his voice. The sound of him stuck in her throat like lodged phlegm, stubborn and congealed, refusing to dissipate.

Another face appeared at the crack in the door, staying in the shadows. Magic had been employed to further darken the drawn curtains so it was difficult to see into the house beyond the door frame. Hermione kept her shoulder firmly to the door, wand drawn and squinting into the dark.

This second voice was a baritone, yet he carried the same weighty accent as the first man with a similarly sleep-deprived burr.

“Veasley?”

Hermione's eyes rounded on Ron, her hair a disturbed, damp halo surrounding her Accusing Face. “Ronald,” she hissed through her teeth. “You know him?”

Her boyfriend nodded somewhat timidly.

“Toleanu, right?” Ron sounded as though he were guessing at the pronunciation, eyes flickering over the two shadowy figures peering back at them, one tall and the other menacingly bulky. “I figured it was you guys when I saw the Granian.”

“Granian?” Hermione repeated lamely.

“Yeah,” sighed Ron, pointing over her shoulder at Hagrid's abandoned pumpkin patch. “It's lying behind that pumpkin, there, chained to the house.”

Hermione had to go up on her tiptoes to see past the oversized gourd in question; sure enough, a great speckled Granian had nestled itself under the cottage's eves to keep out of the intermittent rain, wings folded around its powerful body and munching half-heartedly on several lake trout. These men must have caught the fishes for the winged horse, since it was held fast to the stone base of the cottage by a chain and hook that had once been installed for Fang, Hagrid's dog. It looked as though the Granian had fought its captivity: the hook had been pulled perhaps a third of the way from the house's foundation, bits of stone dislodged and the feathers of the animal's neck severely rumpled from a chain tugged at in repeated, though vain, struggle. She suspected the chains were held by magic if even a creature like a Granian couldn't break free of them.

“Why—?” she began. The burly fellow with the beard cut her off.

“Come in,” he offered, pulling the door fully open and gesturing for her and Ron to enter. “Ve have breakfast.”

Ron stepped back, ushering her in. She didn't want to go at first—entering Hagrid's home felt wrong when the half-giant wasn't there. The fact that these unknown foreigners occupied the space was unsettling, to say the least. Only that stern raising of Ron's bushy ginger brows edged her past the threshold.

Once inside, the weak flickers of firelight from the hearth gave her her first good look at the two men intruding in Hagrid's home. The stocky fellow with the inky beard and curly hair was a similar size and build as Charlie Weasley; the shape of him was solid and familiar if you ignored the slightly pockmarked, sunburnt face. A surly expression and a definitive lack of sleep added to the natural darkness beneath his black eyes. Knotted muscles could be seen at his neck and shoulders; he was a boulder of a man, forearms as thick as tree trunks exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of a well-worn flannel shirt, patches sewn in at the elbows. He wore a thick leather belt and huge dragon hide boots, utilitarian and freshly cleaned with diligent, pragmatic magic. Despite the sad quality of his clothing, there wasn't a speck of mud or dirt to be seen on his person, though one could detect traces of some white, powdery film on his thick, hairy fingers—potato starch, Hermione realized. Hagrid's home smelled of quality black tea and potato pancakes sizzling in an old iron skillet set over the fire.

The second man, dressed all in rumpled black, was far too tall. The top of his head was in shadow, just like Hagrid's when the half-giant would pace the cottage floor, fretting over Harry. When Hermione met the tall man's eyes, they were a washed-out green and extremely sunken, almost hidden beneath heavy brows and a solid, handsome bone structure. His hair was also black, cropped close to his head like a muggle soldier. There was an empty scabbard at his hip—short, as though for a dagger—and a knife tucked in each of his high, lace-up boots. The man pulled out a chair for her, all gentlemanly courtesy, raising his thick brows that she should sit and be comfortable.

“Miss Granger,” he said, shocking her. He even made the smallest of bows, inclining dark head and shoulders as he tucked the chair in beneath her rump. “Chereshko Toleanu. Ve met briefly zhrough Harry. I believe you may 'ave missed my colleague, Yura Batushansky,” he gestured to the muscled fellow currently busying himself with Hagrid's tankard-like tea mugs. “A pleazure to see you again. And Veasley—'ow iz your hand?” he turned easily to Ron, catching the red head by the shoulder and turning to face him.

“Fine,” Ron shrugged. He wouldn't make eye contact with either of the men and that worried her—was he intimidated? Shy? These men were certainly older than either of the Hogwarts students. Hermione placed them somewhere between twenty three and twenty five, give or take. They conducted themselves like gentlemen bachelors, quiet and polite, accustomed to performing their own cooking and cleaning without interference. They were respectful of Hagrid's home—the bed freshly made, no dirt or mud tracked in from out-of-doors. Even the stray dirty dishes were washing themselves by magic in the sink.

“What happened to your hand?” Hermione pressed, twisting around in her chair to look her anxious boyfriend in the face even as he darted to hide behind Chereshko. Ron had been so skittish since last night. He hadn't wanted to talk about whatever had happened—which only made her want to know all the more. She wasn't sure what her boyfriend thought he was protecting her from, exactly. Whatever it was, Hermione would get to the bottom of it in due time.

“Got broken. Just a couple a' fingers,” he clarified quickly, waving away her concern before it could manifest. “Ernie healed it almost right away.”

“Alright.” Hermione spoke calmly, pretending to let it go. There was a time to prod Ron for answers but right now wasn't it. He seemed to know these men—the fellows Viktor had brought over from Durmstrang and who were apparently friends of Malfoy's in some sense. She decided to observe and see what information she could glean whilst their guards were down. It appeared neither of the men had seen a razor or toothbrush yet today. They couldn't have been awake more than half an hour, fishing for their Granian's meal included in that estimate.

Hermione scooted to the front of her chair, folding her hands on the rough-hewn table and watching the heavy-set Yura approach the table with care, mugs gathered in one monstrous hand and a steaming tea pot in the other. He'd neglected to include Hagrid's sugar pot in the modest tea setting, bringing instead a spoon and a glass jar from his pack. Upon opening the jar, the sweet-yet-tart scent of cherries quickly filled the room. Ron—ever the glutton—sniffed hopefully at the air.

“ Cherry _varenya_ ,” Chereshko explained. “Back home, ve use it instead of sugar to sveeten our tea.”

“And where is home?” Hermione inquired politely. She watched Yura scoop the gloppy cherry syrup into the mugs, nodding when he looked up at her, a brow raised.

“Moldova.”

“Ah,” she nodded.

“Zhe man who lives 'ere,” Chern gestured vaguely around the cozy one-room cottage, “'ee iz Russian, too, yes?”

Hermione shook her head. “I don't believe so. I'm quite sure Hagrid is from Gloucestershire.”

“Oh,” Yura looked put out as he handed tea around and went to pull the pancakes from the fire. “Ve vere hoping to learn his source for _divin._ ” With his bearded chin, the man indicated a bottle of spirits on the mantle piece.

“Ve vould like to meet zhis 'Agrid,” Chereshko agreed, pulling plates from the cupboard for their breakfast.

“Y-you'd like him,” Ron piped up. He took the plates from Chern's hands, meeting gazes with a shy, awkward little shrug. Hermione amended her previous theory—Ron was intimidated by these men. For some reason, he felt threatened. Ron always pulled away, pulled back and into himself when feeling insecure. It was blatant now, the way the red head tiptoed around these fellows when he should have been asking them questions, figuring out what the hell they thought they were doing squatting in Hagrid's home and milling about after their services were no longer required.

“Yes. Hagrid teaches Care of Magical Creatures for the younger students here at Hogwarts,” Hermione offered to fill the silence.

Chereshko snorted, as close to a laugh as the man probably allowed himself, waggling his eyebrows at his fastidious comrade. “Yura loves animals,” he said with a wink.

Yuri shot his friend a very dark look before busying himself with the cutlery drawer.

Ron used setting out plates as an excuse to hover beside her ear and whisper, “Yuri's family procures hard-to-find potion ingredients for people like the Malfoys. He may love animals but he probably slaughters them for a living.”

Hermione cringed. “Speaking of animals,” she said as Yura deposited a fist-sized potato pancake on her plate, “what about the Granian outside? Is it one of yours?”

Chereshko and Yuri locked eyes from opposite sides of the table, the tall man bringing a mug of hot tea to his lips and the surly bloke using his plaid shirt-tail as a buffer between his hand and the hot skillet handle. After a second, Chern broke out laughing. The sound boomed and echoed, reminding her of Hagrid's laugh—especially when Yura joined in, rumbling along like a slab of limestone dragged to Hogsmeade and back.

“Mishenka is a friend, not a pet,” Chern corrected, still chuckling as he took his seat beside Hermione.His face was gaunt and weary, jaw hard even as the muscles in his neck began to relax from the hot tea.

“Why is he tied up, then?” Hermione asked. “Granians aren't dangerous unless they have a foal to protect.”

“Foal,” Yuri repeated, his tone hollow and dripping with sarcasm. He stuffed a chunk of hot pancake in his mouth, slurring around the bite. “Jus' vot ve need, _blya._ ”

“How so?” Hermione inquired as the men dug into their breakfasts with verve. She had to admit, it smelled delicious. “I mean, if he's trained and well-tempered, why wouldn't you breed him one day?”

“Vould you breed _him_?” Chern hissed, jabbing his fork in Ron's direction, eyes flashing like the color of an angry ocean.

“Wot?!” Ronald squawked, indignant.

“ _Ostyn', comesean_ ,” rumbled Yura, shaking his big shaggy head at his friend. “Zhey don't know.”

“Don't know wot?” Ron insisted, head flitting between the two older men.

Chern spoke with his head down, gripping the edge of the table very tightly. It sounded as though he were enunciating from behind clenched teeth, his jaw unmoving and the words slightly garbled, thick with emotion. “Zhe Granian you zee outzide iz an Animagus, Mikhail Ionescue. 'Ee iz fifteen and like a brother to us. I'm sure you zee how your qvestion about breeding could be taken zhe wrong vay....”

“Oh my goodness,” Hermione breathed, covering her mouth with her hand. She'd read extensively about Animagi and other wizards who could change their physical form after meeting Remus Lupin in their third year. She knew more than the average witch about magical transformations, having gone through a botched one herself back in second year. A moment later, her brows knitted together. “I was told it's impossible for an Animagus to take the form of a magical beast.”

“Vell,” Yura jerked his mug in the direction of the Granian—the teenage boy!—resting in the pumpkin patch. “Believe it.”

Hermione chewed her lip. The only way she could conceive of a wizard taking the form of a creature of magic involved some very dark rituals—the sort of thing she'd seen buried deep in the Restricted Section alongside Polyjuice and medieval torture.

“How is it possible?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “I'd imagine with the Dark Arts—”

Chereshko cut her off, slamming his fist to the table. “Against his vill, _pizda._ Vhen he vos a child, just as it vos done to his brothers, _i_ zheir fazher before zhem, _i_ his fazher, perhaps three hundred years! _Tebya ne ebut, ti ne podmakhivai!_ ”

“ _Firtat_ ,” Yura growled. Apparently his companion had said something offensive, if the tense look on Yura's sunburnt face was anything to go by.

“I... zorry,” the tall man grumbled, going back to his pancake with a heavy hand. One word was all the apology Chereshko had to offer. She nodded her acceptance.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Hermione had to admit, the dark tea was strong but wonderful. It was comforting, something she could easily get used to. These fellows had a certain rustic charm—perhaps that's why Harry seemed drawn to them.

Ron cleared his throat. “I'm sure you don't like keeping your friend tied up. Did Professor McGonagall make you or...?”

“For hiz own zafety,” Yuri shrugged.

“ _Atita vlăstar blya mutante,_ ” Chern rolled his eyes.

Ron did a double-take, mouth full of potato pancake. It took two gulps of tea for him to swallow. “Did you say _mutant_?”

“Funny story, zhat,” Yura chortled, giving Chereshko a friendly kick beneath the table. When it appeared the tall man wasn't going to join in on the telling, Yuri folded his hands in his lap and began. “During your TriVizard, Misha's brozher, Vukasin, got very drunk and shifted to hiz Thestral body on zhe Durmstrang ship. Hiz friends had to hide him before Karkarov saw, zo zhey opened—vos it zhe cargo bay?” Chern nodded sullenly, eyes glued to his plate. “Zhey opened the storage access _i_ let him loose on zhe grounds. Next morning zhey find him in zhe forest, human again _i_ naked as zhe day he vos born, vith maybe five Thestral mares. Ten months later, ve're sneaking into your forest zhrough Hogsmeade to... vell,” Yuri shrugged dismissively, the corner of his mouth turning up, bristly beard shifting audibly.

“To kill yourselves a mutant baby,” Ron supplied. He was holding his tea in both hands, breakfast finished and totally engrossed in the lurid tale. He gave a little whistle. “No wonder you have your mate roped down.”

“A necessary evil,” Yuri agreed. “He understands.”

“Oh, I'm sure,” Ron nodded eagerly. “Weird question, here. Wot exactly did the thing look like? I mean, inappropriate and you don't have to answer but... was it mostly Thestral or...?”

“Zhree out of five took hold,” said Yura. He glanced at Chern before continuing, scratching the side of his beard as though he would only proceed so long as the taller man was comfortable. “Two vere dead by zhe time ve arrived and ve dispatched zhe zhird. Zhey... didn't hold togezher vell. Messy. Zhe bones vere all wrong—zhe skin didn't connect right—”

“Alright,” Hermione interjected, placing a hand briefly on Chereshko's forearm. A tremor ran through the Moldovan, almost a sob but almost a laugh as well. She didn't know him at all and couldn't say for certain. “We just ate, so this is a tad....”

“Of course,” Yuri inclined his dark head, getting up to clear the dishes. Chern moved to refill the tea, topping off Hermione's cup before pouring a second for Ron. The man's hand gave a twitch, knocking the mug over. Piping hot tea splashed across the table, leaking through the cracks and getting Ron across the knees. He leapt up, beating at the thigh-region of his trousers and robes, long arms flailing and frantic.

“Bugger, that's bloody hot!” he exclaimed.

Hermione and Chereshko drew their wands in tandem, spelling away the liquid with twin Vanishing Charms. Ron was left standing, his chair toppled behind him, hands noticeably red where the scalding liquid had gotten him but otherwise unharmed.

“Where's your wand, silly?” Hermione chortled, setting his chair to rights with a quick non-verbal while Chern saw to the rest of the spilled tea.

“I, er....” Ron went pink from his ears to his collar. The color rushed under his hairline, lighting across his skin as he swallowed visibly.

“You must be zhe one who broke his vand, _da_ ?” Yuri asked, returning to the table and spooning more cherry _varenya_ into everyone's cups. “Let's zee zhe damage, zhen.” He gestured to the now emptier table. “I'll zee vot I can do.”

From his inner robe pocket, Ronald produced the remnants of his Ollivander wand much as Vukasin Ionescue might have presented the remains of his failed inter-species offspring—there was a great deal of trepidation there alongside undue shame. Ron hadn't mentioned a broken wand—then again, Ron hadn't mentioned _anything_ about the skirmish last night. Compared to these men, Hermione was in the dark.

Yuri looked over the splinters of willow wood and strands of unicorn hair laid out before him, at one point fingering a bit from the handle, following the grain up to the point where it broke off.

“A flaw in zhe willow, here,” he said, pointing. “Zhat caused it to shatter razher zhan snapping, as zhey're supposed to. Lucky you didn't fall harder—splinters in zhe wrong direction could 'ave killed you.”

Ron gave a shudder but said nothing.

“I can vork vith zhe unicorn. It's relatively undamaged,” Yuri continued, now idly stroking his beard. His meaty fingers knocked away the last of the breakfast crumbs still housed in his bristle. “Vhen vere you born?”

“March first,” Ron provided.

“Ash, zhen. Zhirteen inches,” Yura muttered, looking Ron over. He lifted the red head's arm, inspecting the length of him. “Maybe more. Chereshko's knife vorked vell for you?”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded. And he pulled a dagger from his boot, placing it on the table. The long, wicked-looking blade glowed an eerie green color, the magic emanating from a band of dark metal inlaid along the length. “Here. Thanks again.”

“Keep it,” Chern shrugged. “You never know vhen you'll need a good blade, _prietene_. I have a better set, anyvay,” the bloke insisted when Ron began to protest.

“Is that Thestral scale blended with the metal?” Hermione asked as Yura continued looking Ron and his busted wand over. The red head slipped the dagger back into his boot with an appreciative nod to Chern. “I read about Pavel Gregorovitch's experiments but I've never seen one myself.”

“ _Gospodin_ Gregorovitch made zhe shorter knives, _da_ ,” the tall man said. He reached for the knives tucked into his own boots, setting the pair on the table along with Ron's broken wand parts. The knives were almost long enough to be small swords, meant to be wielded with a backwards grip, like a muggle constable's night stick. They would be close to the body, fast and deadly for close-quarters fighting. “Zhese vere Yura's creations. 'Ee apprenticed under Gregorovitch before zhe Death Eaters brought vor to Poland.”

Chern kept a hand over his prized weapons—he didn't seem to want to be without them. There was a similar pattern of darker metal running down the center of the blades like a spine, flecks catching the firelight in places just like her textbooks said a Thestral's scales appeared when on the creature's body. She didn't know first hand, like Harry and Ron did. Malfoy, too.

“Let me try a few zhings,” Yuri said, clapping Ron heartily on the back until he teetered. Yuri was more like Hagrid than Hermione was willing to admit. Then again, she was predisposed to like anyone who saw the goodness in Ronald the way she did. The fact that these men wanted to help—wanted to get Ron through whatever had happened to him—softened her opinion somewhat. Anyone who wanted to help out without thought of payment or reward, asking only for a safe place to sleep and a hot meal in the morning, couldn't be so bad. “Come back at lunch _i_ ve zee, _da_? Miss Granger, too, of course.” Yura gave her a courtly bow, a pleasing grin splitting his bearded face and making him look more in keeping with his age.

Hermione smiled. “Yes. I think I'd like that.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco made everyone gather in the common room bright and early Tuesday morning—“no exceptions,” he'd warned. Though he and Harry were nearly late themselves.

It was the chosen dolt's fault. He had to look so fucking good in his old school uniform. The man's house elves had taken every garment in according to Draco's summer measurements and they fit Harry in a pleasantly snug sort of way. So pleasant that Draco was contemplating the idea of not showing face in the common room at all. It was with a certain tightness of the trousers that he allowed Harry to shove him down the hidden staircase to the red and gold-themed hell-hole. He pinched chosen arse along the way.

Those trousers were obscenely tight, what with the swell of Harry's bum, jumper cutting off in just the right place so that a peek of untucked white shirt accented the curve of his rear; slovenly, slouchy brightness calling to Draco like a beacon in the dark passageway—a light calling him home.

Their snog before entering the common room had them both sodden-lipped and breathless.

Draco straightened his tie before inquiring eyes could catch a thread out of place.

As expected, the Creevey brothers were corralling the occupants of Gryffindor House into the study area, younger years up front while the older students lounged in chairs or clambered up onto the tables. All of Gryffindor fit in the one corner, framed by morning light streaming through the windows. Denis Creevey tugged at the curtains, pulling them all the way open while Colin commandeered an end table to elevate his camera's tripod.

“A House picture?” Harry muttered happily at Draco's side, surveying the commotion with a goofy half-smile on his face. “Brilliant. We've never done one for everyone—just the Quidditch team, you know? Good thinking, _mon vieux_.”

Draco shrugged off the compliment, inclining his head to Colin Creevey when the other blond acknowledged him with a little wave. The boy mouthed an “almost ready,” fiddling with an attachable photo lens for his camera.

It was only a moment before Draco and Harry were mobbed. The silliest questions imaginable were lobbed at the pair of them.

“Be as stupid as ya like, see if I care,” Draco scoffed when two forth years proposed posing piggy-back. “It's only posterity. It won't be seen fer generations ta come or anythin'.”

“He'll be less cranky after coffee and breakfast,” Harry reassured the pair, turning that odd little smile Draco's way. The blond heaved a gut-filling sigh.

“I'll show _you_ less cranky after breakfast...” he began to mumble, not sure where he was going with the come-back. He petered off as Harry waved his arms, calling out for everyone to get into position so Colin could take the photograph and get them all down to breakfast on time.

Everyone quieted down at their king's behest, behaving themselves as Colin set the timer on his camera and came round to join his brother at the side of the shot.

Neville Longbottom waved Harry over. Draco followed reluctantly, dragged off by two of Harry's careless fingers inserted in the belt loop of Draco's trousers. He allowed himself to be positioned between Harry and Granger, Longbottom at Harry's other side and a gaggle of first and second year girls at their feet, Kieran Gweir dog-piled and disheveled in the middle of the heap. Several females fussed at the boy's hair and clothing, making his svelte person even more of a rumpled mess. Draco snorted softly, watching as Harry licked his palm in a vain effort to smooth his own unruly hair as though just reminded of his typical appearance by the sight of himself in miniature. Gweir was like a time portal as well as a mirror. Draco was doomed to be surrounded by tousled hair and boyish charm. There were worse lots in life.

“Yeh look fine,” Draco scoffed, pulling Harry's arm down by the crook of his elbow. “Jus' stand there an' look dashing,” he joked.

“You mean clueless,” whispered Harry from the side of his mouth. And then he hissed, “ _Gods, all these people around and all I can think about is gettin' back upstairs and shagging you senseless. Is that so terrible?_ ”

It was a struggle to keep a straight face—the faintest blush probably crept up Draco's neck despite his best efforts.

“Considering how you spent this morning, Potter...” Draco swallowed, thinking about pastel puffskeins and sweet pasties—anything pleasant—just to keep his voice light, “I wonder if you'd make it out of here by next month, let alone this afternoon.”

He didn't want to think about Harry leaving. So he wouldn't. It was as simple as that. He would deal with it when the time came.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed, scratching idly at the back of his neck. “I guess you're right.”

The Creeveys waved their wands, setting off red and gold sparks—it was almost time.

Off to Draco's other side, Weasley slipped a possessive arm around Granger's torso, freckled fingers tightening reflexively over the girl's shoulder and pulling her to him in an unmistakable show of schoolboy love. Once more, Draco pushed at Harry's bicep to draw his fidgeting arm down, flattening the Chosen One's shirt collar where the hopeless man had mussed it. For a second, he allowed his fingertips to trail against the exposed dip of a tanned throat, bare from lack of a spare house tie.

They turned for the photo; standing seriously, side-by-side. Harry—real slick—put his arm around Draco's waist a second before the flash. Draco comforted himself with the notion that since they were standing near the back, Potter the Barmy's romantic gesture would be near impossible to discern in the actual photo.

“Silly picture!” Colin yelled, setting the timer with another elaborate wave of his wand and racing back. Hoots and cheers went up—tempered due to the morning hour but enthusiastic enough to invite some shifting of the crowd as the lions got creative.

Everyone struck an odd pose; the piggy-backers, the rabbit and moose ears, even Granger conjured a couple of happy yellow birds to twitter around above her head. A few people shot off sparks from their wands. As one, the first and second year girls fell on Gweir, pretending to choke and bully the lad in a mad play of limbs and childish shouts. The effect was quite endearing, a dozen ten and twelve year old girls mobbing the miniature Potter look-a-like and nearly tearing him limb from limb, throwing fake punches and stealing chaste kisses. It looked like Ewan Abercrombie was attempting to rescue Gweir, dragging the kid away by his silky tie with little success. Gweir flailed, thrashed and giggled, hamming it up for the girls more than the camera.

Draco looked to Harry, a matching smirk playing around his lips. “Wha' 'r ya thinkin'?”

Without warning, Harry pulled Draco to him in a tight embrace.

“Ya right little cunt,” Draco chided in a whisper. Harry was going to make them into “that couple:” the obnoxious, _kissing_ ones. To Draco's surprise and delight, Harry dipped him for a big, muggle-movie kiss as the camera flashed again and again. His arms whipped up around Harry's neck—but only to maintain his balance, of course. The barmy _con_ bent him over backwards in a breath-stealing kiss. Surrounding students mooned and laughed... because Harry wouldn't stop kissing him even after the picture was taken. Draco fought his beet-red blush as the Gryffindors gawked. Ginevra Weasley may or may not have stormed out the portrait hole in a huff. Harry didn't seem to care as he tongued and groped to his heart's content.

 

 

 

Breakfast was a lively affair; between the excitement of the house photo and the left-over giddiness of Harry's arrival, the Gryffindor table was abuzz with activity and lively conversation. It was as though the Great Hall had forgotten about the fear and uncertainty of two night's past, whisked off by Time Turner to a place and time wherein the Dark Lord hadn't risen to power and there was nothing more pressing to worry about than who was dating who and when the new Weird Sisters album would release. Gossip flew around the room like sylabic, speeding owls but surprisingly the rumors weren't about Gryffindor's odd couple. It was Ronald Weasley's new wand delivered by house elf to the breakfast table which was attracting all of the attention.

It wasn't long before Professor Flitwick made his way over to the rowdiest of tables, stopping at Weasley's broad shoulder to have a look at the piece.

“Quite... unusual,” the Charms instructor muttered, stroking a curly bit of his overgrown side-burn in thought. “Indeed, most unusual. The design is particularly striking. A Gregorovitch, then?”

Weasley shook his head, a strange and unreadable expression taking over his mottled features. Draco wasn't sure what to make of the look before the Weasel spoke.

“Nope. It's a Batushansky.”

The tiny professor balked. Draco himself perked up a bit—he knew Yura had forged a few artifacts back at Durmstrang and was well-versed in the necessary magics but wand-making was a particular talent... perhaps even an outright gift. That Yuri was able to create something like that for Weasley in a matter of a night was nothing short of genius. There was nothing special about the wood itself, probably pine or light birch whittled down and styled around thirteen inches from handle to tip. With the grip wound in leather and silver, it was more sword-like than wand. What was unique was the shape and detail of the shaft, carved out in a slight corkscrew with a tiny lip. Inside that lip—melted down, poured and then melded to the wood with a great deal of magic—was a smoky banding, almost metallic, like a snake's scaly body wound around and in places through the bark of an ancient tree. The dark metal glittered in the light, juxtaposed by the lightness of wood and the presence of that contrasting, bright silver worked around the handle. With the way that band caught the light, it had to be a few parts sterling silver melted down and infused with Thestral scale. The hue and inherent illumination was unmistakable.

“Dual core, then?” Flitwick surmised. The professor's steely gaze flicked twice over the wand's length.

“Triple,” Weaselby said with that dopey grin of his. “The original unicorn hair is held under Thestral scale and steel. Added a dragon bone core with ash resin to stabilize it.”

Flitwick drew back visibly, as though the unstable brew might turn sour at any second and blast his considerable brows off.

“Thestral and dragon stabilized by ash?” his already squeaky voice quivered noticeably. “Not possible.”

Weasley—clandestine, he was not—shot a wink at Granger across the table. “Anything's possible with a bit of Hogwarts ingenuity.”

The professor was so caught up in the seeming impossibility that such a wand could exist, he completely lost the fond look which passed between Weasel King and his Mudblood Queen.

The combination was rather ingenious, really—the wand, not Weasel and his sodding girlfriend. And merely “ingenious” said nothing of the structure, the fucking craftsmanship and _artistry_ that had gone into the piece. Thestral for natural shielding against attacks, dragon bone as an amplifier, unicorn for focused magic and ash as a grounding against steel and what could only be pine. Yura was dangerous as well as decidedly cleaver. And Granger had to have had a hand in it as well—who else would be so sensitive to Weasley's history of broken, hand-me-down wands and constant disarming due to innate buffoonery? No more! What Weasley King bore now was a war wand: half sword, all weapon. If disarmed through Expeliarmus, this wand was likely to take the caster's arm off as soon as that wrapped leather handle reached the unfortunate fellow's fingertips. It would be a gorey, irreparable mess.

“You keep that wand out of anyone else's hands, Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick cautioned, waving a finger in the ginger's inattentive face. “It could very likely kill the unprepared.”

“Oh,” Weasley simpered, “that's the idea.”

“Ronnie, no death-talk at the table, if you please,” his sister scolded. Her simpering, holier-than-thou face nearly put Draco off his second cup of coffee.

Professor Flitwick proceeded down the length of the table only to stop short a few meters later. He leaned over the bench, settling an elbow on the table and addressing Draco. The blond set his coffee and fork aside.

“Mr. Malfoy, I'm sorry to bother you,” the Charms teacher began, “but it's about my House—specifically our door.” Draco felt himself color—it was happening an awful lot this morning, a side effect of having Harry about. The git made him emotional, cracked his steely facade so that all these tells and ruddy feelings slipped through to the outside world. The tepid, calloused hand which had taken up shop on his knee didn't exactly help to cool his blood. He settled for raising a stoic brow at the head of Ravenclaw House.

“My apologies once again, Professor,” Draco offered. He hoped his voice sounded normal enough. Harry was patting his knee affectionately, fingertips drumming in no particular rhythm as he chewed his toast.

“No need,” Flitwick waved away the concern. “It's only... what exactly _was_ the nature of your, er, disagreement?”

Harry guffawed, throwing his toast aside. “You picked a fight with a door?”

“Get stuffed, _poilu_ ,” Draco mumbled. Harry slapped playfully at his boyfriend's thigh.

“Seriously?!”

That earnest expression, the shape of his eyes slightly magnified by those hideous smudged spectacles—it was too much. Draco went for facetious to avoid the discomfiting truth of it.

“You were being a prodigious arse,” he announced ringingly. “I had to take it out on someone or something. The Ravenclaw portress seemed as good a candidate as any.”

Disbelief was evident on Harry's face but he played along. “So it's my fault you... what, exactly? Is the door broken or did you just blast it to smithereens?”

“It's been rendered inoperative,” Draco spoke carefully, aware that others were now listening in to their little lover's tiff. He wondered whether the rest of the castle saw their relationship for what it was or if the populace was still comforting themselves with the lie of the wizarding world's most peculiar friendship. Ever. “I believe, and do correct me Professor if I'm amiss,” because Malfoys were never wrong, only 'amiss' or perhaps mistaken, “that I may have surpassed the parameters of the artifact's Iterative Convergence Matrix.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry shook his head of shaggy hair, fringe rearranging over his forehead to show glimpses of a lightning-shaped scar. “You wha'?”

Draco pressed his lips to a thin line to keep from laughing. His boyfriend was endlessly adorable... in that maladroit, Potterish way of his. “I proved it wrong, Scarhead. Eat your kippers, the adults are talking.” There came a tremendous snort from Draco's right—Kieran, refilling the blond's coffee and dropping eves. Draco spared the child a nod of thanks before returning his attention to his Charms instructor. “I was given a riddle pertaining to Endopathotic Theory,” he explained. “I happen to have some personal knowledge of the subject which I was happy to share with your portress.”

“I see,” Flitwick nodded. “Might I trouble you for a small demonstration?”

Without warning, Draco commandeered Gweir's steak knife and took it to the back of Harry's hand, making a shallow but speedy cut which quickly began to bloom with blood, red coming to the surface where the serrated edge had caught tanned skin. Harry inhaled sharply, breath hissing through clenched teeth. The briefest “hey” escaped his startled mouth before Draco's hand closed over his, pressing his own pale palm tight to the wound before it could release more than a few droplets.

He looked Harry right in the face, holding the sight of wide and confused green eyes until they filled his vision. He focused solely and completely on Harry; the spicy, jasmine and rum scent of his skin detectable over eggs, fishes and toast, the unruly play of dark hair falling behind his glasses to tickle his lashes and that smattering of freckles you had to be so damn close to see.

They both felt the frisson of magic, the white-blue lightning snicking around their hands as fingers intertwined. The light seemed to flicker in Harry's eyes, a static charge as he blinked, crackling between his lashes before disappearing into the whites of his eyes, lighting him from the inside. The wanker liked this strange magic—flaunted it, even. It was always right there, bubbling at the surface, waiting for half a good reason to come storming out, wands blazing. Harry licked his lower lip and smiled that familiar, lazy smile.

“It doesn't work on myself, oddly enough,” Draco shrugged, patting Harry's hand once before letting go, showing his bloody palm to the professor, the back of Harry's hand completely healed. “You'd think, with the majority of Endopathotics triggered by threat of injury or emotional duress... but no. It only works for this git.”

Harry gave a playful snort.

Draco stopped himself a second short of lifting his bloody palm to his lips. He stared at his palm a moment, observing the flecks of red spreading along the fine faric of his hand. He was so accustomed to the sight of Harry's blood, to scouring it out of their clothes, licking it from sweaty skin, tasting it mingled with liquor and smoke and spit. His palm was sweating something mad. Maybe it was the magic. Perhaps he was a sick fuck turned on my the sight of his lover's blood. With a certain amount of restraint, Draco returned his stained hand to his side unattended to. He could suck the blood off when no one was looking.

“Most unusual,” Flitwick agreed, tapping his fingers against the table in thought. “I'll have to make adjustments to the Convergence Matrix, of course. There could be an explanation for this,” he gestured between the two of them, indicating the healing of Harry's hand. “Might I make inquiries with the Department of Mysteries on your behalf?”

“If you can stand the smell,” Harry joked. The Minister really was hiding out in a barn—the smell of manure on his messengers got worse every day. Professor McGonagall had already banned them from her office—and not just for the sake of her rugs. “I'd sure like to know what's going on.”

“You and me, both,” Draco muttered over his coffee cup. Professor Flitwick bowed and departed.

Gweir was quick to take his knife back, scouring it with a Cleaning Charm before digging into a hearty bit of steak. The kid was just like Harry, plate piled high and stuffing his sweet little face. Most people hadn't seen the display of magic and so breakfast passed without further incident or gossip. Weasley waving his new wand about and bragging loudly made an amicable distraction.

Draco walked Harry back to Gryffindor tower to collect his things. With everyone still in the Great Hall, the corridors were empty but for the mellow morning light filtering through the windows.

“Draco, what exactly did the Ravenclaw door ask you?”

The blond rolled his eyes, jostling Harry's shoulder with his own as they strolled. “Why?”

“Well, I've never actually been to Rvenclaw,” Harry admitted. “I heard instead of a password, the door asks you a question that you have to answer. Is that right?”

“It's a brass door knocker in the shape of an eagle,” corrected Draco, “but otherwise, yes. That's the gist of it.”

“But what type of questions does it ask? 'What are the seven principle uses of dragon's blood?' or are they more like riddles?”

Draco chewed the inside of his cheek. “Philosophical riddles, I suppose. There's room for interpretation. The door requires that answers be phrased in a certain way, a logic devoid of emotion—devoid of personality, more like,” he snorted to himself.

“So you used the wrong kind of answer?” Harry surmised, raising an eyebrow at Draco as they went down a side passage to avoid a certain staircase that was particularly finicky before the hour of ten.

“Not as such.”

Harry grabbed Draco by the shoulder, pulling him to a halt in the narrow hallway. There was barely enough room for the two of them to walk abreast. With that strong body of his, Harry had Draco against the rough-hewn wall in seconds. It wasn't exactly as though Draco fought him.

“Tell me the riddle, you insufferable prig,” he growled, nuzzling the side of Draco's neck with a freshly shaved cheek. “I want to know.”

Draco sighed. Fighting this was hopeless—Harry would always win, especially with his meaty thigh slipped between Draco's own, breathing deeply and laying slow, wet kisses up the most sensitive tendons of his neck.

“'What is a man without a wand?'” he quoted, imitating the brass eagle's eerie, sing-song voice with ease. He'd always been good with impressions.

“Hmm,” Harry murmured. “And you said?”

“ _Outre que un moldu..._ _effrayé, impuissant, ou dans l'amore_.”

Against his neck, Harry's face scrunched, nose wrinkling up to bump Draco's earlobe as the man attempted to translate in his head.

“Apart from... something... love.”

Draco reached up to pat a jumper-clad shoulder. “Aside from a muggle... frightened, powerless, or in love,” Draco completed the translation. He gave Harry's shoulder one last squeeze before continuing down the corridor. It let out into a main thoroughfare, several staircases with wide, sweeping banisters leading both up and down in six possible directions depending on the day. One of the suits of armor was rattling faintly, its helmet and breast plate quivering as though some critter had gotten inside it. Draco paused. Harry came up beside him a moment later, drawing his wand.

The suit gave a last tremor before the helmet's visor opened and the unmistakable tune of “God Rest Ye Merry Hyppogryffs” began, the metal brim clacking and clanking as it moved in time to the tune, singing the words. But in each phrase, key words were decidedly off. In fact, it was only a matter of seconds before Draco realized what lyrics were being substituted. It was “The Dragon Song,” that wildly inappropriate series of snide remarks set in limerick form, courtesy of Peeves the Pesky Poltergeist.

And the helmet sang off-key:

 

“ _Once a famed Prince of Quidditch!_

_Out on the pitch,_

_Potter sure scratched his itch._

_Now he's the Golden Boy's bitch.”_

 

“Peeves!” Harry shouted, charging the musical suit. The poltergeist flew out from under the armor's skirting, cackling madly as he took off in flight, zooming around stair railings as Harry threw wild spells in the demon's direction. Sparks rebounded off the walls, knocking portraits askew and hurtling down various hallways. Harry's aim was terrible when he was in a rage—always had been. Draco drew his own wand and took careful aim, whispering his incantation in a low hiss. The spell was invisible as it left his wand's hawthorn tip but he heard the impact a second later as it sent Peeves reeling, slamming the prankster against this wall and then that, bouncing him down the stairwell like a child's rubber ball. Draco did not stop until Peeves reached the second floor corridor, guiding the wretch into the Trophy Room with a soul-satisfying series of bangs, shatterings and crashes.

“Fuck,” Harry exclaimed under his breath. He'd given chase but came to a halt half way down the staircase, gazing back up at Draco. “Is it always like this?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “You've been away from Hogwarts too long, Wonder Boy.”

Harry's face fell instantly. If Draco didn't know better, he could have ignored the blatant hurt, the emotion, and the ever-so-slight damp gathering in the man's eyes.

It was such a stupid thing to say, what with Harry leaving in perhaps an hour with no idea when he'd return... or if. Harry was very much upset; his shoulders slumped as he carried himself up the half flight of stairs, dragging his feet as he set out down the hall toward Gryffindor Tower... to pack his things and go.

“ _Putain de bordel de merde!_ ” Draco took a handful of Harry's jumper and wheeled him around by it. He was half tempted to physically shake the melancholy out of his dozy Gryffindor hero. He settled for gathering a fist of the man's collar and hauling him close, continuing in a terse whisper. “Can we fucking _talk_ about this and get it over with?! You're leaving—I know it, you know it. Why are you throwing a bloody childish fit about it?”

“I...” Wonder Boy floundered. “Sorry, dragon. I'm just preoccupied. That's all. I've got a lot on my mind.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Draco's lips, keeping their faces close, noses and foreheads brushing as their black and blond fringes mingled. “My only lead is that friend of Alastor Moody's, Leo—”

Harry cut himself off at the sound of mewling near their feet. Filch's cat, Mrs. Norris, was giving them a very dirty look, indeed. If the feline terror was about, her owner couldn't be far behind. Draco cursed again—in French, causing a noticeable jump in Harry's trousers.

“Here,” Harry offered, opening the door to a nearby supply room and gesturing his boyfriend inside with a hurried jerk of the head.

“Do you know every bleeding cupboard in the castle, Potter?” Draco teased, drawling just like the old days. “Either you used to snog the Weaslette far too much or those muggles truly fucked with your head.”

“Neither here nor there,” Harry deadpanned, shoving Draco inside and charming the door shut behind them.

“...sorry,” Draco mumbled, stuffing his hands in his back pockets. “I'm preoccupied, too. I didn't mean it like that. Are you mad... at me?”

Harry shook his head, holding out an arm which Draco stepped readily into, greedy for contact. Harry cuddled Draco to his side, burying his nose in blond hair and laying a dry, lingering kiss. It was as though Harry were breathing him, memorizing his shape and smell, cataloging these details as Draco did. The blond pressed himself back, aligning every inch of himself with the familiar swell and fall of Harry's form.

“So where are you going?” Draco asked, interrupting the silence of breath and rustling fabric. Somewhere outside the castle, a bird began to chirp.

“America.”

Draco nodded, letting his head fall back against Harry's firm shoulder. “For how long?”

“However long it takes. I need information and the Ministry's in no shape to back me.”

“Because you an' the Ministry have gotten on so well in the past, _mon cher,_ ” the blond's tone was sarcastic, but only to make Harry laugh. It was a sober sound that rattled in his chest, not quite reaching his heart.

They sat there a moment, just holding each other and breathing, being calm and together. It was enough.

“How do you want to handle this?” Harry asked softly, stroking Draco's forearm with a leisurely thumb. “Me leaving. I know you hate goodbyes.”

Draco was silent as the minutes ticked by. He knew exactly what he wanted to say—all the thoughts and fears swirling through him had force enough to rip the castle apart stone by fucking stone. Stupid feelings clogged his sentience—getting them out had always been a trick thing. Not for the first time with Harry, he was at a loss for words.

“Just tell me what you want and I'll do it, no questions asked,” Harry continued, soothing. His hands skated up Draco's arms, enclosing him in an ever-tightening embrace. “I want you to be happy, Draco. So tell me how you want this to go.”

Draco took a big breath, closing his eyes.

“I want you to come home,” he whispered, trying so hard not to choke. “Come back, Harry. Merlin knows—that's all I want.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

That first day without Harry was the worst. Draco took an exorbent quantity of points from Ravenclaw and got himself called to McGonagall's office for reprimand. Sluffing lunch and returning to his quarters had been an even worse idea, if that was possible—seeing his empty rooms, the place still smelling of Harry, had been too much. He spent his lunch hour assisting the last of the Aurors and castle guards in setting the kitchen gardens to rights. They were nearly done burning the bodies in a clearing of the Forbidden Forest, dark smoke pluming over the tree-line for two days straight.

That night, Colin Creevey knocked on the door to Draco's suite to deliver the proofs of their house pictures. As per Draco's instructions, the fellow developed them in both the wizard and muggle ways, leaving the final choice to the Head Boy. If House shenanigans could be kept to a minimum—even in pictorial form—Draco was all for it. The Gryffindors delighted in causing trouble. It was positively Slytherin at times.

Creevey placed several pictures on the coffee table for Draco's perusal. Draco set his cuppa aside to examine them. He nearly lost it, right there with sodding Creevey in the room.

He couldn't take his eyes from the sight of Wonder Boy in the moving silly pictures. That little Harry groped little Draco's ass as they kissed quite passionately, grinding their bodies together. Then again, the little Draco's hands were rather pervy as well. What did that say? They looked incredibly hot together. And happy. Hand pressed tight over his mouth, Draco had to look away from the picture before it really got to him.

“Well,” he said after a beat, mustering a falsely bright tone to hide the slightly damp, nasal burr to his usually smooth voice. “This one's completely inappropriate, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Creevey?”

The sixth year gave a shrug, as if to say it was just a silly picture and he didn't see anything wrong with it.

“I think we ought to use this one,” Draco continued, signaling the moving serious photo. You can barely tell that photo-Harry's arm is around photo-Draco—only when miniature Whipple shifted her weight in the front row and Gweir hid from a brazen Abigail Brown trying to snog him. “How soon can you have a larger one ready?”

“Probably tomorrow morning. It won't take me long.”

Draco nodded. “Good. Thank you,” he added, attempting niceties. “You may go.”

“Um, I know it's really none of my business,” Colin started, wringing his hands once the spare photographs were stored safely in his school bag. He'd apparently brought extra copies for Draco, as two each of the serious and goofy images were still in his line of sight, two moving and two still. Creevey, too, remained beside the coffee table, determined to be heard.

“Then ya shouldn't stick yer nose in it,” Draco snipped, picking up his tea and taking a sip before his Warming Charm wore off and the pot went cold.

“It's just—” the boy gesticulated rather aimlessly, hands falling to his sides as he appealed to the cracked ceiling for the proper phrasing of whatever was on his puny mind. “I wanted to say congratulations, Malfoy. Harry's such a nice person and he deserves to be happy. I'm glad this whole thing is working out for you—both of you. I don't think I've ever seen Harry as happy as he is in that pisser picture.”

Colin ducked out, leaving Draco staring at the silly, kissing picture.

Putting up the over-sized, framed serious picture the next morning brought a cheer from everyone in the common room—a reminder that Harry was never far away. Draco kept the proof of the silly kissy picture framed on his mantle where no one but himself would be forced to see it.

 

 

 

Over the next fortnight, Draco divided his time between Quidditch—even watching the other teams' practices as research, much to all of Slytherin's chagrin—the mindless tedium of NEWTs, and seeing to his responsibilities as Head Boy. More than once, he had to tell off that mad twatter, Colin Creevey, for following him around with that incessant camera, clicking away. Draco suspected the little twerp was a bit queer and probably had some sort of jealous crush now that he and Harry were half-out to Gryffindor. Handsome as he was, nobody in their right mind wanted _that_ many pictures of Draco Malfoy carrying his things to and from the Library.

That afternoon, he'd threatened House points to get the little stalker off his back. Dejected, the urchin had slumped through the portrait hole to Gryffindor commons, prepared to let Draco be at least for the afternoon.

Draco approached the Heads' quarters, craning his ears. For a moment, he thought he'd heard raised voices. And it wasn't like the do-gooder Gryffindors to start hollering at each other... at least for no apparent reason. Not when Harry was absent, anyway.

Stepping into the hall separating his quarters from Granger's, he was left in little doubt that it was, indeed, a confrontation his ears detected—vehement, pointed arguing. It sounded like Weasel chit, Granger, Weaselby, and a few others. Why they couldn't do this in their common room and leave him in peace was quite beyond him. They drowned out the peaceful trickling of the fountain and the pleasant bird chirping from the open balcony doors.

Draco stormed into his quarters, slamming the door and throwing his school bag. He took to the piano roughly, kicking back the bench and depositing himself onto it. He began pounding out the loudest, strongest tune he could think of—a rendition of _February_ by the disinherited wizard recluse Boris Pasternak—because he bloody well wanted those noisy, thoughtless wankers to hear it. And hopefully loathe it.

He was a good twenty measures in before the knock at the door. He ignored it, tempted to sing along. But his Russian was laughable with the exception of a few choice and appropriately filthy phrases. He made up for that shortcoming by playing louder, jamming the heavy chords. The staccato repetitions and resounding bass echoed around his chambers, blocking out the fist tap-tap-tappings ever so insistent at his closed door.

“Malfoy?” Granger's voice floated in. “Might we speak with you?”

“Fuck off!” he wanted to shout. But he didn't say a thing, applying himself to the keys with vigor. The noise didn't deter Granger and her companions as they slipped into the room. He saw the mass of black robes gathering behind him. There were more than he thought—a dozen, perhaps. It was hard not to be reminded of the swish of Dementors in his mother's rose garden, the looming of cloaked figures in an icy hallway... halls that had once been his own. Like Hogwarts, they were lost now. The world had shifted and he, Draco Malfoy, was helpless.

Draco ignored them, their darkness just out of sight, and kept right on playing. They were in _his_ quarters uninvited: he would do as he pleased, proper manners be damned. He wasn't a proper Malfoy anymore, anyway. Rules be damned, too. It wasn't like Harry gave a Firebolt-flying fuck.

“Malfoy?” asked another voice. Longbottom. Merlin and Mordred, Neville Longbottom was in his private rooms. “Indignity” did not begin to describe. He slammed both fists to the keys, sounding a mighty discord of noise.

“What?!” he snarled, not bothering to turn from the ivories.

“We... well,” Granger pronounced slowly, stepping up beside the piano bench and wringing her hands in a veritable fit of nerves. The lines on her brow told of consternation... and desperation. He didn't like that look one bit. “We wanted to ask you for a favor.”

Draco sat perfectly still, the sides of his palms still depressing long-silent white keys. Had someone placed an Hallucination Hex on his door without his noticing? That or he'd turned mad somewhere between NEWT Ancient Studies and his rooms.

He did owe the muggle bint one favor. She'd gone and retrieved the jacket, his silly little gift for Harry, and now he genuinely owed her something. It was a shame Avada Kedavra didn't work for suicides or he'd have used the Unforgivable out of shame then and there.

“I owe you one favor, Granger,” he simpered, “and here you've come to collect. Let's hear it, then.”

“Just like that?” the witch spluttered, gobsmacked.

“Just like that, Granger,” he replied slowly, back stiff. “Out with it before I change my ruddy bat-infested mind.”

“We need you to restart Harry's Defense Against The Dark Arts club.”

“No.”

“Wha' happened to 'just like that?'” Longbottom put out with a frown.

“No.” Draco repeated himself—slowly and clearly so there would be no mistaking his answer. “Definitely and definitively: no.”

“You're Head Boy,” Granger posed as though he regularly misplaced his responsibilities shortly after tea. “You have the authority to—”

“Dumbledore's Bleedin' Army? Public Potter Worship?” his fist hit the keys again. “Abso- _fucking_ -lutely not.”

“But you—” Weaslette started up. He cut her off with a feral growl that sounded very much like … Harry. The little knot of students behind him jumped at the familiar rumbling; looking about, surprised, as though their champion might burst out from behind the chocolate draperies and declare it was all a great hoax. They probably thought he _was_ hiding their savior up here, the way heads swiveled and pained faces lit up. Wouldn't they be delighted to know the only vestiges of their sweet Prince Potter were likely in Draco at present. They were more alike than anyone gave them credit for.

“Mal—” some fifth year bloke began.

“I will not be made a spectacle,” he said, low, violence building at the back of his mind. “You have the Dueling Club, Granger: use them as a platform. I see no need to bring back the bloody D.A. as a legitimate school club. Stay underground. That's what he wants, anyway.”

And Draco rose from the piano, signaling the end of the discussion as he drifted across the room, all but dismissing the little crowd. Bloody Gryffindors, not knowing when to quit. Ron Weasley separated himself from the mob, striding forward and coming within a foot of where Draco stood at the far side of his mahogany bed, staring out the window.

“That's not what Harry wants,” Weasley said, his voice almost as firm. “He wants us to be prepared, to know how to defend ourselves. That's why he started the DA under Umbridge's toady nose! And we're actually learning less from my brother than we did from her, if that's even possible! We _need_ the D.A. The whole school does.”

“So do it yourselves,” Draco drawled heavily, feigning boredom while staunchly facing away with hands clasped tight at his back. Stray golden leaves blew past his window—the last of the season. Soon it would be winter. He managed to hold back his sigh of annoyance. This was his life, now; waiting on Harry Potter. Waiting on The Boy Who Lived. “Granger has the authority. I see no reason for my involvement except to garner attention.”

“But who would teach?” asked a familiar voice. Draco did an about face to find none other than Luna Lovegood standing between Granger and Longbottom; he rolled his eyes, exasperated.

“Not you, too,” Draco moaned. He'd just started to tolerate the woman—she was a bizarre sort of genius... heavy on the eccentricities, but his company was otherwise limited to ruddy Gryffindors and thus his judgment had begun to slip.

“That's right!” Longbottom concurred. “There's no one to teach us.”

“Suck my cock, the lot of you. I don't teach,” Draco said flatly. He didn't so much as pause for the stifled gasps—poncy little Gryffindors didn't speak that way and clearly thought their Head Boy wouldn't either. Well, they were in _his_ quarters, weren't they? He'd rhapsodize as he pleased. Granger and Weasel bird could have an orgy around his member—an orgy of prudish disgust by the looks on their spluttering faces.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I haven't the patience for this! And I don't tolerate your 'try harder next time' cutesy tripe and bollocks. _I. Don't. Teach._ I'm rubbish at it: end of story. I'm sure you can see yourselves out the way you came.” He flicked an impatient hand toward the door.

“You don't teach; yet you spent most of the summer instructing Harry,” Granger said quite sagely. A few murmurs went up at that. “And we've already seen his progress. He's leagues beyond where he was at the end of last term. It would take a fool not to see it.”

“I wasn't the only person giving him pointers and you know it,” Draco snapped back, on edge. He didn't like talking about Harry—especially not with an audience watching his every move. Harry was private, off limits. The Head Girl should know better than to bring The Chosen One into the conversation lest she desire her innards strewn about Scotland.

“But if you—” protested a Hufflepuff girl he didn't know by name.

“No.”

“Whatever you know, Malfoy,” Longbottom pleaded, hands stuffed up his robe sleeves and visibly fidgeting beneath the wooly fabric. “Whatever you have to offer. We'd all appreciate it.”

“I don't need anyone in my debt.” Draco moved closer to the window. The group flowed him through the room, dogging him. They were Gryffindors, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs; no Slytherins, he noted, not surprised in the least.

“Please,” the Hufflepuff girl said, nervously stepping forward, “just teach us whatever you taught Harry. We can pick it up; we're all committed to learning. You'll get nothing but our best, we—”

“Spare me!” Draco snorted. “I'm not teaching you lot what I taught _him_.”

“Why not?” demanded the Weaslette, hands on her hips.

“Because you were teaching him to wield the Dark Arts, weren't you?” Luna proposed dreamily from beside the fiery red head. A few people turned to stare at her; the rest looked to Draco for confirmation.

“'No man defeats that which he does not first understand,'” Draco quoted from _The Art of War_. He doubted any of this lot had actually read it.

“You're really refusing to help us defend ourselves?” protested Michael Corner.

“I'm refusing to instruct a group of _children_ in the old ways,” Draco clarified. He felt his brow creeping up, a lecturing tone fighting his iced vocal chords. He pushed it all down, keeping his face impassive.“Yes. You have no business prying into that which you do not care to comprehend. Practice your Shielding and Patronus Charms—and pray you never find yourselves in a real battle. _That_ iswhat he wants, Granger. We're shut up here for a reason. Now off with you,” he shooed the little crowd with both hands as though he were herding sheep or any other small, dumb animal. “Go about your business.”

“Malfoy, please,” Granger pleaded even as a few of her companions gave up hope, turning toward the door with heads rightly hung. “What do we have to say or do to convince you to do this?”

“We'll take your prefects rounds,” the Hufflepuff girl offered with a last vestige of hope in her wide brown eyes. “No more walking around the drafty old castle at night.”

“That would be jus' plain irresponsible,” Draco mused churlishly, a finger on his chin, “as well as a clear dereliction of my duties as Head Boy. I couldn't possibly accept,” he smirked.

“We'll report your alcohol to McGonagall,” Weasley snapped, indicating the large collection of bottles and glassware on the side table by the drapes. The ginger's finger shook—probably with jealousy. Merlin knew Harry didn't send his mate gifts anymore.

Draco snorted. “She already knows, Woolenby. Proximity to The Boy Who Lived has its advantages, as I'm sure you're well aware.” The tall man stiffened visibly as Draco continued. He'd clearly touched a nerve—gone at it with a Cutting Curse, if the at-once affronted and forlorn look on the ginger's speckled face was anything to go by. “I've already gotten away with murder, so to speak.” There were some decidedly peckish looks at that—his casual reference to events surrounding the former Headmaster's untimely demise not more than a few months ago. “You can't bribe or blackmail me: I don't see any Slytherins amongst you. I'm not doing it.”

“Then we'll tell Harry!” Granger took a shot in the dark, cajoling and lion-badgering giving way to outright coercion. “He'll be awfully upset when he hears you don't want to help us out—especially when it's a security concern. You don't know what he's like when he's angry,” she cautioned with a shiver that wasn't entirely for show.

“On the contrary,” Draco smirked, grand and haughty, his eyes lighting up despite his best efforts to keep any emotion but disdain from his features. “I know full well. And please, do tell him. It's better when he's angry.”

Speculative looks abound; many heads met in startled whispers. Not everyone believed the rumors. Even those who'd heard it from Gryffindor witnesses had their doubts. It was a trifle unbelievable that the length of one summer was all it took to bring Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy from enemy camps to Loverville. Perhaps their public was considering the wrong 'length.' Draco kept his expression at an even smirk with a dash of devious. Let them gossip. Not as though it were any of their business, but the Dark Lord already knew about him and Harry and that was the one and only public that mattered. The population of Hogwarts was peanuts compared to what Harry faced. Draco took up a similar attitude.

“I'm not your Chosen One,” Draco articulated, slow and even. “I have no reason to go about doing good. The Sorting Hat placed me in Gryffindor, not my own scruples. I've no desire to set myself on display. What purpose could it possibly serve? Give me one good reason an' I'll do it.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Alright! Listen up, yeh bloody wankers!” Draco shouted over the din filling the Room of Requirement that Thursday night. Granger was flinching at every explicative that left his entitled pureblood mouth and it was utterly brilliant. She was powerless to stop him teaching, doing or saying whatever he wished. They all were. It was part of the agreement that convinced Draco to take up this mad project in the first place. Even the prefects were bound not to report him for anything that went on within their Defense Association meetings—Draco had refused, point blank, to register a club in his name called 'Dumbledore's Army.' There were some lines even he cared not to cross.

Granger whipped up a parchment with pleasantly dire consequences should any member of the school's newest club decide to spread knowledge of the Head Boy's teaching methods post-registration. After all, only a Mudblood with a point to prove would stoop so low as to cast a spell which did _that_ to a wizard's bollocks should he squeal.

Granger was either that stupid or that desperate—in his own estimation of the witch, Draco was leaning heavily towards desperate. Apparently the woman believed Draco held some innate power which Scarhead The Bumbling had tapped into. The little know-it-all wanted to share Draco Malfoy and his supposed power with the world. At most, she'd be getting a few dozen students limping out of the Room of Requirement in two hours' time, swearing up and down never to return. Draco couldn't help his grin.

He knew they were all there to look at him, to squabble and gossip like the small-minded creatures they were—let them. What could he possibly care? He started them out with Reductor Curses and was immediately disappointed. Stunners were an equally miserable experience—Longbottom managed to bounce one off the window, freezing himself in mid-step. Draco approached, hovering on tip-toe to speak in the bloke's ear.

“You are,” he enunciated very clearly, “a twit.” And, with two fingers, he bowled the fellow over. Longbottom doubled his efforts after that, brow furrowed, breaking a sweat as he dodged hexes from Weasley and Corner. It appeared Draco's vituperations had more of an effect on the lump of a Gryffindor than years of molly-coddling ever had.

Once Stunners were under control, Draco moved on to non-verbal spellwork. The holes in Hogwarts' cirriculum became abundently clear.

As he was explaining application of some more recent theory, the inevitable interruption came.

“Well,” Finch-Fletchley spoke up, a posturing gesture flicking his wand about. “When _Harry_ taught us, h—”

“Listen, you lot,” Draco growled angrily, his patience in shreds. “I am _not_ your Wonder Boy. I'm just shagging his brains out. Capiche?”

There was a moment of silence as the poor sods processed what had fallen from their Head Boy's flip mouth.

“Wot?” Finnigan spluttered.

“Fuck,” Draco whispered. Granger flinched at his language, quite unbefitting of a Head Boy but see if he cared. He shrugged off the hand she reached for his shoulder, attempting to draw him to the side of the room for the tonguelashing of a lifetime. Instead, he took a proud step toward the center of the room. He found something else to address—changing the subject. “Capiche.... Harry says it; it's muggle. It means 'do you understand?' If you do, you say 'capiche' back.”

“Capiche back,” Zacharian Smith shot back.

“Right!” Draco yelled, throwing a silent, screaming-orange Knockdown Jinx at the offending smart-ass. It took him right down. “Twenty points from Hufflepuff. And wha' has The Chosen One been teachin' ya wankers? Fuckin' hell, can one a' ya cast a Light Shield ter save yer pathetic, miserable lives? Good luck avoiding torture an' certain death.”

Now that he had their attention....

 

 

 

Hobbling and defeated, the newly reformed Defense Association escaped the Room of Requirement some hours later—Zacharias Smith barely remaining upright for the journey back to Hufflepuff, kindly friends burdened with the boy's weight on either side and practically dragging him through the halls, so eager were they to put distance between themselves and their Death Eater instructor. Malfoy had conjured up a man-high stack of Bludgers and began using undoubtedly Dark magic to hurl them at Smith two at a time. The speeding projectiles struck the Hufflepuff square between the legs, one right after another as Malfoy shouted, grinning from ear to ear with a manic gleam in his cold, cold eyes, "Learn to fucking block!"

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

A particularly droll Monday, like so many Mondays, found Draco in Professor Flitwick's music classroom—tucked away at the end of a seldom-traversed corridor on the fifth floor—the blond seated at the school's practice piano and rolling up his sleeves just-so. He had a ritual he followed, arriving several minutes early to greet each entering student with a stiff nod. He watched them take their seats, stowing bags and wands in the cubby holes provided and ordering the day's sheet music in their folders. This side of the castle caught the afternoon light in spectacular fashion, glittering off the lake's surface and sending beams of orange and yellow light throughout the room. Every corner was lit, flickers dancing along white school shirts and black robes as the students settled in.

Draco played a few chords, measures of tempered bullshit, tuning the old instrument with plumbed beats and twirls of his wand until he was perfectly in tune.

Professor Flitwick inclined that gray head to his ready assistant at the piano, rolling up his own sleeves far less gracefully as he mounted the stairs of his teaching podium. It took seven stairs to get the dwarf visible to his class. The room settled, light sliding over each waiting face. Draco had been surprised, at first, when so many students had turned out for the course but—and he should have suspected—it was an easy Pass, what with very few essays and no final exam to speak of. The Ravenclaws, especially, made a pretense at caring for the subtle nuances involved in the orchestration and performance of muggle music versus wizarding. But Draco knew the truth; the Gryffindors and Slytherins were there for the opposite sex, the Ravenclaws because they couldn't resist the call of the obscure, and the Hufflepuffs for the easy grade and inherent likability pinned to any person capable of carrying a tune.

Flitwick tapped his wand against his music stand, pages lifting into the air that he might read his notes while addressing the class. “We'll begin with our scales, everyone,” he piped up, bringing the last errant chatterers to a halt. “Mr. Malfoy, if you would be so kind. We'll start in C.”

Draco played a few scales, voices warbling along with him, until a Ravenclaw prefect Draco knew only as 'Huber' burst through the door unannounced. The girl went directly to Professor Flitwick, handing a bit of parchment up to his music stand. The girl departed immediately, two similar notes still tucked in her hand. Flitwick waved his fingers at Draco, telling him to stop the warm up exercise.

The professor's eyes scanned the half sheet of parchment, narrowing.

He turned to Draco. “I'm needed in the Headmistress' office, Mr. Malfoy. Just...” Flitwick wiggled his nose as though a bug had landed on it, bristles of his mustache scratching the underside of his nose—probably why the appendage was constantly red. He darted a look at the waiting classroom before declaring his orders. “Carry on. The Tavener, I think—and the Pärt, if you have time.”

Flitwick was gone in an instant, leaving two dozen curious faces watching Draco Malfoy, their fearless, feckless leader.

“Right, then.”

The notes were a flash of staccato, a flat scale to prepare them for the unusual tones of muggle John Tavner's choral score.

Malcolm Baddock raised a hand, voicing his complaint even as Draco very clearly ignored him, playing over the Slytherin.

“Malfoy!” the fellow complained. “You're playing it too fast.”

“Ve can't keep up,” added Král, a fifth year come over from Durmstrang.

Draco's hands stilled over the keys. Without looking up, he arched a single blonde brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“That's too fast,” Baddock repeated, looking about the room, trying to gain nods for his assertion. Most of the students looked petrified that the Slytherins were talking back to their Head Boy.

“See this?” quite carefully, Draco held up his left hand for all to see. A peek of the Mark showed under his rolled-up white shirt sleeve, the dark outline of ink obvious in the yellowish light of the room. He flexed his fingers, rolling them into a stark, blue-veined fist. “This hand has been broken thirty six times. If I can play it tha' fast, surely yer virgin vocal chords are up ter the task. Na shut up an' keep up.”

Several people spluttered aloud.

“You have got to be the most foul-mouthed Head Boy in the history of Hogwarts,” Baddock added, scowling.

Utterly unfazed, Draco shrugged. He played a tripping little tune running up the keys, terminating in a happy soprano _kerplunk_. “So long as Percy Weasley still holds the record fer most disagreeable, I believe can die happy.” And he began the next exercise, this one far more difficult than the last. “We're not here ta trade insults, Malcolm. Sing.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious – Translations of Moldovan/Romanian/Russian**  
>  _Valea_ – Go away  
>  _Mă leşi. Frate, vino aici._ – You've gotta be kidding me. Get over here, man.  
>  _Blya_ – shit/fuck/hell, literally “whore,” it's a very common curse word and mostly something to put at the beginning, middle, other middle and end of a sentence to show feeling or vehemence (Russian slang)  
>  _Ostyn' (oстынь), comesean_ – Chill out/Not at the table  
>  _Pizda_ – bitch/cunt  
>  _Tebya ne ebut, ti ne podmakhivai!_ – Mind your own God damn business; literally, “you're not getting fucked, so don't get up and squirm on my cock” (Russian slang)  
>  _Firtat_ – dude/bro/mate, an endearment meant for dear or childhood friends  
>  _Atita vlăstar blya mutante_ – No more mutant fucking offspring.  
>  _Prietene_ – buddy/friend, for a casual friend or acquaintance
> 
>  
> 
>  **A Point of Linguistics:**  
>  Most natives of Moldova will speak either the Moldovan dialect, Romanian or possibly Russian. In this section, Chern and Yura speak both Moldovan and Romanian between themselves but curse in Russian mat (slang). This demonstrates that they are well and roundly educated and have probably traveled the Black Sea area either through their professions or when visiting schoolmates from Durmstrang. Even though Hermione views them as a bit boorish, they are actually speaking four different languages in a single scene: I don't know many folks who are dumb as rocks and still manage to speak six languages fluently.  
> Two points to Hermione for being a bigger bigot than Ron. That takes skill.


	41. Beretta: I Couldn't Explain Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter goes walking far from home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Yes, this chapter took forever.****

 

 

“ _This message that I've been given_

_ Could have me drowned in the river _

_ And still I've gotta deliver it _

_ And I couldn’t explain why.” _

  
  


"I Couldn't Explain Why"

Clarence Greenwood

 

 

 

_There are two things in life one cannot avoid—death and taxes_. 

That was it. 

Leon sighed, shuffling reports and bills around the surface of his desk, looking for that one bit of parchment he could never find. Perhaps they should add paperwork to the list of unavoidables in this life—muggle, wizarding or otherwise. Leon's vision of hell included the Ministry of Magic, rows upon rows of desks and paperwork as far as the eye could see, little white parchment sheets billowing up and away with each spurt of fire and brimstone and a great whip cracking over his back, relentless until he bled out against the endless sweep of parchment and pain. Bureaucracy would suck the last breath from free thinking, be the end of creativity, the last of newness and the death of humanity. And this desk was hell on Earth. Or hell in Ohio, to be specific. 

He was about to shove everything off the side of his desk—lamp, laptop, unmoving photo of Charlene and Gideon, _everything—_ when Jenny's voice crackled through the intercom. It wasn't her voice that stopped him dead in his tracks so much as what the muggle girl said.

“Mr. Harper, there's a courier here all the way from England. Alastor Moody's assistant.” There was a snap as the girl's multi-ringed finger met the telephone receiver, muffling the conversation going on in the front office. A moment later, Jenny was back. “Sorry, _was_ his assistant.” Her tone made it clear what had happened to the old Auror, though as a muggle she'd never known the man and possessed not an inkling toward what he was—a few key Obliviations had seen to that. “Name's Potter. Should I send him back?” 

Leon gripped the edge of the desk as his heart stopped. One minute there was a steady thump in his chest and the next... nothing. Alastor, dead. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at large, the Ministry ransacked and Harry Potter in his front office? Alastor was... gone. How? And when? The airwaves between the US and magical Europe had been silent nearly a week now, floo and owl post completely cut off as the heart of the magical world reeled in war as it had less than twenty years ago. Maybe Potter had some answers—if this  _was_ Harry Potter and not some Death Eater ruse. It was exactly the sort of stunt the Death Eaters would have tried in the last war. If this fight was to be anything like the first, then fake Harry Potters were the least of anyone's worries.

Leon pressed the button for the intercom, speaking to Jenny at the front desk. 

“No, lass. I'll come up there. Hang on.”

The muggle intercom shut off with a crackle of static and the driest of clicks.

Leon had adopted these Americanisms to his speech over in the years since his move across the pond. It helped to blend in. That and the young folks stopping by the range now-a-days couldn't be bothered to muddle through what was left of his Irish lilt. Charlene liked it. So he spoke Yank in the office and was himself at home—a fair balance. Moderation was the key to most things in life.

He moved slowly, mindfully, drawing on his fingerless glove and taking up his pistol from the desk drawer. He cast silent spells, edging around the large stacks of boxes in his supply-crowded concrete bunker of an office. A few detection spells told him this supposed 'Potter' was alone but not unarmed. There were only Leon's own spells humming around the premises, only his wand and the intruding wizard's. 'Potter' hadn't performed magic in several hours—must've traveled here by car so as not to attract attention. Smart. Certainly not some pureblood Death Eater in disguise, then. Leon strode down the plain beige hall, passing the indoor range and ammo shop. There were only a few customers, just the regular gunpowder-junkies in for their daily fix on the way home from work. He paused before rounding the corner, still out of sight from the lobby, and released his safety. Sure it was just an ordinary CZ 85B nine millimeter pistol but, in combination, magic, bullets and an element of surprise could catch even the most well-trained wizard off guard. Weapons at his sides—muggle firearm holstered at his hip and unicorn-hair glove fitted tight over stout fingers—he pushed open the security door and stepped into the waiting area. 

Jenny sat at the counter behind bullet-proof glass, her window swung wide and hanging open—a clear breach of her safety protocols—in order to flirt with the young wizard standing in the lobby. He was a slight fellow, no more than five feet and four inches but quite athletic in his stance, suggesting a background of Quidditch and probably some long-distance running. He wore a pair of close-fitted jeans that displayed thick, muscular thighs, a rather fancy black leather jacket unzipped over a plain grey tee and a fraying canvas pack slung over one shoulder. His resemblance to James was striking—that wild inky hair framing a long face, strong, stubbled jaw and glasses resting on the end of a round nose—but he must have gotten his mother's eyes because they were a vivid emerald green instead of slick, muddy brown. He was a rakishly handsome little blighter even in the unforgiving halogen lights. The boy had a deep voice, with a sort of heft and calm of a man much older and wiser. He didn't seem to care much for Jenny's tittering; if anything, he appeared a tad uncomfortable, peeking sideways at the girl through dark lashes and generally looking less than engaged in her sparkling conversation, absently chewing the side of his upper lip as he waited, hands stuffed in his undoubtedly silk-lined jacket pockets and bright eyes roving the plain, unadorned waiting room as though he expected an attack at any moment. 

Leon came round the glass enclosure and into sight, holding out his gloved hand for the boy to shake. He kept his face impassive, letting the hard line of his brow do the talking. 

“Leon Harper.” 

“Pleasure,” the young man replied, his accent lightly south-of-London. “Harry Potter.” He gave Leon's hand a quick pump, his young grip calloused and unusually firm. And suddenly his face changed, green eyes narrowing behind smudged lenses as he drew his hand back. So the chap—whether he was Harry Potter or not—could recognize embedded Neutral Magics. 'Potter' took two stumbling steps back, hand flying to his jeans pocket where a long wand was nearly concealed. “Wot the—?” he spluttered, about to draw his weapon. 

“Sorry,” Leon said quickly, pointedly moving his eyes to indicate Jenny at his back. If this chap was truly The Boy Who Lived, he wouldn't pull his wand in front of a muggle—or an innocent. The real Harry Potter would be experienced in using code to talk about magic around muggles, having grown up in the non-magical world and toeing the line during his years at Hogwarts. This would be a good indication of whether this boy was the real deal... that and the Enemy Combatant Disabling Charm woven into Leon's glove, tripped when the other wizard's hand had made contact with the seemingly innocuous leather. 

'Potter' was a quick study. The boy flinched and shook his hand as though he'd received a static shock, shooting a little lop-sided grin Jenny's way. The girl went back to painting her fingernails with White-Out, oblivious to the sparks of magic let loose in the lobby. 

“No problem,” 'Potter' shrugged, reaching into his jacket while holding the older wizard's gaze. It was Leon's instinct to rest a hand on his gun, ready to draw. The young man produced a sealed parchment envelope from an inside pocket. “I have a letter from Alastor Moody. He was trying to get it to you the night he was murdered.” 

Eavesdropping, Jenny gasped. 

“When?” Leon asked quietly, angling his body away from his muggle employee. 

“Four days ago,” the teen replied, a hint of discomfort making his voice scraggly, harsh. “After the Ministry was attacked.” 

“You were with him, then?”

'Potter' nodded. Chunks of black fringe spilled over his eyebrows, falling between his glasses lenses and those blinking, flittering eyes. He brushed the hair away with a carefully aimed puff of air. 

“Happened right outside my house.”

Leon nodded. “It was... _His_ people?” 

'Potter' looked up, meeting his gaze with confidence. “Yes, sir. Philippe Didier was in charge.” 

“Not Laron Didier?” That was unusual—a real head-scratcher, that He Who Must Not Be Named would put a pup in charge of a skirmish with the likes of Alastor Moody. 

“The uncle?” 'Potter' confirmed. “I think he was there. The only other person I could identify was Amycus Carrow. It was dark. And they were after me, waiting at my house. Alastor just happened to be with me....”

This was more than Jenny needed to hear; Leon took a step back, opening his arm in a gesture towards his bunker at the back of the building. 

“Shall we talk in my office?”

“Sure thing.”

 

 

 

Leon ushered the boy into his concrete cave, closing the door smartly behind them. He turned.

“Am I supposed to believe you're Harry Potter, then?” he asked bluntly. 

The teenager blinked a moment before his face softened. 

“'Course not,” he shrugged with only one shoulder. The gesture smacked almost painfully of James. That half of a sad smile playing around the boy's lips was a carbon copy of the expression Auror Potter had worn the last few months of his life—knowing, resolute. Endlessly stubborn.

The smudges on the round, beaten up lenses of the boy's spectacles made his eyes murky, made green irises and the black of his pupils run together like a spinning marble seen through a Seer's crystal ball. Leon watched the boy's eyes flicker around the room, taking note of the single window in a wall of concrete, its standard, faded blue aluminum blinds pulled down against the setting sun... and against prying eyes from the employee parking lot beyond. 'Potter' reached for his trouser pocket, producing a wand of decent length and warmly-varnished holly, decorated up and down its length with the lad's fingerprints. If he wasn't mistaken, there were flecks of dirt and blood caught where the handle met shaft. The wand had seen battle recently, and perhaps the lad who bore it.

“Here,” and 'Potter' offered the wand, handle first, to Leon. “Check for yourself. The core is phoenix feather from Fawkes—that was Dumbledore's phoenix. Apparently Ollivander only made two wands with feathers donated from that particular bird. I'm sure you'll only need one guess as to who the other wand belongs to.” 

Leon grunted, rolling the instrument between his left ring finger and thumb. A brother wand to He Who Must Not Be Named, huh? Curiouser and curiouser.

“Doesn't prove anythin', son,” he answered, perhaps a bit gruffly. “You could've killed Potter and pocketed it off his corpse. Wouldn't be the first time someone got possession of another fella's wand.”

“True enough,” 'Potter' shrugged dismissively. He seemed to chew the inside of his cheek a moment, thinking. “There's probably only one way I can prove myself.” 

In response, Leon raised a careful brow. He kept the wand in-hand. 

“A Patronus Charm.” 

That wasn't the spell Leon was expecting to hear. But when he considered, it was a sensible thing—a defensive spell which would do no harm nor would it trip any of the buildings extensive wards. Even if the conjured Patronus was meant to convey a message to back-up lurking closer to town, Leon would be able to lock down the building's wards before the spell left his office. Finding no fault—and admittedly a bit curious as to what form if any the lad's wisp of smoke might take—he handed back the wand. 

“Have at it, then,” he muttered, flicking his gloved hand toward the window. A swift swish of metal and plastic closed the blind completely, shutting out the glimmer of sunlight previously lilting along the linoleum flooring. 

'Potter' didn't bother reaching for the light switch now that the room had darkened; instead, he widened his stance on the threadbare office carpet, digging in the balls of his sneakers as he shifted his weight forward. His eyes closed for a moment as his breathing slowed, an almost... enchanted look coming over his features. An appearance of peace flooded him—nearly lifted him chest-first from the earth. He seemed to rise, filling himself with the memories and magic necessary to cast a true, corporeal Patronus. White smoke burst from the tip of his wand, wind-tunneling into six and then eight distinct spikes—horns. There was a horned creature falling from the end of the boy's wand. 

With nowhere to go, the beast leapt up on Leon's desk, sending his papers everywhere. So much for finding that elusive bit of parchment he'd spent the better part of lunch rooting around for.

A stag. The animal was a great buck, maybe three hundred fifty pounds had it been made of flesh and bone instead of the magic of memories. 

Leon shut his mouth with a snap when he realized he was gaping. 'Potter' looked non-plused. 

“I don't get it,” Leon admitted. “Impressive, surely, but....” 

“You knew my father when he was around my age. Did you know his friend, Sirius Black?” the boy inquired passively, face angled down as he examined a bit of lint caught in the zipper of his jacket. “Remis Lupin? Or maybe Peter Pettigrew?” 

“Black and Pettigrew, yes.” 

“Then you know what they were like together,” 'Potter' said. “My dad was young when he started with the Auror Office. I'm guessing he and his friends were pretty green, probably hung around the office making a ruckus. That's what people say he was like when he was my age, anyway,” he shrugged. “I'm sure you heard the nicknames they had for each other, those four.” He gestured with his free hand, inviting Leon to fill in the gap. 

“Prongs.” 

Jagged, dusty pieces fell into place then. It was reported after his death that Black took the form of a large black dog. James must have been an illegal Animagus, too; his form, a mighty stag. James had called his surly friend 'Padfoot' back in the day. He remembered those fools running circles round the cubicles at the Ministry, having stolen a love-owl from some fellow's sweetheart and prancing around with their prize, dodging hexes and making a right mess of the place. They never quit, that lot—so full of energy and mirth. They'd had spirit. And that was something which couldn't be taught. Leon had taken James Potter on for that very reason. 

The young man before him had that same pluck—tempered, of course, by his mother's intelligence and genteel candor. With the things he knew and the things he did, this was Harry Potter. 

“Alright then,” Leon said, brushing at the parchments which had fallen to his chair. He shooed the hearty Patronus from his desk. It was with a clattering of hooves and the slide of wood that the creature returned to its master, dissolving into swirling, murky sparks which dissipated as soon as Potter adjusted the shade, bringing some light back into the room. 

Picking at dirt and adjusting curtains—the boy did these things manually, of course, having been raised by muggles. Leon made a mental note as he gestured for Potter to sit in the metal and canvas camp chair opposite his desk. This was Leon's private office rather than the one used for meeting with muggles or clients. It had once been a storage closet, buried back here at the end of the hall where no one ever ventured. This was where he kept his mess, his essence. No one disturbed him here. They knew better. He settled behind his desk, kicking his boots up on the corner, dragging the piece of furniture back where it belonged by the heels of his heavy workmans boots and folding his hands over his paunchy stomach. 

“I assume you've come to me for something.” 

After stowing his wand, Potter's hands returned to his back pockets even as he sat. “Yes. I reckoned Alastor would have wanted me to bring you the letter.” 

“But that's not why _you're_ here.” 

“I beg your pardon?” Black brows scrunched, etching miniscule lines across his smooth caramel brow. Oh, to be young. 

“An owl can deliver a letter. And you, lad, are no post owl.” He fixed the handsome teen with a look. 

“You haven't even looked at it,” Potter said, avoiding the true subject at hand. 

“I'm sure it will say something of you and your aims,” Leon bobbed his head, surveying the boy from well-worn trainers to messy bed-head. “So tell me. I'm in no mood to hear words from beyond the veil.” 

Leon took the letter from his back pocket and slapped it to the desk. The paper spun off to the side, catching itself under the lip of his laptop and there it stayed. He didn't want to touch the thing, wanted nothing to do with it. As though the aches and pain of age weren't enough; to be so close to death was not a thought he welcomed.

“I...” Potter glanced up and to his left, beseeching the heavens as though they might give him words. “The Minister of Magic, Scrimgeour. He's been gunning for me since last year. He wanted a poster boy and I wouldn't do it. For whatever reason, people have faith in me—they believe that I can stop Voldemort once and for all. And whether or not I can do that, I won't let the Minister use me for political gain. I won't stand up in some conference room and shake his hand so people will think I support his office—because I don't.” 

“When I was eleven and I first heard about the Office of Misinformation, I thought it was funny. Now it's not such a joke. The Ministry really isn't about giving people the truth; at least, they haven't been for a long time. They're all scrambled, doling out fear and the occasional outright lie along with their so-called 'information.' When Voldemort came back, all Fudge wanted to do was cover it up. And it's been one lie and scheme after another when it comes to my dealings with the Ministry. They're worse than a bunch of girls—and I had a bird try an' slip me a love potion my sixth year, if that gives you any idea.” 

“I know you've taken issue with the Ministry. I think Alastor recognized that we have that in common... along with some of our 'unorthodox' methods, I've been told. I need someone to work with—someone I can trust. The Ministry's in serious trouble and if the last war has taught us anything, the Ministry reincarnate—a Ministry born in war—is likely to be even worse than the last. I don't want to be a part of that. I don't want to be anywhere near it.” 

“I've seen that, the more groups organize and march as one against the Death Eaters, the more mercilessly they're cut down. I don't want that to happen to me, to the people who've allied themselves with me thus far and the many more who might yet join the fight if we come at it right.” The boy's eyes lit up. He was a man on a mission, a man with a vision. Behind that childish face and stubble-strewn jaw lay an honest tongue and a ready mind. Potter was the kind of man who wouldn't stop, wouldn't rest or eat or sleep until he knew the world was safe. All of it. Men like him died bellowing, waving a bloodied sword above their heads. But Potter was different—no less passionate, no less determined, but cutting and calculated in a way which was almost... Slytherin. The boy knew he only had one shot and he wanted more than anything to make it count. “This needs to be a guerrilla affair—underground, in the night, coming from the darkness without warning and slipping away just as quiet. That's the only way I can see this working. We hit Voldemort while he's distracted, while he's got the Ministry in his trap and he's toying with them. We get in there, hit him fast and hard... and it could be over before anyone else has to die like my parents did.” 

“This doesn't have to drag on for years. We can end it. But we have to do something now, while there's still a chance to catch him with his back turned.” 

A tingle ran up Leon's spine as the boy spoke, drawing him up in his seat until he was rigid in attention. 

“Couldn't have put it better myself.”

 

 

They went back and forth for the better part of two hours—the Ministry's manhandling of people and information, the lack of international communication and the ineffectiveness of large-group strategy against the Death Eaters. The boy told him about the events in Spain, the synchronized attacks on safe-houses, the Ministry, _The Prophet—_ everyone; the flight of the wounded into the mountains, huddled in the cold just to escape for a single night. They rehashed the suspicious death of Arnett Didier; his only son rising in the Death Eater ranks shortly after surely held dark and unknowable significance. It really looked as though, every time a group of individuals got together to oppose He Who Must Not Be Named, every time there was a whisper of insubordination among the ranks of the Death Eaters or a politician spoke out against the rising darkness, blood would run in the streets. Potter was right. In order to fight, they had to remain invisible. The Ministry was already You-Know-Who's primary target. Let the Dark Lord focus his attention while invisible forces mounted in the shadows, ready to strike at a moments notice and then dissolve like Potter's Patronus, as though they'd never been there. 

He begged the boy not to use The Name. He explained about the Tracer Spells used in the last war. But it seemed a habit, as if by naming the thing the lad dispelled some of the frightening myth behind it. Leon still got the shivers whenever he heard that gathering of vowels and consonants strung together like ominous, ever-dissonant chords. It wasn't too long ago when he'd imagined they might never hear that name again. 

He glanced at the time on his laptop where he'd been making notes. 

“ _A Dhia mhóir!_ _Cher_ 's gonna kill me.” Leon pushed his papers into a disordered pile, vowing to deal with them in the morning. He paused when Potter raised a brow. 

“I haven't kept you?” the boy asked earnestly. 

“No, no. My wife, Charlene. I told her I'd be home for dinner at some kind of reasonable hour,” and he glanced at the clock again. “She'll understand.” Leon looked Harry Potter over once more, lingering at the bag slung over the lad's shoulder and the classy jacket still covering his shoulders, just a feathering of dust at the shoulders from the surrounding country roads. He'd rode in with the windows down—the yellow-white stone dust lingered at his temples where the wind had swept it into disarray. “Where you staying? I can set you as far as Euclid.” 

Potter looked sheepish. “I hadn't arranged for the night yet. If you know of any hotels—”

“Nonsense,” Leon cut him off right there. “You'll stay with us.” 

“I wouldn't want to inconvenience you.” The boy's watchful eyes took in the way Leon shuffled his papers, slammed his laptop and jammed his pens into their Kent State mug. 

“Not to worry. My wife will be _delighted_ to meet you.” And he stood, slamming a desk drawer shut with his hip as he went. He waggled his brows at the boy. “Hope you don't mind, my truck's a right mess.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Leon Harper hadn't lied—his truck was a ruddy pig sty. Fast food wrappers, empty soda cans and crunched-up paperwork discolored with age and exposure littered the floor until the shade of the upholstery was indistinguishable, the lights of the car park shut off for the night and only the automobile's wavering dome light to show where a bench seat and safety belts lay hidden beneath... _stuff_. Harry made out the shapes of clip boards and a construction hat, what appeared to be a broken cricket bat and a big book with fabric samples. It was the strangest amalgamation of junk Harry had ever seen. And Mr. Harper swept it all into his backseat without a care, slapping the seat and urging Harry to get in before the mosquitoes ate him alive. 

The little bugs were biting the hell out of his neck worse than Grindelows at the bottom of the Hogwarts lake. So Harry gave in, using the door handle, the pick-up's runner and a firm grip on the fabric seat in order to boost himself up into the vehicle. The truck was unusually high up in the air, its tires large and imposing, the body boosted up in the air as though about to trundle off to war out there in the stretched-out countryside beyond. The thing gave a tremendous rattle as Mr. Harper twisted the ignition and feathered the gas. The truck was old—probably older than Harry himself—but from the sound barreling from the engine, Harry guessed it ran just fine. 

Leon pulled out of the car park and onto the main road, heading away from town, where Harry's cab had come from a few short hours before. They passed fields and farmhouses, pastures which wreaked so badly of manure that Harry had to hold his breath. Swarms of bugs like steamy storm clouds hovered over the road, parted like a waterfall by the headlights of Leon's Ford. Out in the farmlands, wild animals scuttled through the high grass and cornfields, disappearing into the distant patches of woods with hoots and clicking, cackling calls. They were driving too fast for the pervasive bugs to fly in through the windows. Leon stuck a hand out the window, flexing his stout fingers in the wind as he croaked along to the song on the radio. 

“ _Go an' tell that long tongue liar, go an' tell that midnight rider, tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter—tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down_.”

They hit a bump in the road, trundling from dirt to pavement. The last of the gravel cracked beneath the pick-up's tires, flying out behind them, spat out in their wake. Harry watched a patch of houses on the horizon—all clumped together, mansions of modern stucco with gleaming two-story windows and pretty, manicured landscaping. There was a petrol station at the development's edge, nice cars fluttering around it like lightning bugs at a muggle light bulb, buzzing around in the night. 

Leon slowed as they approached the edge of town, sailing through the stoplight and down a countrified main street of sweet little floral shops, jewelers and pharmacies and services all encased in rustic wood shingles, whitewashed and gentrified. Every car they passed gleamed in the darkness, the green of traffic lights and the sunrise yellow-orange of streetlights making streaks of color stretch across their smooth, pearly paint-jobs. People waved at Leon as he rode past—muggles, Harry guessed. They all looked quite proper, with buttoned shirts, fancy hair cuts and sparkling silver watches—no tutus or Halloween costumes, just the relaxed linens, cashmere and silks of the wealthy at rest. 

At a red light, Leon pulled a mobile from his pocket, mouthing along with the last dregs of the radio as he pressed a few buttons and then held the flip phone to his ear. He listened for a few rings and then gave up with a sigh, tossing the phone back onto the debris-covered seat between them. A nearby pizzeria flashed “Open” in red and blue neon, mingling with the reds and yellows of the traffic light. The shades played harsh games with the lines of the old man's face, colors collecting in his salt and pepper hair, splaying out over his light checkered shirt, points of light reflecting off the pearly snaps stretched over a portly stomach which nearly touched the steering wheel. Features sagging in age and worked over with time-worn scars, Leon looked a bit like a tired old goblin hunched over a Gringotts desk, ornery and awaiting the future with grim resolution. The truck's cabin lit up in green as the light changed. Leon hummed his approval, tapping the gas.

Over a cobbled old bridge and a meandering brook which couldn't quite be called a river, they came into a quiet no through road or “cul-de-sac” of a neighborhood. Trees lined each drive in an easy wave, shielding the houses from the main road as they melted into natural woods. Peeks of warm light shone through the bare trunks of fire-shaded aspen, maple and speckle-barked birch. Leon took the center drive, the most thickly wooded and secluded of all, his pick up truck bumping along down the driveway in a steady sway. Overhanging branches slapped at the truck's metal roof and sides like birds trying to gain entrance through a closed window. 

The house came into view around a bend of trees—a pleasant two-story structure of old tan stone with a turret at the center, fall flower beds lining the walkway and a newer-built garage tacked onto the side. As soon as Leon killed the engine, Harry heard a rush of water from the backyard, echoing off the stone of the house—the creek they'd crossed, meandering its way through the backyard. The house looked old—a hundred years or more but immaculately kept and painstakingly renovated over the years. If it weren't for the garage and the very personalized sculptures of angels and metal-and-glass butterflies scattered throughout the garden, Harry might've thought the building was some sort of members-only club rather than a private residence. Stained glass sparkled in the lower windows, offering glimpses of dark wood fixtures and the heavy, comfortable furniture kept within.

Leon had parked his truck in the garage beside a large navy SUV. He and Harry got out of the car, Harry following in his wake to the utilitarian white door leading into the house.

“Would you wait here a moment?” Leon asked, a hand on the doorknob. “I want to let my wife know you're here.” And he snorted. “Seers don't like surprises.”

Harry nodded. It gave him a moment to survey the contents of the garage—perhaps slightly more organized than the jumbled and haphazard contents of Leon's truck and office, but only just. There were shelving units almost utilized, tools hung crookedly on pegs, dirty rags left everywhere and great collections of junk in semi-tidy but dangerously teetering piles. Hermione and Madam Pince would cringe. But Harry suspected that Leon sat in the middle of it all, Summoning what he needed and shooting out Stasis Spells to catch anything delicate before it fell. Rather than ordering the disorder, Leon was the sort to park himself at the very center of the chaos and revel in it.

Near the doorway to the house sat the recognizable skeleton of a motorbike, similar to the one belonging to Sirius which Harry kept, similarly dismantled though probably less knowingly, in the empty dining room back at Grimmauld Place. He'd stepped closer to examine the shifting gears when he picked up muffled conversation from the other side of the wall. 

Leon's wife was a crumbly voice, dark-sugared like the coffee cake he always spotted through the lace-curtained windows of Madame Puddifoot's. She had a southern accent shot through with French, dropping the 'H' and a few other letters like Fleur Delacour and her family. Mrs. Harper's diction was drizzle in the crags of her husband's interjections, getting louder as she came toward the door separating the old house from its newer addition. 

With a flick of the wand, her figure was illuminated in the doorway—thicker than Mrs. Weasley though taller, round-faced and with a splash of wavy blonde hair piled on top of her head, held loosely in place with a red lacquered clip in a shade to match her painted fingernails. Her blouse was splashed with red and orange poppies, water-colored and weepy, with bone-colored trousers rolled up to her knees and bare feet, blueish spider veins at her ankles brought to light as she twitched her wand again, bringing up the lights in the two-car garage. 

“An' you leave him out 'ere in the dark, the poor thing,” she called over her shoulder, scolding Leon even as she descended the half flight of stairs down to the garage floor. “He'll think no one wants him. 'Ow long you been travelin', dearie?”

“Er,” Harry fumbled. Mrs. Harper was a strong personality, squinted brown eyes drawn even tighter against the unforgiving light of the utilitarian garage as she regarded her impromptu house guest. “Just the day. Since the afternoon, really. Time difference from England,” Harry shrugged, ending his awkward little speech before it could get worse. 

“I'm Charlene. And I 'ave dinner on the stove,” she smiled, sending wrinkles shooting out across her face. She was perhaps fifty five to Leon's seventy-some. “I 'ope you like _étouffée_.”

Harry swallowed, throat gone brittle and taut. Even the mention of a strikingly French word reminded him of Draco. Dry-mouthed and vaguely watery-eyed, he worked at the persistent lump in his throat. Mrs. Harper noticed his eyes stray to the motorcycle propped against the wall. Her conversation followed his gaze.

“Leon thinks 'ee can fix it yet,” she said, pondering the bike as well with her arms folded under her ample bosom. Her husband appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Though the maker went bankrupt years ago an' there's been no luck finding any useable cast-offs 'round these parts. Tell 'Arry what happened last time you flew it,” she teased. 

“Splinched my feet off in front of near a dozen muggles,” Leon chuckled under his breath—a wheezy sound blending with the country winds through drying fall leaves and the babbling of the stream.

“Thought 'ee could prove the folks at Triumph wrong an' build an Apparition-compatible auto.” She shook her head fondly. A few tendrils of blonde came untucked from her hair clip. There was just a touch of white at her temples, visible in the brightness of plain, unadorned utility bulbs.

“Leave me my dreams, _cher_ ,” Leon teased. 

The couple showed him inside for dinner, a faint but steady, rhythmic _peep_ guiding them through the maze of old, odd rooms to the window-studded kitchen at the back of the house. Mrs. Harper waved her wand, silencing the incessant sound which had been coming from her oven. Harry quirked a brow at Leon. 

“Integration's different here, lad,” the man provided, speaking of the mixing of magic with muggle objects like microwaves and curling irons. Mrs. Harper flicked her wand at the refrigerator and other appliances, orchestrating the setting of an extra place at the table and the stirring of a pot on the stove, an opened pony-necked beer finding its way to her husband's hand with a sly Levitation Charm. A slow smile curled the old man's lips. “It's not like England—their Ministry's the worst. Stuck in quite the rut. Can barely handle the Wizarding Wireless, last I heard.”

“Leon, please, no politics at the table,” Charlene tutted, swigging happily from her husband's beer as she waltzed by. Her bare feet were light on the worn floorboards, following a familiar track as she tidied odds and ends, preparing her home for company.

They sat down for a pleasant dinner, Mrs. Harper ribbing her husband for Harry's amusement. She had many questions for Harry about Hogwarts, having never been to the castle herself. Apparently Leon told such wild stories of his school days—musical suits of armor, headless ghosts, giant squids and a Poltergeist gone mad—Charlene always thought her husband was engorging the truth. Harry confirmed the tales between extra helpings of her spicy-yet-sweet cooking. 

“You know,” Leon spoke, fork gesturing at his wife's ample backside as she reached into the refrigerator, fetching him a second beer. “I heard from Arty today—wants me to haul the whole bloody crew up there before the week is out, double-check the wards and tighten up security. Apparently,” a bushy brow was raised quite meaningfully, as though his wife had eyes in the back of her head with which to note his expression. “A few key parties remain... concerned.” 

Charlene's hand settled at her hip, blonde head cocked to one side, the beer clamped tight beneath her lacquered fingernails as she regarded both her husband and the young man beside him at the kitchen table. 

“Again?” she sighed. Catching Harry's blank expression, she explained, “'Arty' is Ferrard Lachlan, dear. 'Ee—” 

“Owns the Stonewall Stormers,” Harry put in, nodding. “Yeah, I've heard of him.” 

Charlene smiled weakly, setting the green bottle before her husband. She dropped into her seat, leaning against the wicker chair-back until it creaked slightly. It seemed she didn't want her husband to go. Harry got the impression Leon was traveling more of late and his wife didn't appreciate his being away so often. “Art and Leon were at 'Ogwarts together. A year apart, of course, but they always scheduled their prefect rounds together. They were quite the mischief-fighting team. A Slytherin and a 'Ufflepuff—can you imagine?” She nudged playfully. 

“We found common ground chasing Ludo Bagman 'round the castle most nights,” Leon reminisced. He scooped up his beer, peering into the past. “Young thing he was, then, and a troublemaker! Suppose some people never change. Art an' I used to catch that little shit in the deepest of pickles....”

“Sounds like the Bagman I know,” Harry snorted into his water glass.

Charlene laid a hand on her husband's forearm. “Tell him how you met Arty,” she said softly. 

Leon nearly recoiled: Harry heard the old man's foot collide with the table leg as he jerked, stunned by the sudden mention of that particular memory. He shook his head. 

“'Arry should know,” Charlene insisted, red nails tightening ever-so-slightly on her husband's arm, holding him more with her ardent gaze than her polished hand. 

Leon's voice was gruff when he spoke. “Bit of a bully problem in Slytherin. One of the older boys had it in for Arty.”

Charlene cleared her throat. There was a look of utter concentration on her face, as though she were willing her husband to tell the truth telepathically. 

“Art was a bit of a runt, yeh see,” Leon continued, taking both his wife's hands in his. “Gang of sixth and seventh years decided he was an easy target, gave him a rough time of it. I was only in my second year but... I couldn't stand seein' them go after Arty like that—house loyalty or not. I put the memories in my Pensive and marched straight to Headmaster Dippet's office. I knew he wouldn't believe me otherwise.” 

Charlene's manicured fingers twined around Leon's, squeezing gently. She had her eyes closed, as though she could see her husband's memories inside her own head. Her face was pained, full of worry and sadness. It was a moment before Leon spoke again. 

“Tom,” he said slowly. “Tom Riddle. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.” Leon swallowed heavily, shaking the dark, niggling things from his shoulders before he went on. “No one knew what he would become—how could we? The signs... they came later. He was Dippet's Golden Boy back then. Ole Tom could do no wrong. Dippet didn't believe me at first, nearly resorted to Veritaserum. But the memories were irrefutable. Riddle and his gang got a month's worth of detentions. And Arty attached himself like a barnacle on my back after that,” a brusk little laugh snuck through, twitching Leon's bristly mustache, a tiny but happy memory shining through all that looming darkness. “I felt bad for him, taught him to stick up for himself. Not exactly in a Hufflepuff's nature but eventually he got the hang of it.” 

“Art is a very peaceful man,” Charlene added, nodding. 

“But stubborn. Likes to do things his own way,” added Leon. There was a hint of a smile peeking out from under the tips of his white mustache. 

“So he's one of the ones with concerns about the Stormers security?” Harry inferred. “With more players coming in every day, I can see why he might be worried. I mean, he's taking responsibility for a lot of lives. People are counting on him. I'm sure he wants security to be as tight as possible, with families coming and everything.” 

Leon stared at Harry, his mouth ever-so-slightly open. “You know about the sanctuary?” he spluttered.

“I have a friend heading up there,” Harry offered with a shrug. “I didn't know it was top secret.” 

“It isn't,” Charlene reassured him from across the table. “It's just that... Arty 'asn't really put the word out yet. 'Ee doesn't feel the facility is ready yet.” 

“Old military base in Manitoba, Canada,” Leon explained. “We scouted it a few years ago as a potential training facility for the Stormers—plenty of buildings, out of the way and the muggles were selling it for a song. Nothing's been done with it for ages, though. Arty was wary of inviting anybody in but, after the attacks in September, he realized it was the right thing to do. Ministries attacked—radio, floo and papers down—people are bound to be scared senseless. A few dilapidated buildings and _Repello Muggletum_ isn't much reassurance to offer.” 

Harry set his fork on his plate as quietly as he could. He spoke to the leftover bits of onion and yellow rice sticking to the painted white porcelain. “Sounds like he just wants to protect people, keep them safe and away from the fighting. I can understand that.” 

Harry had had the same idea in sending Ron, Hermione and Draco to Hogwarts—easily the most well-fortified magical building in all of Europe. He thought they would be safe there. But the battle had come to their door. He understood more keenly than most what Mr. Lachlan was going through. And the man was starting from scratch with that muggle military base. It was probably just barracks, training areas, an armory and perhaps a medical building, missing all the accoutrements of a magical place like Hogwarts or Diagon Alley. Every magical fortification would have to be constructed from the ground up. Stubborn or not, Ferrand Lachlan would need all the help he could get. 

Charlene's beer was half-way to her pursed lips when an idea struck her. She pointed between Harry and Leon with her bottle's neck, the fat of her under-arm swaying beneath her flowered blouse as she gestured. 

“Lee, you should bring 'Arry to Manitoba,” she said. “If you'll still be in town, of course,” she added to Harry as an afterthought. “I'm sure you're eager to see what it is Leon an' the team do... an' you can see your friend.” 

Harry looked to Mr. Harper. The old man was chewing the inside of his cheek in thought. After a moment, the old man asked, “This friend of yours—Viktor Krum, from the Triwizard Tournament?” 

Harry shook his head. “I didn't know Viktor was a part of this. My friend is Viktor Novikov—Vitya. He played for Ukraine National.” 

Leon slapped his thigh in recognition. “ _Novikov!_ Eastern Quidditch League's top-scoring Chaser two years running! Heard he was a shoe-in to captain the new Omsk Optiones... well, before he disappeared last year. _Quidditch Monthly_ swears he's dead.”

“Undergound,” Harry corrected after swallowing a sip of water. “Vitya has Death Eaters in the family. When they started pressuring him, he ran.” 

“Smart lad,” Leon clanked beers with his wife. Charlene seemed troubled as she drank.

“I'm sure you've 'ad a very long day,” she said in a distant voice, eyes unfocused. She looked a little dreamy, like Luna Lovegood, the way her wavy blonde locks extended out from her head in a gentle frame. Raddish earrings wouldn't be too far off, either. Mrs. Harper took half a dozen silent, mindless sips from her drink before rising. “Let me make up a room for you, 'Arry.” 

They listened as her bare feet padded down the hallway—listened until she was out of hearing, a door latch snicking behind her. Leon looked about to voice a thought. Each time his mouth would open, flap listlessly a moment or two before he slipped his beer bottle between his lips. When his was empty, he started on his wife's. Harry supposed that whatever Leon had to say to him would probably have to wait until morning. Mr. Harper wasn't exactly young and by the looks of him, he'd had a very stressful time of it the last few weeks. He could do with a good night's rest. 

“I'll... see if Mrs. Harper needs a hand with anything,” Harry announced awkwardly, pushing himself away from the table. Leon grunted in ascent. Harry watched as the gray-haired man flicked his fingers at the dishes; they jumped up from the table to make their way into a muggle dish washer, Summoned as though the fingerless leather glove on his hand were a wand. 

Harry was tempted to say something. Ultimately, he kept his mouth shut. Leon was rising from the table, too, offering a simple handshake before inviting him down the hall after Charlene. 

The glimpses Harry caught of the Harpers' decorative style was eccentric, a mix of country patterns and rich leathers, knick-knacks, moving photographs and oddly-shaped magical artifacts occupying almost every available display surface. Every bookshelf, wall-panel and cupboard was crammed full with this and that, the entire house filled with ephemera and memories. Mrs. Harper was a diligent housekeeper. Harry spotted two independent vacuuming spells in the time it took to go from the eat-in kitchen to the sleeping quarters on the second floor. 

“End of the hall, there... on the right,” Leon pointed, yawning as the words left his mouth. Harry could spot a few golden fillings in the yellow lamp-light. The walls were done in a rich, waist-high wood paneling with green paint above, artfully swirled in a pattern that suggested leaves and wind and the naturalness of the outdoors. The table at the end of the hall was made from a knotty, twisted tree trunk, polished to a mirror shine. Wiring had been run through the center of the trunk, little lights appearing in the holes where larger branches had been sawed away. Charlene had hung leaves made of colored glass from different sections of the trunk, giving the appearance of clusters of sparkly leaves. A mild Oscillation Charm to each leaf gave off the illusion of wind blowing past the tree, shaking the leaves. The picture was nothing short of magical. 

Mrs. Harper bustled out from a room at the end of the hall, wand in hand. Her jaw wobbled at the bottom of her round face, teeth clenching and unclenching as she neared. She placed a less-than-steady hand to his shoulder. 

“Let us know if you need anything, 'Arry. Bathroom is across the 'all.” 

With a whiff of beer and flower-petal perfume, she disappeared through the double doors to the master suite. They closed by magic behind her, leaving Harry alone in the hall.

Curious, Harry peered around the heavy door frame, into the room Mrs. Harper had prepared for him. 

It wasn't at all what he was expecting. Tree trunks wove in and out of the walls, with branches all along the ceiling to form a canopy of green. The bark was lacquered like the tree-lamp in the hall, except these branches didn't glow. They were natural and dark, like an indoor forest. Beyond the thick, lush-looking leaves was a ceiling enchanted like Hogwarts' Great Hall, stars twinkling and night clouds scuttling by. A double bed seemed to fold out from the trees, its frame made of the same heavy, bark-covered wood as the trees that dominated the walls. Tucked between the trunks were nooks and crannies, sections cut into the wall to hold pictures and precious items—books, several faded leather Quaffles, a pair of golden Omnioculars, a baseball glove. 

This was a family member's room. 

Harry made his way to the dresser, dropping his bag on a navy arm chair with half the tree-wall grown around it, like a back yard oak creeping its way around a fence post, absorbing it over the course of decades. Harry suspected the trees in this room had had some magical help in taking over. The top of the dresser was dominated by two silver trophies—one from The Junior Potioneers Society of North America, a cauldron perched on top that actually gave off puffs of silvery steam. The other was a broomstick hovering over a yellow and blue striped pillar, stars streaming from its tail. The plaque displayed in swirling engraved lettering, “Salem Witches Institute, Fifth Year Quidditch League, Most Valuable Player.”

Between the awards sat a single picture in a dark wooden frame. A boy of fifteen or sixteen beamed up at Harry, navy Quidditch robes displaying a tall, lanky form, mates' arms thrown over both his very bony shoulders. Wavy golden hair blew over the fellow's eyes and he brushed it away, favoring Harry with an even larger, genuine smile. He had Charlene's smart, no-nonsence disposition. You could read it in the way he cocked his head, the glimmer of annoyance each time the wind mussed his hair or a celebrating mate trod on his foot. Leon's intelligence and bone-dry humour lingered in the jovial, vaguely devious expression etched forever on his long, fair face. Behind him, a girl of about the same age hoisted a Quidditch trophy into the air, eliciting silent cheers from her teammates. The blond boy had a smile that crinkled his cheeks into two well-defined dimples, happy wrinkles shooting out from his eyes as he squinted against the sun.

Harry looked around the room once more, absorbing each detail more carefully this time. In every picture, the young man was sixteen or younger. After this Quidditch match, the photos seemed to stop completely, leaving Harry with a very unpleasant feeling deep in his chest. The entire room was a sort of museum—preserved, lights dimmed, fixed and unchanging. Even the bed, made up with pale blue sheets, lay crisp and unused. There was just one spot, right at the edge, that sagged; a depression exactly the size of Mrs. Harper's ample rear end. The dip in the mattress faced a photo of the young blond—no more than twelve years old and thin as a waif—standing on a riverbank with his father, fishing rods in hand and a large trout held proudly between them. 

Harry sat on the bed, looking up at the photo as Charlene would. It sat alone on the shelf, bark and feathery leaves forming a kind of shrine around the happy, idyllic image. Inside the frame, a brown-haired Leon was grinning, his son waving enthusiastically, the fish dripping.

A silver box of tissues sat rather conveniently on the bedside table—a stump grown out of the wall, as though it had risen out of the mossy ground, grown up from Mrs. Harper's tears.

 

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMERS:**  
>  \- “I Couldn't Explain Why” written and performed by Clarence Greenwood (stage name Citizen Cope). Released by his label, RainWater Recordings, Inc., February 2010.  
> \- The lyrics from the radio are a traditional American folk song, “God's Gonna Cut You Down” or, alternatively “Run On For A Long Time.” The version I had in mind is Johnny Cash's from _A Hundred Highways,_ Lost Highway Records, 2006.


	42. Beretta: Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter gets acquainted with Leon Harper's work.

 

 

“ _Baby, I've got silver and I've got gold_

_but when push comes to shove, this is getting old._

_I wouldn't have it any other way._

_No, I wouldn't have it any other way._

 

_And when you call I'll be there._

_I wouldn't have it any other way.”_

 

"Shift"

Grizzly Bear

 

 

They screamed—both of them. The powder blue pickup actually tilted, millimeters shy of tipping into the ditch before Leon grabbed the wheel and adjusted their course. 

“Eyes on the road, lad!” he shouted in his gruff Irish accent. 

Harry's heart thundered in his chest. Driving an automobile was nothing like a broomstick—or even riding a Thestral, Hippogryff or Granian. There were too many gears and levers, too many things demanding his attention with their incessant beeping and blinking. He hadn't been in a car in what felt like ages, spending most of his time in the magical world, the Ministry of Magic, number twelve Grimmauld and that ridiculously happy, wonderland place his brain occupied every time Draco was in the room. The truck's turn signals looked foreign to his eyes... and it wasn't that they were American. The dry, cracking, chipped-away leather of the steering wheel felt unusual under his fingers, the terrain stretched out before his eyes uncharted and strange. Of course he'd looked down at the stick shift when it came time to change the pickup's gear. 

“Sorry!” Harry gasped. “Reckon I should memorize the order of these,” and he patted the manual transmission shifter under his right palm. Americans had to drive on the wrong side of the road, too. He was completely off his game. 

Leon put his head on the dashboard as they trundled along. Harry couldn't spare the old man more than a passing glance, his eyes now glued to the dirt road. 

“Yeh've really never driven a car before,” Leon said softly. It was more of a groan.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” 

Leon snorted. “Though yeh were kiddin'.”

Harry tightened his hands on the wheel. He could barely see over it. “Nope.”

 

 

 

Mr. Harper's mobile rang as they pulled into the car park of his shooting range. To his credit, the man's thick-veined hand didn't shake at all as he held the muggle device to his ear: Harry had nearly driven them off the road another half-dozen times on that same stretch of country road. They were lucky it was late morning and no one was about. There'd been quite a bit of bellowing. Harry craned his neck, throat bone-dry, minding his mirrors as he backed the pickup into Leon's reserved parking spot. 

Mrs. Harper's voice could be heard through the tiny receiver. She had music on at home and spoke loudly over the sound. She asked Leon whether they'd arrived in one piece.

Leon closed his eyes, dry-washing a hand down his face before brushing the bristles of his mustache, pressing them down at the corners of his mouth. “Feared for me life, _cher_.”

She laughed. 

“Headin' inta the office now. Ta.” 

As Leon shut the little flip phone, Harry could hear Charlene, still laughing, chirp something about “take it easy on that boy, Leon.” Mr. Harper stowed the phone in a holster at his hip, right next to the empty rung which was presumably for his gun. He gestured for Harry to lock the car door on his way down. 

Mr. Harper breezed through the sterile entryway, offering a half-bored wave to the girl behind the bullet-proof glass. She was reading a magazine and barely glanced up to wish her boss a good morning as he walked by. She did a double-take, chewing her pink bubblegum like a cow chewing its cud, watching the dark-haired young man trailing behind Leon Harper, twirling a ring of car keys around his finger as he went. 

“Oh. You remember Mr. Potter from yesterday,” Leon said offhandedly, pointing back at Harry, knowing the girl already had both eyes fixed on the handsome blighter. She leaned her chin against her hand, mooning over his rugged, boyish charm. “He'll be contracting with us fer a few weeks.” 

The girl perked up perceptibly, scrambling for a pen. She eyed Harry like cousin Dudley might eye a double cheeseburger with bacon—all-but licking her lip-glossed gob. 

“Should I put him on the teaching roster?” she asked excitedly. 

“No, no,” Leon waved both hands in front of his chest. “He's not the new Safety Instructor—we're still looking. This is Blackwater. They'll fax his paperwork today or tomorrow.” 

“Oh, okay. I'll keep an eye out for it.” Jenny settled down, smacking her gum between her teeth as she threw the pen aside. Apparently she was only interested in Harry if was going to be firing a weapon in her vicinity. Harry got the impression this muggle girl knew nothing of what was really going on behind the shooting range's closed doors. He trailed behind Leon, not understanding half of what the old man and the teenage girl were talking about. A Safety Instructor had to be for the range itself, teaching muggles how to operate guns safely and store them in their homes without incident. That much made sense. But this 'Blackwater' and someone sending a fax with his information? Leon wasn't likely to give him any explanation here in the lobby. Harry clenched his teeth and kept his mouth shut, doing his best to walk with a purpose.

Leon was striding toward the reinforced door when Jenny spoke up. 

“Commander Devin from SOCOM rang twice this morning.” She opened her window to pass a post-it with the official's information. Bubblegum rolled visibly in her mouth. “Says it's urgent.” 

“Everything's urgent with Dev,” Leon harrumphed, opening the big metal door and ushering Harry through it. Harry waved to Jenny—who ignored him—before walking down the long maze of beige hallways that lead back to Leon's concrete lair. 

When they were safely ensconced in Leon's office, the man's laptop booting up with a few odd clicks and chirps the likes of which Harry had never heard, he fielded a question. 

“What's SOCOM? Is it code for a wizarding institution?” 

Leon sat back in his chair. “Division o' muggle armed forces,” he corrected. “'United States Special Operations Command.' They're a point o' contact in the non-magical government, sort of a liaison. They have officers who know about us and make contact when there's a suspicious event they'd like the wizards to check out, see if it's 'us' or 'them.'” He waited until Harry nodded, to be sure he understood. “They help us keep magic invisible to the public in return fer a few... let's call 'em _strategic favors_. An' SOCOM's Commander Devin is a greedy son-of-a-bitch whose reached the end o' my patience.” 

Harry felt his brows rise. 

“He's new,” Leon shrugged, entering a pass-code on his silver and white laptop. “Got wind o' what we can do an' now he's got all these fancy ideas—barmy, every last one of 'em—of what we can do ter serve our country. Load o' bollocks,” Leon shook his head, as though this had happened before. Whenever muggles found out about magic, there was always the chance they could take it to the extreme. The Dursleys were afraid of it. This Commander Devin wanted to use it to his advantage. That was the nature of power. 

“Been trying ta get me involved in what shouldn't be the magical community's business. I swear, the fella's one phone call away from my Obliviators.” Leon hit his last computer key with unnecessary force, launching a string of applications across his screen. Harry frowned as the old man closed out what he didn't need. 

“ _Your_ Obliviators, sir? I mean, what about the Ministry of the Americas?” 

Leon dropped both elbows to his desk with twin heavy thumps, peering around his computer at Harry. His white mustache was curling up at the ends—perhaps, beneath the brush, he was smiling. Harry couldn't quite tell. 

“They really don't teach yeh anything, anymore, do they? Hogwarts....” The old man leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his paunchy stomach before launching into a lengthy and long-overdue explanation. 

“The government here isn't like the Ministry o' Magic. It's safe—because it's small,” he pointed a finger at Harry, hammering home his intensity with the gesture. His eyes were hard and serious. “They're bureaucrats-only. Census, legislation, taxes... an' that's it. Our magical population is small, spread out over thousands of miles—the northernmost parts of Canada all the way down to Argentina an' Chile all share the same governing body. There are meetin's once per quarter, held by region, where we all march in an' vote on changes to the laws, new hires, the budget, salaries, everythin'. Officials from the Census Department make a few presentations, then we vote. Simple as that. If anyone's got a complaint or wants a new law, they submit a form and it's put to a vote at the quarterly. The people decide an' it's the government's job to follow orders.” 

Harry swallowed, processing everything Leon had said. It didn't take him long to find a hole in the otherwise sound logic of a small Ministry. 

“But what about the unexpected? I mean, magical creatures wandering into car parks and wizards charming teapots to bite muggles' fingers off—that kinda stuff. How does a government that's paperwork-only enforce the law?”

Leon smoothed his mustache with one hand, pushing the bristles down in the manner of old habit. Harry wondered what the man did before he had a mustache—probably stroked his upper lip and wished.

“Anytime there's somethin' outta their offices—creatures on the loose, underage magic, potential exposure—they contract a Field Operations Team. Someone like me.”

“So you work for the Ministry?” 

Snorting, the old man shoved his laptop aside to look at Harry straight on. 

“No,” he said shortly. “No. I work fer myself an' my people work fer me. I take Ministry contracts... sometimes. I also do jobs fer private individuals an' the occasional bit fer the muggle government; when the price is right, o' course. There are by-laws an' regulations regardin' what Field Teams can an' canna interfere with. But in general, we operate as a private militia-for-hire.” 

Military for hire? No wonder Moody had thought of sending Harry Leon's way. Harry folded his hands in his lap, curiosity swarming in his head like gnargles in mistletoe. 

“Do you have a set number of contracts you have to take to stay a Field Team?”

Leon chuckled. “No. We're re-licensed every quarter through the Public Services Act. Certain functions like arbitration in domestic disputes, missing children, accidental magic by minors and Splinch Assistance are free to all persons registered with the Census Department,” Leon listed these things from memory, counting them off on his thick fingers. “We file a form and the Public Service Vault pays us our hours, easy as that. Everyone gets prompt, quality assistance because they can pick who they work with. No chance a troupe of bigots'll Apparate on your doorstep when you yerself select yer service provider.” 

“So,” Harry readjusted himself in the metal camp chair. Leon's office was nothing if not utilitarian in style. “How many Field Teams are there? If the population is small, there can't be that many people to work on the teams.”

“True,” Leon agreed. “There are thirteen. Everybody knows who we are: they re-approve us four times a year. They know how much we charge fer jobs outside Public Service, what we have to report 'cause o' the by-laws an' what we can let slide.”

“I bet it's nice for the Ministry,” Harry added. “They can give the easy contracts to the lowest bidder, that way there's gold in reserve to tempt the more experienced teams when there's a dirty job that needs doing.” 

“Yer catchin' on, lad.” 

Harry felt the puzzle pieces falling into place. “Then Blackwater is...?” 

Leon blinked in silence. “Don't miss a thing, do ya?” 

Harry shrugged off the compliment, feeling his cheeks heat despite himself. “I was taught by the best.” 

“I'd say they did one hell of a job,” Leon said in earnest. “Can't get a thing by you.” He leaned forward in his seat to type on his laptop, swiveling the computer around so Harry could see. The screen showed an aerial view of a military campus, state of the art, shiny and new, with the word “Blackwater” across the top and a large graphic of a bear's paw. The black paw print was the company's logo, splashed here and there along the page as Harry used the laptop's track pad to scroll down. 

“So they're muggle,” Harry said after reading only the first paragraph. 

“The muggle government's version o' us,” the old man confirmed. “I've been workin' with Blackwater on and off. As a private company outside o' the government, they're ideal cover. Depending on what country I send my team inta, we sometimes have trouble with the local authorities. They don't want what appears ta be an American military team working on a case which they believe is theirs. Blackwater has gotten us inta some otherwise inaccessible areas—war zones, restricted areas, quarantines, you name it. For a modest fee, they'll let us pretend to be a Blackwater satellite.” 

Chewing the inside of his lower lip, Harry began to nod. “I see how that works,” he tapped the tip of his trainer against Leon's big wooden desk as he thought. “I'll hazard a guess you're one of the only teams that does this, though. What do the other teams do?”

Leon seemed pleased with Harry's logical line of thought. “They do what we did before Blackwater: coax the muggle federal government into issuing us badges in various departments of their government,” Leon huffed, recalling the messiness and the headache. “If there were muggle police involved, we had to be FBI to outrank 'em—Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he explained. “If the real FBI was already on site, we had ta be Central Intelligence Agency—American MI5.” 

Harry nodded his understanding. “Not having papers is a big problem back in the UK. Most of the purebloods don't even exist as far as the muggles are concerned—no birth certificates, hospital records or driving permits. It gets messy trying to move witches and wizards around.” 

“We have a Credentials Office that works with the muggles, keeping us all on-record. Problem is they're slow as a dead bowtruckle with its back legs tied together; unfortunately, they're the same people charged with convincing the muggle feds ta issue badges to Field Op Teams. By the time they got you yer papers, half a field o' muggle police officers have been mowed down by heard o' mad Hinkypunks. It was only after the Jarvey Incident, when we started billing the Ministry fer our Obliviation hours, that they allowed us direct contact with the muggle government. Now we have knob-heads like Devin at SOCOM,” Leon snorted. “Still, he's better than nothin'. We get our badges in record time—an' Obliviate 'em when they start getting' _ideas_ in their heads,” the old man snorted. “Costs the Ministry less in overhead, saves us time an' ends up saving lives while reducing exposure.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Harry agreed. He shifted in his chair once more, the hard metal beneath the meager canvas padding making his bum sore the longer he sat in the same position. His mind kept going back to Jarveys, one of the few magical creatures capable of speech. He'd been so excited to read about them in his Care of Magical Creatures textbook third year. In an amusing turn, the only speech Jarveys are capable of is rather lewd in nature, composed almost entirely of insults and curse words. This provided no end of amusement to a group of thirteen year old boys and so the name of the creature had stuck with him over the years. Jarveys resembled overgrown ferrets and were good for hunting gnomes. He wondered what kind of damage they'd caused. 

Curiosity got the best of him. “I have to ask. The Jarvey Incident?”

“Of '94,” Leon nodded. “Press coverage was lacking. The Ministries did their best ta keep it quiet.” A squint took over his face. “I want coffee. You?” 

“Sure.” 

Leon pressed the intercom at the corner of his desk, barking orders at Jenny to bring them a pot of coffee. 

“The Jarvey Incident,” the Irishman repeated. “In the spring o' 1994, some three hundred Jarveys wandered into a ski resort in New Hampshire after their nests had been demolished by a roadway project. There was a film festival in the local town and every resort was packed with tourists an' journalists, all armed with cameras. We saved some o' their footage: imagine a sea o' fat ferrets racin' down Main Street in a great furry wave, shoutin' obscenities and insultin' the tourists.”

Harry couldn't help breaking out in laughter. Leon slapped the edge of his desk, a belly laugh escaping him to rival Hagrid's drunken giggles. His skin reddened beneath his white whiskers, chuckling as he remembered the sight.

“Bribed a National Guardsman ta let my Obliviators onto the base a few miles outside o' town. We rolled in with tanks—got the muggles ta listen to us, sharp-like. Took four Field Teams a week ta track down all the footage an' every witness. Took even longer to trap an' relocate the Jarveys—catch an' release wasn't protocol then but we figured they weren't dangerous, so they ought ta live. I'm jus' glad the muggles didn't have these cell phone cameras then.”

“Merlin's balls,” Harry said quietly. “Sounds like a ton of work. But it could've been a lot worse. Good that you were able to trick the muggles and sort of keep them in one place 'til you could modify their memories.” 

Leon cocked his head to the side, the whiskers of his mustache rubbing together with a soft  _swoosh-_ ing sound as he chewed his upper lip in thought. “You think like an Auror,” he said at last. 

“Thanks,” Harry smiled. “It's what I'd like to do, once all this is over.” 

Jenny arrived with their coffee and the day's work began. 

In between approving supply orders and bookings for his muggle business, Leon took meetings with members of his Field Operations Team. Some of them simply owled reports while others called on the phone or Apparated in. Each time someone Apparated into Leon's office there was a ringing, a sort of high-pitched squealing like air rushing through a tiny tube. The sound would stop the moment the witch or wizard's body materialized. After three visits, Harry inquired about the sound. 

“Blood ward,” Leon replied gruffly, “keyed ta my team. No one else can Apparate into this room unless I lower the shield. Guess how often I do tha'?” 

“Never,” Harry grinned. He'd never heard of a Blood Ward but guessed it was a very advanced sort of magic, probably ancient with a few twists thrown in by Leon. The old wizard had a penchant for twisting magic, making it better by making it his own.

Leon smiled back. “Good lad.”

The team was an interesting mix of people. Harry looked between the witch and wizard delivering a speech to Leon about how they needed to add mosquito-repelling charms to their flak jackets before an upcoming contract in someplace called The Everglades. The wizard who spoke was big and surly, Latino judging by his healthy, caramel-tan skin, jet-black hair and slight Spanish accent. Leon called him Mr. Moreno. He wore a black cowboy hat and kept fiddling with a silver cigar case, opening and closing it in a constant, unconscious rhythm as though all he wanted was to go outside and have a smoke. The woman beside him, Maddie, couldn't have been a day over twenty four. With her spider bite facial piercings and the tips of her cropped brown hair dyed a vivid green, she would've looked more at home at an MSI concert than fighting mad Hinkypunks at old Mr. Harper's side. After Mr. Moreno left, Maddie spent a quarter of an hour pointing rather animatedly at fuel consumption reports for the last month. She hounded her boss to trade in their fleet for more fuel-efficient hybrids. Leon laughed, telling her that manual transmissions were easier to force through a failing Trans-Location Barrier and, until hybrids came with a stick shift, they'd stick with the gas-guzzling SUV's and live to fight another day. Maddie left with an arm-load of papers. Harry watched her out the window as she walked into a huge warehouse at the other end of the employee car park, slamming the door behind her.

As they waited for Leon's next appointment, an Obliviator called Kitarou Hitori, Harry leaned over to speak to the old man. At Leon's request, Harry had moved his chair behind the desk, sitting right next to him and making mental notes as the man carried out his daily business. No one paid him much attention and he was grateful for it. Anyone who didn't make a big deal of his being The Boy Who Lived was a sensible person in Harry's book. He received no special treatment, either from Leon or his staff.

“A Trans-Location Barrier,” Harry muttered, “is... like the wall separating King's Cross from Platform 9 ¾?” 

“An' more,” Leon confirmed. “The way we build 'em here, the field lets out to an alternate location. Dependin' on what time yeh cross the field, it'll dump yeh out in a different place. Runs on a schedule, o' course. More convenient than the floo network, especially fer families, since it's free through the Transit Service. Most folks drive their cars straight through.”

“Cool,” Harry was more than a little awed at the ways Americans had of going about their magical lives without muggles noticing. “And anybody can use them?” 

“Public sites, yeah. Most o' the larger Field Teams like us have a private barrier. We tune it to wherever we need to go. Beats portkeys and Side-Along Apparition,” he shrugged. “I was never a fan o' landin' in cornfields an' bogs just ta stay outta the way.” Harry recalled many an arrival at the Burrow, landing knee-deep in muck. It was certainly an inconvenience. “Barriers have Notice-Me-Not Charms layered on so thick, muggles wouldn't notice the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade marchin' out.” 

Harry squinted at the reference. 

“Never mind,” Leon muttered as the squealing noise picked up again. Hitori arrived—a short but muscular Asian-American man in a tight tshirt, military fatigue trousers and heavy boots. The shirt, stretched tight over his impressive frame, bore the logo of a mixed martial arts academy. It wouldn't have been a stretch to say that Hitori either worked there or owned the place. 

Leon was quick to explain Harry's situation to the Obliviator Hitori, asking the man to get in touch with Commander Devin—“Sick of 'em already, boss?” Hitori joked with a wry, knowing smirk—to acquire a muggle military I.D. for Harry... and then take the Commander off Leon's hands. Hitori nodded slowly, jotting everything down on a small pad which he stored in one of his trousers' many pockets. 

“Tomorrow morning, first thing,” Leon told the Obliviator. “Before he has a chance ta leave me another God damned message.” 

“Got it,” Hitori nodded once, making a mock salute. 

“An' take Harry with yeh,” Leon added as an afterthought. “Show 'em how we do things 'round here.” 

Hitori's dark eyes settled on Harry. He blinked once, solemn, before nodding to him, too. “My pleasure.”

After Hitori left, Leon had a lively telephone conversation with a second Mr. Moreno. This Moreno had received funding for research and development, the money provided by the magical government as a kind of Field Department of Mysteries with Leon as Moreno's overseer. The details were vague as the men went back and forth on speakerphone so Harry could hear. It all sounded like gibberish, intense levels of magic theory, conjuring and technical jargon passing between them like a platter of pumpkin pasties at a Hogwarts feast. All Harry could discern was that this second Moreno fellow, far more talkative than the first, was working on a type of defensive spell. By the tone of their voices, the project wasn't turning out as planned. Moreno asked to borrow a research assistant, Hanson Tokko, who Leon was loathe to part with. Eventually they came to the conclusion that Tokko would decide which dead end project he wanted to waste his time with. Leon agreed to email Hanson and the conversation ended with an amiable invite to a karaoke bar the following evening. Both men offered greetings to the other's wife before ending the call. 

Harry caught Leon's eye before he disappeared into a pile of boxes, digging for a special type of form. 

“Tokko is your assistant, then?” he asked. “For a project like Mr. Moreno's?” 

Leon nodded, flipping the lid off a white file box and leafing through the folders it contained. For all the appearance of mess, Leon was actually quite organized. 

Harry bucked up his courage, laying his palms flat against his thighs and staring at the old man's hunched back. “Dare I ask what the project is?” 

Leon smiled to himself as he drew out a folder. 

“It's always been a fascination fer me,” he began, tossing the folder onto his desk and then leaning his hip against the heavy piece of furniture. “Wands. How they work, the ways we use 'em, why they look the way they do. Back before you were born, the wandmaker Pavel Gregorovitch published some research suggesting that objects other than the traditional shaft o' wood could be crafted into functional wands. He cited some examples of historical artifacts—swords, crowns an' the like—having been imbued with magical properties similar to a wand. He took it one step further, suggesting there might be a way ta create a small, wearable object—such as a bracelet, ring or glove—which could perform all functions of a wand.” 

“Most folks didn't take Grevorovitch seriously. Right shame, tha' was,” Leon put more of his weight into the desk, resting a hand over his papers as he gazed out the window in thought. The half-dozen cars in the employee car park gleamed back in the afternoon sunlight. “After the war, the Americans had money ta burn. I talked Hanson Tokko inta leaving the Department o' Mysteries and comin' out here with me ta see if there was any truth ta The Gregorovitch Hypothesis. Fifteen years later, this is what we've got.” 

Slowly, Leon opened his left hand, raising it into the air. He wore what appeared to be a brown leather driving glove, the fingerless type with a two-button clasp at the inside of his blue-veined wrist. The material appeared old and worn but well cared for. He flexed his fingers slowly, muttering under his breath—a familiar seven syllables. 

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_ .”

The white cardboard file box Leon had sifted through rose a meter in the air, revolving slowly as the wizard moved his fingers, seeming to guide the box around in an even glide. He levitated it around the room, hovering a moment over Harry's head, before setting it back down in its proper place. 

“Blimey,” Harry whispered, shocked. “So it works.”

“Fer small spells, anyway,” Leon shrugged, his voice gruff. “We ended up workin' backwards, creatin' a wand keyed as closely as possible ta myself before Transfiguring it inter a glove. From there we released the Transfiguration one thread of magic at a time, weakening the web itself until what appeared ta be a glove functioned as a wand. Not exactly a victory... but a step in the right direction.” 

Leon sighed, his belly expanding beneath his flannel shirt, stretching the pattern. “An unforeseen bonus—every prototype has been immune to  _Expelliarmus_ . Somethin' about the Transfiguration throws off disarming spells. Too bad Gregorovitch isn't here ta see it. Heard the Death Eaters got 'em. Tragic.” 

Harry bit his tongue—hard. Not only were Pavel and Anka Gregorovitch alive and well, they were hiding out with the Order and seeking safe haven in America! But no one was supposed to know, for the wandmaker and his wife's safety. Harry couldn't break that trust. He pinched his thigh, a reminder to contact the Order as soon as possible. If Leon and Hanson could create something as fantastic as that wand-glove, Harry couldn't imagine the possibilities if they put their heads together with Gregorovitch himself! With that kind of ingenuity, they could... destroy a Horcrux. Repel Inferi. Destroy Dementors. The tide of the war could be turned. Harry worked to keep the excitement and sheer fucking hope from his face. The back of his neck burned. 

Harry cleared his throat, averting his gaze. “Do you have a new project or...?” 

“Fer the Field Teams,” Leon confirmed. “Trying fer a mild Confundus Charm mixed with a Notice-Me-Not so the muggles see our wands as handguns. We've had problems with local law enforcement wanderin' into our work zone unannounced, seein' things they shouldn't.” 

“I bet changing the way muggles see wands would save your Obliviators a lot of leg work,” Harry offered. 

“When it's done,” Leon snorted irritably. “Muggles still see light an' color from our spells—and o' course the result, which doesn't at all resemble a bullet wound. The sight scrambles their brains. I think we've Obliviated Jenny within an inch of her mind.” 

That made sense—the girl at the front desk was odd, even for a muggle, existing in her own little world. Over-Obliviation could do that, Harry had learned in fifth year Charms. That was why the Ministry of Magic kept records of memory-modified muggles, to be sure that people turning up in the wrong place at the wrong time weren't getting one-too-many doses of magic, turning their brains to mush. Harry wondered what kinds of records the Ministry of the Americas kept—what had to be reported and, as Leon said, what they could “let slide.” 

It was a wild country out here; a dangerous and uncharted territory where the rules, it would seem, didn't apply to everyone. Leon was like a town sheriff, meeting out his own brand of justice. So long as he was elected by the people with full disclosure of his methods and means, Harry couldn't find fault with it. Keeping magic secret was paramount. And the work Leon's team did was important. Occasionally, there would be Jennys and Commander Devins to be “handled.” As Draco might say, it was the price of leprosy.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“You can smile a little,” Charlene told him that night. “No need to be stern.” 

Over her shoulder, Leon spluttered. “It's a bloody CIA consultant badge,  _cher_ ! 'Stern' is the idea!” 

Charlene ignored her husband with a shake of her blonde head. “Young men are far more 'andsome when they're smiling,” she coaxed, adjusting her grip on the professional-grade muggle camera she'd been waving in Harry's face. Her red fingernails stood out against the black plastic. 

Harry swallowed, brushing his hand down the vintage silk tie the Harpers had loaned him. He also wore a starched white dress shirt and crisp black blazer, both of which were eerily the right size. Charlene had appeared with the garments, saying she'd guessed at his measurements. He got the feeling the clothes had belonged to their son. He said nothing. 

The tie was smooth and cool beneath his finger tips, broad bands of silver and green running down the length of it in a diagonal pattern. He'd seen a tie like this before—in the memories of Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. Voldemort had worn a tie like this, back when he was just Tom Riddle, a seventh year Slytherin. Harry suspected this was Leon's own Slytherin necktie, saved from his school days. Charlene had gushed when Harry emerged from the bathroom, fussing over the full Windsor knot he'd used, ordering her husband to notice how the dark jacket and tie brought out the color of his eyes. She'd cleaned his glasses with the tail of her blouse, ruffling his hair before positioning him against the wall to take his picture. 

Leon peeked around his wife's ample frame, catching Harry's eye. “Serious,” he mouthed. “Government. Bureaucrat. Suit.” 

Charlene smiled. Her mouth moved to form the words “ignore him.” 

Harry smiled back as the camera flashed.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Three figures stood in Leon's employee parking lot the next morning. They were waiting beside a glistening black SUV with chrome side runners and the Blackwater insignia airbrushed onto both the passenger and driver doors. Leon waved to them out of his pickup's open window as Harry pulled into the car park. Americans drove everywhere. Then again, their country was so big and everything so spread out, it was the only option besides Apparition or an airplane. 

Harry scanned the car park. Maddie, with her green-tipped bob, was just arriving for the day. She got out of her little two door car and approached the collection of people standing by the SUV. 

“Where you off to?” she asked Hitori. 

Leon raised his voice so she could hear him over the slamming of the pickup's doors. “Taking care of a pain in my arse!” 

Maddie rolled her eyes. “Devin?” she asked bluntly. 

Hitori and the two blondes with him nodded in earnest. One was a woman, tall and elegant-looking. She reminded Harry of Narcissa Malfoy, with her refined face and flowing blonde hair. This woman had her locks pulled back into a functional if plain pony tail. She wore high heeled pumps and a lean black suit, adding to her height. The other blond was a young man, no more than four years Harry's senior, with a dopey smile and a hairstyle that constantly fell into his eyes. He looked like a California surfer, fit and colored by the sun. His starched suit was almost like a costume, well-fitted but clearly not his style. The blondes had to be part of Leon's Obliviator squad. Harry guessed Hitori was their leader, the way they deferred to him, one at either side, awaiting his orders. 

“Yer in good hands,” Leon told Harry with a slap on the back. The old man made his way to the main building, grumbling about a good cup of coffee. 

Hitori took off his sunglasses to greet Harry, introducing his team as Rikka and Johnny Neither of them seemed surprised to be meeting Harry Potter: Johnny gave him a wide smile and Rikka inclined her shinny blonde head before tossing him a set of keys. 

“You're driving.”

Hitori put his sun glasses back on. “You do drive, right, Potter?”

Harry swallowed. “Um, sort of.” 

Rikka spoke with a slight accent—Norwegian or Finnish, very northern. She must have emigrated. “Kelly's on maternity leave, so we're short a driver. You can take over.” 

Johnny leaned in conspiratorially as Rikka and Hitori climbed into the SUV. 

“Trust me,” the surfer boy whispered, “Ukrainian Ironbellies drive better than Rikka. You can't be worse.” 

Harry cocked his head to the side, examining the set of keys in his hand. “Aren't Ironbellies pretty much blind?” 

Johnny smirked. “Exactly.”

 

 

 

Even as an eleven year old, Harry had never liked the sensation of running straight at a wall. Pushing your trolly cart through the wall separating King's Cross from Platform 9 ¾ was a harrowing experience, especially the first time. It didn't matter how many people told you you would be fine. It didn't matter how many Weasleys you watched walk through the barrier ahead of you. When you pushed your trolly at full break-neck speed towards a solid brick wall, there would always be that niggling voice in the back of your head telling you you're about to seriously hurt yourself. It didn't help that at the start of his second year, the barrier had actually failed on him and Ron, sending them sprawling, trunks and possessions everywhere—bruised. Perhaps Harry's psyche hadn't made a full recovery from that incident. He never thought about those sorts of things, the series of frightful and life-threatening events which made up the story of his life. Deep thoughts were rarely expected of The Boy Who Lived, anyway. Like a dog, he buried them for later.

His hands shook at the wheel, tan leather moist and slippery with the sweat of his palms. The speedometer read sixty four miles per hour and rising. And there was a great brick wall before him, closer and closer as his foot pressed down against the accelerator. Rikka and Hitori were chatting in the back seat, Johnny up front with Harry, a map of the state of Florida spread out over his knees. 

“...Map?” Harry questioned under his breath. “You know where we're going, right?”

Johnny made a face, sticking out his long tongue. Harry couldn't see it, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on the obstacle rapidly approaching. He pictured the SUV crashing into the wall, bumper crunched in with a sickening smack, glass flying everywhere, the impact of steel and brick, the dust of broken mortar billowing through the air. He wondered if he could Apparate out in time. 

“Maddie calibrated the Trans-Location Barrier last night,” Johnny shrugged. “I've never been to SOCOM before, so I wanted to have a look at the map, get a feel for the area.” 

Harry took a shaky breath followed by a second and then third. “Oh.” 

He wanted to screw his eyes shut. There was a brick wall ten yards off and he was about to crash into it. Too late for brakes. Seven yards. Harry's jaw clenched, a muscle in his neck flexing uncontrollably. Two yards. 

He closed his eyes. 

“Harry,” Rikka said quietly, her accent trilling. “The auto in front of you has stopped moving.” 

Harry's eyes snapped open. 

The farm fields of rural Ohio had been traded for wide boulevards and palm trees. They were on the outskirts of a large city by the ocean, warehouses and apartment complexes springing up on all sides as they neared their destination. Overhead, there were seagulls in the sky.

The SUV was approaching a red traffic signal, a single car stopped at the light. Still a ways off, Harry applied the brakes, gliding to a stop with time to spare. 

From the back seat, Hitori snorted. “You a Seer? I hear they drive with their eyes closed, too.” 

The Obliviator team was precise, all practiced business as they carried out their assignment. They spent longer in the waiting room outside Commander Devin's office. The man's secretary offered the four visitors from Blackwater coffee or tea while they waited. Once in Devin's office, Harry stood back and watched. He'd been warned to stay out of their way. 

Rikka Stunned Commander Devin—got him right in the chest with a bolt of silent red light. The big military man tipped backwards, falling out of his chair with a muffled _thwump_. The floor was thickly carpeted but Harry suspected someone had laid down a Cushioning Charm to further quiet the sound. Hitori bent over the Commander, wand tip pressed to the muggle's temple. White light flared as he worked. 

Johnny went through the contents of Commander Devin's desk, taking what they needed, incinerating that which the muggle should no longer be privy to and ignoring the rest. Rikka made for the filing cabinets, using a spell similar to Hermione's favorite floating research method to pull files from their roosts. She set fire to them in mid-air, leaving not a trace behind. Soon, Johnny pointed his wand at Devin's computer and mobile phone, purging information from every possible source.

Harry stood with his back pressed flush to the office door. He listened to the secretary typing on her computer in the room beyond. In the roughly four minutes it took the Obliviators to finish with their task, no one came to bother Commander Devin. 

“Ugh,” Hitori sounded annoyed as he glanced up at Rikka. “Gonna have to knock him out for this to take effect.” 

The blonde woman sighed, a hand on her hip as she blasted top secret files to smithereens. She set a Hoover Charm around the office, cleaning the carpet of ash and residue. 

“Fine,” was her reply. 

Hitori's gaze went to Harry. “In two minutes, go outside and get Devin's secretary. Tell her the Commander collapsed. We'll walk out in the ruckus.” 

Harry minded his watch and, when the prescribed two minutes had passed, he opened the door and went out into the lobby. Behind him, the Obliviators were poised on their hands and knees, as though rushing to the Commander's aid. 

Harry screwed his face into a look of pure panic. He tensed his fingers, jogging up behind the secretary but keeping his eyes trained on the office, as though concerned for the SOCOM Commander's well-being. 

“C-commander Devin collapsed!” he told her breathlessly. She whirled around in her chair, startled. Harry pointed back at the man's office, where Hitori's large frame could be seen bending over the military man, checking his vitals. Rikka and Johnny looked convincingly worried. “He was just talking to us and then.... Get a doctor or something!” Harry shouted. 

The woman picked up her phone and dialed an emergency number. Several men in uniforms came walking around the corner and Harry snagged their attention, too. The more people there were, the easier it would be for the Obliviators to slip out unnoticed. 

The secretary ran into the Commander's office, followed by the uniformed officers, several plainclothesmen and then three uniformed medics. As the concerned bystanders streamed in, Hitori, Rikka and lastly Johnny snuck out. 

From the car park, Hitori phoned Leon. Over speakerphone, the old wizard was in a snit—something about the Ministry of the Americas dangling a fat wad of money in his face. And pigs.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“Wild boar, actually,” Mr. Moreno in the cowboy hat corrected Leon later that night. 

“Pigs,” Leon repeated stubbornly. “Ruddy pigs.” 

“You're not the one chasing 'em through the woods,” muttered a sandy-haired bloke sitting next to Harry. He was a chubby fellow who spoke under his breath, not expecting his boss or anyone else to her him over the noise of the karaoke bar they were situated in that evening. “Don't see why yer makin' a fuss.” 

The fellow's name was Jedidiah, the Potioneer of Leon's Field Ops Team. Like Charlene, Jedidiah had a thick southern accent. The fellow was snippy but shy. He buried himself in his oversize pint before anyone else heard him complaining. 

“What's wrong with the wild boars?” Harry asked, having not understood the details discussed back at the range. The whole team was gathered at a homey karaoke bar in Fox Lake, Illinois. Apparently the area had a high concentration of Trans-Location Barriers, being close to the American Ministry in Chicago, and so was an easy location for everyone to access. There were easily twenty people, many with spouses and significant others. Harry got the niggling suspicion they'd all come to meet the newest member of their team, Harry Potter. 

Leon had offered him a job that afternoon. He said that, if Harry planned to hang around and stick his neck out with the team, he deserved equal compensation from the Ministry for his trouble. That and Leon was understaffed. He'd provided Harry with a stack of consultant badges—CIA, FBI, DOJ, SOCOM—as well as credentials fresh from MI5 in England. All the seals and numbers seemed to be in order, too. He could go waving his badges literally anywhere. The team was polite to Harry, laughing at his jokes about not being able to sing and generally making him feel quite welcome. Every now and then, a couple or small group would get up and head toward the stage, singing an off-key number or two before sauntering back with fresh drinks.

There was an impressive version of _Muffliato_ cast up and down the table. Nearby muggles paid them no mind even as they discussed Obliviaion and magical theory at full volume. 

A big Serbian man called Ivan shouted down the length of the table in answer to Harry's question. He pronounced his name as “ _ee-vahn_ ” and Harry could tell by the familiar accent that he was from Serbia. Ivan's biceps were the size of a child's head, his ginger-blond hair and goatee framing his face like a Greek god. Harry made a mental note to stay on the chap's good side—he looked like a man with a short and murderous temper.

“Zhee problem ees zhat someone introduced Russian _bitva_ hogs to a native heard in Mississippi,” Ivan said, pitching his booming voice to carry. “Zhey are related to zhe African Tebo. Q uite magical _i_ very dangerous. Zhey upset zhe local food chain. Now zhey come out of zhe woods, attacking muggles as zhey forage.” 

“Ministry's offerin' a pretty penny ter kill 'em all,” Leon put in. “Quiet-like.”

“You'll come, right?” Mr. Moreno in the cowboy hat asked Harry. He sat beside his brother, a leaner version of himself a few years older. The two were clearly brothers, family resemblance strong through their strong cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

“Sure,” Harry nodded. “Strength in numbers.” 

The table toasted him, beers and cocktails raised high. Harry lifted his soda in appreciation. 

He sat back and listened to the conversations buzzing around the table. Apparently Jedidiah had had a breakthrough in his research, using Ashwinder sheddings—which were highly flammable—to make a kind of wizarding explosive more powerful than muggle dynamite. The team kicked around perspective names for the substance. The winner was Ash4, a play on the name of a powerful muggle explosive, C4. 

“Where's Johnny?” Harry asked idly, looking down the table and not seeing the blond fellow anywhere. 

Maddie gave him a tight-lipped smile, explaining, “Full moon. He'll be back in a few days.” 

“Oh,” Harry's brows rose. He hadn't had any indication Johnny was a werewolf. And everyone treated the guy quite normally. Harry sipped his soda, listening in on the conversation between the older Mr. Moreno and Leon. They were discussing the skinny fellow's research project. His thin fingers raked through his black hair at the temples, where gray hairs were beginning to sprout. 

Mr. Moreno's daughter, Malaya, caught Harry's gaze and rolled her eyes grandly. They were dark like her father's but almond shaped and very alluring. 

“Project Vader,” she muttered. “I can't believe the government pays them to play around with that shit.” 

“Sorry?” Harry cupped a hand over his ear. 

Malaya leaned forward across the table, tucking a strand of her long black hair behind her ear. He bangs fell all the way down to her eyebrows, giving her the aura of an Asian school girl with caramel-tan skin. Her pleated wool skirt and pale blouse added to the image. Harry wondered if she attended the Salem Witches Institute. She looked about Ginny's age. 

“Project Vader,” she said more clearly. “You know, like Darth Vader in 'Star Wars.'” 

“Is that a book?” 

She laughed. “No! A movie—a really famous one.” She sipped her soda before explaining. “There's this bad guy in the movie, Vader, who uses The Force, which is like magic. He uses the dark side of The Force and his enemies, the Jedi, use the light side. The whole thing is a metaphor for good and bad karma, what people dedicate their lives to and shit like that. Anyway,” she flipped her long hair back over her shoulder, “Vader does this thing in one of the movies where he uses The Force, holds up his hand,” she mimed the action, bringing her hand up to her father's throat as he spoke but hovering a few inches away, pretending to squeeze. “And chokes one of his generals. My dad got it in his head that he could make a defensive spell to do about the same thing—and have it not be classified as the Dark Arts. He thinks he can make it Neutral.” 

“That's... interesting,” Harry said, nodding slowly. “I see how it would be useful, defensively. And I guess it would take any pureblood Death Eater by surprise.” 

Malaya rolled her eyes again. “It's stupid. But my dad seems to like it.” She smiled at her father, wrinkling her nose as the expression became silly. Mr. Moreno wasn't looking at his daughter, wrapped up in his conversation with Leon and Hanson Tokko. Hanson was Korean and wore a silk paisley bow tie and thick black spectacles. A streak of pure white ran through his hair at one side, completing the effect that he had just walked out of the Department of Mysteries, covered in research dust and shrouded in the mystique of the unknown.

“Dad,” Malaya put a hand on her father's forearm, pulling his attention away from his work. “As cool as it is hanging out with your coworkers and everything, I still have homework to get done. Can I go home and, you know, work on that?” 

Skinny Mr. Moreno raised an eyebrow. “Can you wait an hour, sweetie?” the man asked, swirling the last of his beer in his glass. 

“I'd rather not,” the girl insisted. “Maybe someone else can give me a ride home? That way you can stay and relax. You need it.” 

“Such a sweetheart,” Mr. Moreno kissed the top of his daughter's head. Then he looked around the table. Most of Leon's team shook their heads, beers and cocktails in hand. His dark eyes fell to Harry at the end of the table. “Potter, you drive a stick shift?” 

Harry nodded. Mr. Moreno threw a set of keys at him. 

“Can't miss it,” Malaya told him with a smile, pulling him up from his chair. “It's the orange McLaren.”

It took Harry a moment to get used to the way the car's fancy doors opened up instead of out, reminding him of the Delorean from Dudley's favorite childhood movie,  _Back To The Future_ . The whole thing was low and sleek, curves and angles like a bony, large-breasted woman in a figure-hugging dress. 

“Great car,” he mumbled, adjusting the seat and mirrors before fitting the key to the ignition. When the car started up... it sounded like a real car, none of that rumbling and white smoke of Leon's old pickup. He tapped the gas pedal, just to hear the engine roar in response, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, toes curling in his trainers.

Malaya provided decent driving directions and, two Trans-Location Barriers later, the sports car was idling outside her house in Plano, Texas. 

The full moon was unusually bright, its blue-ish night color filtering through the dashboard, making streaks of light in Malaya's hair. It was these flecks of light glinting off her bangs which alerted Harry to the fact that she was moving, slowly leaning towards him, closer and closer. He could count her eyelashes, feel the warmth of her cheeks and lips as they hovered so near his own. She breathed, hot and sweet, closing the distance between them. 

“Malaya.” 

Harry said her name, slow and clear. He put a hand to her shoulder, straightening his elbow to keep her a consistent arm's length away. Sliding away in his seat, his back met with the driver's side door panel, a handle and many plastic switches and buttons pressing along his spine. He met her dark eyes from behind fogging spectacles. 

“I think you're beautiful. You're my type—from what I've been told. I don't date a lot. But I'm in a relationship right now. We love each other,” he smiled despite himself. It felt good to talk about his feelings, to say the words, even if Draco wasn't there to hear him. “And I'm not the type of bloke who cheats.” 

Where he once had felt fear and dread—the crippling emotions often brought on by the presence of an attractive female, especially one he was charged with delivering unfortunate news to—Harry was imbued with a sense of calm and purpose. He couldn't control the situation; people were unpredictable, after all. But he could choose his own reaction. If Malaya got angry with him, it was better to give her a flat wall to rail against than a responsive one. The matter really wasn't up for discussion. The less room he gave her to rally against him, the faster she would accept his word as final and move on. 

He could see the process of logic in her eyes. First her mouth opened, lips parting to form a rebuttal. At the firm look in his eyes, she snapped her mouth shut. He was happy to see that no girlish tears formed in her eyes. He watched her carefully through the seconds it took her to collect her thoughts.

“I'm very sorry if I led you on in any way,” he added firmly. “Believe me, that was not my intent. I've been told my table manners border on flirtatious....” 

He recalled his most formal date with Draco, sitting in their private cavern at that muggle restaurant, holding hands over the crisp white linens. They may or may not have played footsie under the table as the champagne took hold. In that moment, he had felt comfortable in his own skin—mostly because he was worried about Draco, the way he'd grown up and the way he would have to re-fit himself to wizarding life. Perhaps Harry was at his best when he worried for others over himself, a part of his 'Hero Complex,' as Draco and Hermione called it. He focused himself on Malaya, her comfort and their very new acquaintance. It would be better to tell her something—anything to build trust between them. After trying to kiss him, it was obvious she at least liked him as a person. He screwed up his courage to salvage the situation. 

“I should have said something sooner,” Harry comforted, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. 

“I... yeah,” Malaya deflated, falling back against her seat, shoulders slumping. She folded her hands in her lap, gloves clutched between her palms. Her eyes stayed downcast as she spoke. “I felt something. Probably should've asked if you had a girlfriend first.” A sad sort of chuckle escaped.

“Er,” Harry let his own head rest against the coolness of the window behind him. 

Malaya was so embarrassed, she ignored the awkward sound he made. “Hogwarts girl?” 

“Erm, sort of,” Harry shrugged. 

Malaya still wasn't looking anywhere but down. “Who is she? Would I know her?” 

Harry resisted the urge to fidget. He didn't want to lie, he really didn't, but Malaya didn't seem like the right person to tell about his recent adventures in homosexual buggery. He was silent too long. 

“Oh my God,” Malaya smiled like the kneazle that got past the Gringotts goblins. “I bet she's famous. Am I right? If she's your girlfriend, then I'm sure I've heard of her somewhere. Spill it,” she teased, perking up and swiveling in her seat excitedly. “Who is she?” 

Harry licked his drying lips. “Someone special.” 

Malaya's face scrunched. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear, her hand returning to her lap with an excited snap. She seemed very interested. Harry found himself hoping she wasn't a gossip. Perhaps, if he gave her some of the information she sought, he could gain an ally from this unusual and uncomfortable situation. 

“ _Someone?_ ” she repeated, incredulous. “Harry, you shouldn't talk about your girlfriend like that,” she tisked. “When you tell me who she is, I'm owling her. She'll be mortified to know you talk about her like that when she's not around.”

“ _Someone special_ ,” Harry said again, more forcefully this time. “It's a compliment.”

Malaya laughed at him. “It's weak, Harry.” 

He shrugged the insult off, playing it cool. “Maybe I'm weak.” 

“Come on, Harry,” she rolled her eyes. The whites of them glowed in the light of the full moon. “You sure know how to get a girl interested. What's her name?” 

Harry sighed. The game was over. 

“His name is Draco. He used to be a Death Eater but he defected to our side over the summer.” 

Malaya didn't let him get any farther. 

“Your girlfriend's a guy—” Harry wasn't sure whether that was a question or an exclamation. He was careful to keep his face pleasant but blank. He nodded passively, as though his lover's gender wasn't a huge concern. It wasn't, really. It shouldn't be. “And he used to be a Death Eater—like, with the Dark Mark and everything?” 

“Yup.”

Malaya shook her head. “Bullshit. You're messing with me.” 

The corner of Harry's mouth turned up. “Why would I do that? Wouldn't it be easier to tell you I'm snogging Gwenog Jones than to spin some story about a love affair with the son of Voldemort's favorite Lieutenant?” 

She bit her lip when Harry said The Name. He doubted anyone had actually said it to her face, full-volume and without a tremor of absolute terror in their voice. The sense of his statement hit her a moment later, logic processing secondary to the emotional shock brought on by those rarely uttered syllables. 

“Fuck,” she whispered. And then her brain took an unexpected turn toward the feminine. “Got a picture?”

“One,” Harry offered, reaching for his wallet. “He's wearing a disguise, though.” He pulled the string of photo booth paper from its hiding place, handing it over to her. Two pictures were visible and she looked them over with care. Harry looking to the camera while Draco looked confused—the second showed them both laughing. Even with nerdy glasses and dark hair, he still looked like Draco. There was intelligence burning in his eyes, a grace and style to the movement of his limbs, preserved forever like a gleaming Draco stature, frozen there in the muggle photograph. 

Malaya looked nonplussed. Harry reached over, unfolding the sheet of paper, giving light to the pictures no one else ever saw. Compared to the first two, the second pair of photos were nothing short of shocking. Him and Draco kissing—pawing at each other, really—and then fighting for purchase, Draco losing his balance as Harry threw him against the photo booth's wall, snogging him senseless. 

“He's  _hot_ ! Damn!” Malaya fanned herself with the string of photos before gazing at them, star-eyed, a second time. She clutched the paper as though Harry might snatch it away before she was done drooling over it. “No wonder he turned you gay!” 

Words tumbled from Harry's mouth before he could stop them—heated words, packed with discomfort and something which tasted oddly like denial. “I'm not gay.”

Malaya raised an eyebrow at him, waving the pictures around like a lighthouse's beacon to guide travelers in the night. The gesture made her thoughts crystal clear: she considered him confused or even embarrassed about his sexuality.

“I'm not,” Harry insisted. “And neither is Draco. He's bisexual.” Harry took a deep breath before continuing. Her steady gaze was disconcerting—that almost pitying look she was giving him. It twisted knots in his stomach. He didn't like the feeling. “We're dating. I've only fancied girls before, so....” 

“You went gay for him, then,” she clarified.

“Malaya,” he pleaded, patience wearing thin. “Honestly, I don't think I'm gay. At least I don't consider myself to be. I've never liked a bloke before him. Fancying boys—sort of a prerequisite for homosexuality, as I understand it.” 

Instead of laughing at his joke, she only rolled her eyes at him, annoyed. She held up the photos in her hand, pointing to the last one, tapping her finger against it to call his attention to the immobile figures, locked in a rather passionate and decidedly sexual embrace. Even confined to the tiny frame, it was clear they were seconds away from ripping one another's clothes off, public photo booth or no. 

“I'm gonna take a wild guess,” Malaya simpered, “and say you've sucked his dick.” 

Stunned silent, Harry nodded. 

None of his mates would ever say the word “dick”—at least not to his face. Ron would use some cute term his Mum made up for her six boys in the bath, and Hermione would probably flex her maturity by using the scientific and correct term, “penis.” He and Draco talked that way, though. It was a mark of experience and sheer fucking  _realness_ that Malaya broke out that word. Like it or not, he started taking her a mite more seriously. 

“I don't know many straight guys who blow each other, Harry.” She said it honest and true, the corner of her mouth pulled up in a reflection of her shoulder's shrug, just telling the truth as it stood for her. His ire rose like bile, stinging the back of his throat. “For a guy to suck dick, he's gotta be at least a little gay.” 

“A little gay,” Harry repeated, sounding like he'd had the wind knocked out of him by a George Weasley Special to the diaphragm. 

“Yeah,” Malaya handed the picture back after one long, memorizing look. Harry wondered if girls were like blokes and stored wanking material in their heads, because he'd seen that same expression on Ron, Seamus and Neville's faces and knew what it meant on them. He slipped the pictures back in his wallet. “I mean, I know guys are different when it comes to sex—'a hole is a hole' or something like that. No offense, but guys'll have sex with just about anything if they're horny enough.” There was a snort to her laugh, the sound rattling around in her large nose. “Two guys sucking each other off is only a little gay. Anal sex,” she nodded fervently. “Yeah. Doing that with another guy means you're gay.” 

Harry felt his face fall. 

Against his better judgment, he got defensive. He sneered like the old Slytherin Draco, the hiss of Parseltongue held back only for a lack of the right consonants. “Have you done it?” 

“Nah,” she shook her head, unfazed. “No boyfriend right now—obviously,” flipping a hand between the two of them, she smiled fondly. “Too bad you pitch for the other team.” 

“I wish you'd stop saying that,” Harry said, exasperated. Secretly, he was a bit amused that she had used the term “pitch” for Harry's sexual proclivities. He wondered if she knew the meaning of the term; if she thought he was the giver rather than the receiver in the act, or if she'd selected the word at random. 

“What? Am I the first person you've told or something?” 

“A few of my mates know,” Harry shrugged. “Mostly, they just complained about the ex-Death Eater business.” 

“I'll tell you something, Harry,” she leaned forward, putting a hand over his on the steering wheel. She stroked between his fingers as she put words to her thoughts. “There isn't a big pureblood population out here. Everyone's pretty muggle about gays. My aunt's a lesbian and, when she applied for a teaching job at Salem, they turned her down for that. Not everybody thinks that way,” she patted his hand reassuringly. “But if you want people to pay attention and take you seriously... I'd recommend you keep the super-cute boyfriend off their radar.” 

“Maybe they'll give you a break for being The Boy Who Lived—I'm sure you don't want that, though. You seem like a guy who wants to succeed on his own merits. So get people on your side first. That's all I'm saying. The right people aren't gonna care.” 

Harry swallowed, finding his voice. “I think you're right, Malaya. And thanks for being cool about this,” he gave her a winning smile. 

“It's okay,” she grinned back. “I would be offended if you were screwing a troll girl... but your boyfriend's hotter than you are, so I'll let it slide.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Harry rolled his eyes sarcastically. 

“Seriously, though,” she took her hand away, fiddling with her gloves. “I can tell you really like him. Good for you, going out of your comfort-zone for some hot boy action.” 

Harry slapped his hand against the wheel, half laughing yet also half sincere as he droned, “Alright. We're done here.”

“Too bad,” Malaya pouted, putting her gloves on. “I was hoping we could swap sexcapades stories over lunch tomorrow. I need a gay friend.” 

Harry barely contained a growl. He wanted to tell Malaya that he couldn't be her new gay friend because, obviously, he wasn't gay—just in love with Draco. Sleeping with Draco—that didn't make him gay, or turn him gay or whatever. It was what it was. There were no words for what they had together. “Lovers” was tawdry and cheap: “hot boy action,” as Malaya put it, was even worse. 

“I'm busy tomorrow,” Harry muttered through gritted teeth. “I work for Leon, same as everybody else.” 

“Okay,” she shrugged, opening the car door. “I'll call you.” She leaned, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek before getting out of the low sports car, shutting the door with a jaunty slam. She bounded up to the house as though the weather in Texas were truly cold. Harry watched her go through the front door, disappearing into the house, beyond the view afforded him through the large, modern windows. 

Gripping the shit out of the steering wheel, he dropped his foot on the gas pedal far harder than was necessary, squealing the tires and releasing the signature stench of gasoline and burning rubber as he peeled off down the block. 

It was going to be painful returning this car. It might even be worth becoming Malaya's gay friend, just to get behind the wheel again. He dismissed the thought when a terrible taste suffused his mouth. 

One thing was certain—he did not like the way Malaya referred to him as “gay.” She'd dismissed his complicated and individual sexuality, distilling it down to a single word which had nothing to do with his experience or preferences and didn't say a thing about him. It was a label to explain him away—another uncomfortable cupboard to be shut away in, people taking him for the word that described what he did with his dick rather than who he was as a wizard and a human being. If you dumbed the world down like that, you'd never learn anything new. 

He missed Draco. And strangely, he missed Dima, Nebojsa and the guys. They understood. His relationship with Draco hadn't been an awkward admission with them. In their company, sexual flexibility was normal, not something to be tucked away and ignored because it was misunderstood or “different.” His friends from Durmstrang didn't ascribe to stupid labels like “gay” or “bi”—and like Draco, they certainly wouldn't care if words like “fagot” were hurled their way. Very few would dare. They commanded a certain respect, a wide birth demanded by their coolness, their calm and fortitude. Harry was jealous in a way. He wanted to bottle that even keel and bring it with him everywhere. That was what made a man a leader, and it was everything Harry needed to be. 

The highway rose up before him. He had a little ways to go before the exit which lead to his barrier. He turned on the radio, letting the noise wash over him, rolling down the windows to feel the wind in his hair, stinging his cheeks. The sensation was like flying, the road a liquid black line stretching out over the endless flat land. He pressed, harder and harder against the accelerator, tension leaving his shoulders with the rising of the speedometer. He topped out around one hundred miles an hour, shoulders collapsing as though he'd just fucked his brains out. He shed everything, coming back to himself.

He decided: the only person to define him would be himself. And right now, the last thing he needed was to catch himself worrying about a thing that works. Perfectly. He and Draco were great together. Draco put him in a good place, a better place. They were amazing just the way they were. It truly didn't matter what they called themselves, what anyone thought or dared say. When he was finished with Voldemort, he would be free. He and Draco could go away somewhere, never have to worry about anything ever again. The thought of that place brought him peace. 

Until then, the key to getting the world to accept him was not giving a shit what anyone thought—to be himself, to carry out his mission and do it very, very well. When he gained respect, either as The Boy Who Lived, The Boy Who Killed Tom Riddle or The Man Who Puts His Heart And Soul Into Everything He Does, they would no longer see The Gay or The Fag. They'd see Harry.

 

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMERS:** _Shift_ written by Ed Droste and Christopher Bear for the lo-fi album “Horn of Plenty,” released by Warp Records, November 2004.


	43. Beretta: Elephant Gun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry’s first mission with Leon’s Field Ops team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** mild swearing, guns, hunting dangerous animals, blood  & gore

 

“ _ If I was young, I’d flee this town _

_ I’d bury my dreams underground _

_ As did I—we drink to die, we drink tonight. _

 

_ Far from home, elephant gun _

_ We take them down one by one _

_ We’ll lay it down—it’s not been found, it’s not around. _

 

_ Let the season begin...” _

 

“Elephant Gun”

Beirut  


**  
  
  
  
  
** Harry peered tentatively over the SUV’s steering wheel.  
  
“Are you sure this is right?” he inquired. The question was aimed at no one in particular. **  
  
** From the passenger’s seat, Leon shrugged. **  
  
** Harry turned his gaze up to his rear-view mirror, observing Jedidiah, Ivan and the cowboy-hat-wearing Mr. Moreno **** in the back seat; they were calm, gazing out of **** the windows **** as Harry had done, hoping this was the right spot. This assignment had come through the American Ministry, the address owled to them only that morning. In a time-crunch, they’d packed a collection of bullet-proof flak vests and identification badges, all listing different organizations from Animal Control to Blackwater. With muggles involved, it was hard to know who-all would be on scene when they arrived, and thus who they should pretend to be in order to gain access.  
  
“This is the address,” Leon confirmed. Under cover of **** the dashboard, the old wizard took out his wand and cast a **** mild **** Confundus Charm over his Blackwater ID, muttering, “Just in case.” **  
  
** Leon got out of the SUV, making his way up to the building, set off a little ways in a pretty, sun-lit clearing. Harry observed the cheery yellow brick and large windows plastered with haphazard stickers, the red plastic fence rimming the yard, the smattering of children's toys in the grass, **** and a towering play-structure, all but the very top of which was **** hidden from sight by the building’s tall roof. It looked like a nursery school of some sort. There was no signage indicating a name, only the playful stickers adorning the windows along with those friendly, smudged-up **** little hand prints. **  
  
** As Leon approached, two men in brown uniforms came around the side of the building to meet him. Like the Irish wizard, they had pistols holstered steady **** at their hips, as well as walkie-talkies to-hand and wide-brimmed hats to shield their eyes from the sun. Harry rolled his window down, hoping to catch some of their conversation on the breeze.  
  
“Y’all must be the private sect'er,” one of the men said, waving a hand over Leon’s military-style ACUs; canvas, camouflage and utilitarian, faded from countless hours spent out in the sun. The newcomer’s **** accent was thicker than mud, even more pronouncedly southern than Jedidiah’s. “Been a‘spectin’ y'all **** fur a while.” **  
  
** Leon offered his hand. “Leon Harper, Blackwater.” Handshakes were exchanged. The men called themselves officers, **** State Troopers.  
  
“We **** got Animal Control an’ some folks from the SPCA back thur,” a trooper pointed to the fenced-in rear yard. “Reckon a few words ‘er in order ‘fore y’all get started.” **  
  
** Leon nodded curtly, swinging his arm overhead to signal **** his team. **  
  
** Harry regarded the rest of the men in his **** rear-view. “Looks like we’re Blackwater.” **  
  
** From the boot **** of the long vehicle, Jedidiah tossed Harry a flak jacket with the Blackwater insignia to wear over his plain black **** sweatshirt. Ivan and Mr. Moreno aimed their wands **** at one another’s backs, spelling the bear paw symbol onto their nylon jackets. They wore plain bullet-proof vests beneath, adding to their already bulky frames. Ivan was at least Bill Weasley’s height with shoulders as broad as any professional Quidditch Beater. When he spoke, his voice was like an earthquake's rumble. “I’ll grab zhe guns.” **  
  
** Harry, Jed and Mr. Moreno followed Leon and the State Troopers to the rear of the building. **  
  
** The red plastic **** fence circled a large play-yard filled with sandboxes, swing sets and scattered, weather-beaten **** toys. To the west, the fence butted up against a wood, mostly tall oaks and pines. Where the fence met the forest, there were **** more officers **** gathered. Harry understood why. A large section of the fence had been toppled, bowing inward towards the yard where children played. The fence was cracked in places, stomped into fractured pieces by what had to have been hooves. Harry shivered.  
  
“The boars broke this down last **** night,” a female constable informed them, “so there were no children present at the time. Still, as the animals continue to forage for food, this is only gonna get worse. And more frequent.” She had the words “Animal Control” stamped across the back of her navy uniform, a large gun at each hip. Harry recognized one as a standard muggle **** weapon and the second as a dart-shooter for bringing down animals without harming them. That wouldn’t work against a magical creature like this, Harry figured. It was good that someone in Animal Control had contacted the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures to have a Field Ops Team take a closer look. There was no way muggles could handle a hybrid creature without getting themselves killed.  
  
“We’ve been authorized to use deadly force, ma’am,” Leon replied easily. “If necessary. Leave it to us. ** ”  ** He offered her a winning, almost grandfatherly smile. **  
  
** The woman produced a map of the surrounding area, pointing out sectors **** where she suspected the boars might have made their nests. She left the map with them when she and her fellow officers **** departed. Ivan joined them soon after, toting large rifle cases under each arm and a duffel in each meaty hand. Leon and Mr. Moreno scanned the area with magic before they broke out their gear, handing out rifles, attachable long-range sights, **** Omnioculars and food-stuffs between each man. Harry was given a slide-action rifle, rubberized at the grip **** for better handling. The long barrel **** read  _ Remmington 7600 _ . A detachable clip was slapped **** in his hand a moment later by Jedidiah.  
  
“Feels like we’re taking down an elephant,” the brunet muttered, shaking his head, “‘stead of a couple a’ pigs.”  
  
“Don’t underestimate zhem,” Ivan shot back. He gestured with his own magazine, off into the woods. “I’ve zeen one Russian boar kill two men, one on each tusk  _ i _ **** not zlowed a minute.”  
  
“We’ll all be careful,” Moreno reassured their Serbian **** safety officer, tipping his hat. “In an’ out.” **  
  
** Strapped up and ready, they proceeded into the woods. Leon consulted the map as they hiked, using what appeared to be a non-verbal variation of the Point-Me spell every so often to confirm their course. By the looks of it, they might be walking for a while. **  
  
** Ivan struck up a conversation with Jedidiah, throwing a hand over the mousy chap ** ’ ** s rucksack-covered shoulders.  
  
“How **** iz your girlfriend? Ve didn’t zee her at zhe party last night.” **  
  
** Jed blushed. His eyes darted around nervously. “That’s ‘cause we broke up.” **  
  
** Ivan laughed, taking the mickey out of his shy coworker. They seemed like friends. Their banter, innocent enough in its teasing fashion, reminded him painfully of Fred and George, the **** way they used to go after Ron or Percy for their own amusement—a slightly less boring way to kill time than doing their schoolwork. It wasn’t that crazy to wish **** the twins were here; after all, their inventive side might do some good in a no-rules environment such as this one. It was probably only a matter of time before the twins came to America, if only for the lack of legal restrictions on spell and artifact research. Harry was pretty sure magic carpets were still legal here, and the twins had expressed an interest in engineering one. He made a mental note to speak with Leon and McGonagall about getting the twins out here along with Pavel Gregorovitch and his wife. What a team they would make—providing Gregorovitch could stand the twins’ boundless energy and off-color tastes. It was worth a shot. **  
  
** Harry pulled a packet of nuts and dried fruit from his food supply, munching as they trudged along for the better part of an hour. Here and there, Ivan stopped their little party to point out tracks in the leafy forest floor or, in one instance, the carcass of a deer which the hybrid **** Russian boars had brought down. The dead animal’s legs were gnawed down to the bone in places, gore spilling from its abdomen as flies buzzed around what meat was left. Jedidiah pulled his jumper up over his nose at the growing stench. **  
  
** Ivan slapped him across the back. “Enjoying zhe field?”  
  
“No,” the younger man snapped. He backed away from the eviscerated deer, eyeing Leon cryptically. “Get some actual Field Operators, boss. This type ‘a  _ fillin’ in _ **** ain’t in my contract.” Jed was a potions expert, after all. Harry wondered if he had a laboratory and where it was.  
  
“I’m working on it, lad,” Leon replied a bit gruffly, hitching up the rifle which hung **** across his back by a strap. “We’ve got Harry, haven’t we?” **  
  
** Jed looked less than pleased. His expression stated **** plainly what the thin line of his lips left unsaid—that **** one seventeen year old couldn't **** pull the same weight as five fully-trained men no matter how you sliced it _. _ **** And Harry knew Jed was right. The man was a potion maker: he belonged in his lab. And Harry was grossly under-trained. **** Leon was using every asset he had in an attempt to cover his bases until more witches and wizards could be brought in. **  
  
** Harry opened his mouth. “I might know some people. Let me put out a few feelers and I’ll get back to you.”  
  
“Okay,” Leon nodded.  
  
“Much appreciated,” Mr. Moreno chewed the inside of his cheek, pushing leaves around with the toe of his big workman’s boot. “The more bodies we have to bring to Lachlan’s, the better. His men’ll need training.” **  
  
** Harry gave a grunt of ascent. Leon’s team was busy, the demand for their services seemingly at an all-time high. And securing Lachlan’s Quidditch sanctuary was top priority—Harry understood the number of lives at stake. It would be no small task, building the magical side of the fortification from the ground up. Even though this was thousands of kilometers from his home, what happened here in America effected the war back in England, effected Voldemort’s movements in Scotland, effected Death Eater recruitment, effected moral, effected... well, everything. Harry could all but see the lines connecting it all. He understood the danger and the need as well as the strategic potential.  
  
“I’ll see what I can do,” was his reply. **  
  
** Eventually they reached a large clearing where Ivan brought their party to a halt. For several minutes, Ivan **** and Moreno prowled the perimeter, observing the area—examining animal tracks and sections of disturbed earth, consulting one another over a stand of trees with the **** bark all rubbed off at around three feet high. Pig tusks, Harry imagined. The feral hogs would sharpen their tusks and protruding teeth on the bark, stripping it away. Half the trees in this clearing were missing their bark, some as far up as four feet. These pigs had to be huge. **  
  
** Moreno took off **** his cowboy hat, scratching at his head of thick black hair. Ivan's ginger blond caught the light, standing beside him, absently rubbing his beard in thought. They came back to **** Leon with their verdict.  
  
“Ve can zet up here. Zhe trees are good,” he gestured upwards, to the swaying boughs overhead which dappled sunlight **** along the forest floor. “Zheir den should be close.”  
  
“Show time,” Jed sighed, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk's. The chubby man did not look happy. **  
  
** Leon walked to the center of the clearing. With an intricate spell, he Transfigured a rock into a very convincing-looking deer carcass, like the one they'd passed earlier. This one had meat on it, though. It looked freshly killed. Strolling back, the old Irishman rubbed his hands together. “Up we go, lads.” **  
  
** Ivan slung his arm around Harry's shoulders, guiding him to the south end of the clearing. “Ve'll have yoo here,  _ firtat _ . Vith me.” **  
  
** Harry nodded, watching as the men all drew their wands. Ivan's grip tightened, hand clamping over Harry's shoulder and pulling him close. Harry recognized the familiar, nauseating pull of Apparition and had the sense to clamp both arms around the Serbian's meaty torso before they were gone, reappearing high in the tree's branches, leaning against the trunk. **  
  
** Harry's fingers closed into fists so fast, his knuckles popped. As a Seeker, he had excellent balance. But they were high enough in the air that he would have only a split second to Apparate to safety if he fell—no time for a Levitation or momentum-slowing spell.  
  
“What if we fall?” he blurted out. **  
  
** Ivan patted the back of Harry's **** head with a chest-vibrating chuckle. He swished his wand twice, muttering “ _ Rederre Magnes _ ” each time. Instantly, Harry's feet felt rooted to the spot as though by molasses, like the soles of his trainers **** had been turned to sticky chewing gum. He lifted his foot experimentally—it came loose, but only when he tugged with all his might.  
  
“Sticking Charm?” he asked, peering up at the blond Serb.  
  
“Magnetizing,” corrected Ivan. “Allows us more movement.” And he demonstrated, sliding his foot along the bark of the thick tree limb. It looked a bit like he was ice skating, his foot not wanting to leave the branch. But he could move easily, without worry of losing his footing thanks to the charm attracting his feet and the tree to one another in equal portions. As his foot slid between Harry's, the Englishman **** could feel the branch lifting ever-so-slightly, the wood groaning as it came up to meet the larger **** man's step. “Zafer,  _ da? _ ** ”  
  
** Harry nodded his agreement. “I've never heard of that spell, though. Where'd you pick it up?” **  
  
** Ivan's lips twitched. He cast the spell on both his and Harry's left hands so they **** could have an extra anchor point to the tree. “Durmstrang. Zixth year.” **  
  
** That probably meant the spell was neutral magic, at best. Harry **** wondered if it was something Draco would know—with the blonde's **** superior Sticking Charms, this one wouldn't be far off. Dmitry and Nebojsa would know the spell, too, since they'd finished at least their sixth year at Durmstrang **** and perhaps their seventh. Misha was too young. **  
  
** Harry watched as Ivan conjured a few boards, jumping in to help secure the wood **** between the tree's thick branches, forming **** a sort of platform for the two of them to sit on. Across the clearing, Leon and Jedidiah **** were in pines of their own, cutting away hanging boughs and placing boards and Cushioning Charms in order to make a sort of nest for themselves, as well. Harry figured this must be the way wizards went hunting, making stands like muggles and then **** improving on them with magic. Maybe folks like Cormac McLaggen, who went hunting with the Minister of Magic, had finer accommodations; **** but the sparseness didn't bother Harry any. It wasn't like he'd be stuck up there all day. **  
  
** Ivan threw down a pair of Cushioning Charms as Harry finished securing the boards to the branches with a combination of sticking and magnetizing spells. Harry **** stepped out first, testing the platform with his lesser weight before Ivan followed. Beneath the man's eighteen stone, the wood gave a groaning creak ** — ** but their stand **** held. They sat, shouldering their weapons and peering across the clearing with their Omnioculars. **  
  
** Harry watched Jedidiah fuss about with his stand, conjuring extra boards to build a sort of back rest against the bark of the tree—presumably so he wouldn't get pine sap on the back of his coat or in his hair. From his rucksack, the Southerner **** pulled a holster full of **** potion vials **** and a muggle CD player. He put the headphones over his ears and pressed play, twirling his wand idly. **  
  
** Leon and Ivan exchanged hand signals, then Leon signaled **** Mr. Moreno, nearly invisible in a willow tree closer to the ground. Harry could barely pick **** out the glint of metal on his cowboy hat, watching as the man disappeared behind the hanging branches. His stand had to be further in, close to the trunk. The last hand signal was to Jed. The young man plucked a potion from his holster, floating it out to the middle of the field, hovering over the Transfigured deer carcass. With a flip of Jed's wrist, the phial overturned, dumping its contents over the area below. The forest was so quiet, Harry heard the liquid **** splatter out over the leaf-covered ground. He even heard Jedidiah sit back down with a thump, raising the volume on his CD player and closing his eyes, his portion of the mission now completed. **  
  
** Nothing happened at first. It took ten minutes before Leon was signaling Jedidiah once more ** — ** Summoning a rock from the forest floor and throwing it at the man to get his attention. Jed started, nearly kicking his potion pack off his stand. Beside Harry, Ivan snorted, muttering something under his breath in what sounded like Serbian. Harry was starting to recognize the language. It was different from Russian—softer, he thought, closer to Italian or French in the swell of syllables, the enunciation and effect. He heard a few familiar curses in there. **  
  
** Jed sent another potion phial hovering over the conjured deer carcass, once again distributing his potion over the area. Harry leaned, addressing Ivan in a whisper.  
  
“What's that supposed to do, exactly?”  
  
“Pheromones,” Ivan explained. “To draw out zhe hogs vith magic in zheir blood. Ve kill zhem first, zhen follow zheir tracks back to zhe nest  _ i _ **** kill zhe rest vhile zhey are zleeping.”  
  
“Got it,” Harry nodded curtly. “And we're up here because the ones we're trying to lure out are the most dangerous.”  
  
“ _Da _ . Zese Tebo breeds—they'll charge yoo. Zhey run. Zo ve get zhem vhen zhey are still, vhen zhey feed or zleep. Less danger to us.” **  
  
** It was only a matter of minutes before Harry detected a rustling in the underbrush. He tried to breathe **** through his nose, to stay as quiet and unmoving as possible, as the creature approached. Beside him, Ivan reached over to adjust Harry's grip on the rifle, moving his finger to hover over the trigger before shouldering his own weapon and peering down the sights. Harry checked his scope, panning slowly through the brush, not entirely sure what it was he expected to see. **  
  
** Leon had been the one insisting that Harry learn how to shoot. Harry hadn't been keen at first, but the old man eventually talked him into it. He couldn't exactly say no when Leon offered to be Harry's instructor and teach him personally. The secretary, Jenny, had drooled all over the window, watching them out on the range. The girl had a thing for guns. And men with guns. She would jump Harry after each of his lessons, praising his skill. Harry didn't believe her until days later, when Ivan echoed the sentiment. They called his frame steady, his hands sure and his aim uncanny. Harry attributed this natural **** ability to his six years spent as Gryffindor Seeker. **  
  
** The first clear sound was a grunt; **** rutting, like a rusty saw rubbed against tree bark, rough and grating. It took Harry a moment to realize the noise was all hog. Harry detected the whistling of Ivan's rifle barrel as the Serb aimed his weapon toward the noise. They both squinted down their sniper scopes. **  
  
** He caught a flash of dirty tusks in the sunlight. Then the animal appeared through the bushes, snout low to the ground. He was surprised, first by its speed. And then its size, nearly four feet high and at least forty stone. His next breath was uneasy. Under his breath, Ivan swore. **  
  
** A hand signal from Leon caught Harry's attention— _ don't shoot _ **** the gesture read. So there were more coming. Unable to spot them in the undergrowth, Harry returned his aim to the impressive creature now approaching Leon's conjured carcass. **  
  
** The boar was even larger than the dead deer, with mud caked in its bristly, wired hair. What startled him most was the eyes—glowing a faint reddish color, even in broad daylight. The animal snapped its teeth, warning the others to stay back until it had its fill of the dead deer. Clearly, this was the alpha male of the herd. The noise it produced was disturbing; something like a baby dragon, all spit and howls meant to assert its dominance. **  
  
** Harry flexed a finger against the trigger, very glad he was up so high. Distance was good—Mars wouldn't be too far away, he reckoned. He very much wanted to shoot the creature and get this over-with. **  
  
** He watched for Leon's signal. The old man tapped his head twice, then pointed to Harry and Ivan. They were to take out the alpha. He then sent orders to Mr. Moreno, that they would snipe the other animals now emerging from the brush. Harry could make out their bodies, striped and spotted under all that mud, cowering under the thumb—or perhaps the hoof—of their leader. **  
  
** After a few flesh-ripping bites, the alpha boar relented, allowing his followers in with a shake of his gore-covered head and a mighty roar. Leon signaled the countdown. **  
  
** Harry began singing the fight song of Ireland National in his head. The Quidditch cheer was the team's preferred method of syncing fire, undoubtedly due to Leon's Irish heritage. The tune was also long enough to provide time for sneaking around corners or lining up shots before the final note, when they were supposed to fire. Harry suspected the jaunty cheer also helped keep things light, especially in otherwise nerve-wracking situations. It certainly helped to bring about a team spirit. Harry and Ivan were both grinning broadly by the time they pulled their triggers. **  
  
** Four shots rang out as one. Then Ivan, Mr. Moreno and Leon worked their pump-actions, taking aim once more. Harry reacted instantly, putting another two bullets in the alpha boar before it went down, blood trickling bright red over the mud decorating its flanks. His final bullet was a head-shot, striking the beast clean between the eyes. The animal's final scream died in its throat, gurgling, as it hit the ground. Dead flesh jiggled, the wound on its rump spurting blood on impact. **  
  
** One last shot and five wild boars lay dead in the field. Leon and Ivan cast spells, checking that there was no other magical signature in the area. From his roost, Jed removed his headphones to offer a thumbs-up. They Apparated down to the killing field, Vanishing their stands from the trees. Jed took samples of teeth, blood and hair from their kills, mixing them with potions in his pack to determine if the animals had any diseases, magical or otherwise.  
  
“No rabies,” he announced happily, “or anythin' else I can see. I think we're good 'fur phase two.” **  
  
** Jedidiah stayed behind to run more tests. Harry tromped off through the woods, trailing behind Ivan as the big blond man tracked the path of the magical creatures back through the underbrush. They weren't too far from the animals' nest, a cave-like hole dug into a nearby hill. It looked like a rock outcropping which would have been used by hikers to stay out of the rain. Someone had built a bench there, which was now broken down to splinters and bits of twisted metal. The boars had dug back into the hill, making a home for themselves. **  
  
** Hanging back, Harry used the night setting his Omnioculars to peer inside. He could just discern the shape of a boar's back rising and falling in slumber, several babies curled up around it.  
  
“Looks like they've been breeding,” Mr. Moreno commented. He'd had the same idea as Harry, peeking into the cave with his Omnioculars zoomed.  
  
“Blast 'em,” Leon replied curtly. Ivan and Mr. Moreno nodded, drawing their wands and pulling supplies from their pockets.  
  
“Might wanta step back,” Leon advised Harry, drawing him away by the shoulder. “'S gonna get messy.” **  
  
** Harry watched as Ivan twirled his wand, producing a cloud of thin smoke. He edged the substance closer to the mouth of the cave, a forearm clamped tight over his mouth. The gas seemed to fold in on itself, becoming more and more dense the further away it got. Harry recognized the look of concentration on the Serb's face—it was like when he cast Eptir Eldr, or when Draco cast the Imperius Curse. This was Dark Arts at its finest. As the smoke curled, disappearing into the cave, Moreno and Ivan backed away. **  
  
** Mr. Moreno lit a match, levitating it to the mouth of the cave. A moment later, there was a great explosion without sound—a rumbling of the earth and a shock-wave which popped Harry's ear-drums with its might, but the blast itself didn't make a sound. Stones jumped up from the ground, trees dropping their leaves. Harry and Leon were showered in red and amber leaves as they fell. From behind a tree, Harry caught Ivan rubbing at his temples as he caught his breath. **  
  
** Leon let Ivan be the first into the cave, hanging back with Harry. It seemed one of the perks of being the boss was that Leon rarely got his hands dirty. Mr. Moreno followed Ivan, stooping and removing his hat as he disappeared into the dark, wand lit. The man came back a second later, blood on his boots and a smile on his tanned face.  
  
“They're intact, boss,” Mr. Moreno called out. “You owe me twenty bucks.” **  
  
** Leon shrugged. “I'll be damned.” **  
  
** Moreno gave a salute before ducking back into the cave, pulling on leather work gloves. Harry could almost hear mud, made with pig filth and blood, squelching under the man's heavy boots. Harry was glad to be the new kid, able to hang back with Leon, away from the massacre. He wasn't sure how anything could be considered “intact” after a magical explosion like that. But he wasn't exactly eager to see whatever Ivan and Mr. Moreno dragged out. **  
  
** Harry turned to find Leon **** patting **** his pockets, retrieving his mobile with one hand and a small leather address book with the other. The old man's **** gaze darted between the two muggle items, licking his lips as he punched a telephone number from the book into his mobile **** phone. He held the device to his ear.  
  
“Who're you dialing?” Harry inquired **** as **** it rang.  
  
“A charity,” the old Irishman replied. “If we kill somethin' the muggles can eat, these folks 'r willin' ter **** come pick it up, butcher it and hand it out to the poor.” **  
  
** Harry thought that was rather lovely. Then Ivan walked by, dead baby pigs slung over his broad shoulders by their bloody little hooves, gore running from their ears as though their tiny brains had been turned to mush. The sight made him cringe. **  
  
** He'd have to get used to it—the blood, the death. These were just animals; animals who posed a threat to people, of course. He would have to learn to separate the types of killing, the senseless slaughter which Voldemort and his Death Eaters championed versus the elimination of a threat to people's lives and safety. When he was young, murder was murder and dead was dead. Voldemort had been bad because he was a monster, murdering children and their parents. But now Harry too would be a killer. Of more than pigs. He might have to kill someone's child one day, someone's parent; granted, they would be a Death Eater, but that did little to lessen his dismay. Murder was murder, and he struggled, turning it over and over in his mind. **  
  
** To get to Voldemort, he may have to kill. Ron had already killed for him. Would Hermione be next? Or, Mordred forbid, Draco? **  
  
** He didn't want anyone killed. He didn't. **  
  
** But maybe Voldemort was like these hogs, bred so far away from his wizarding species that, rather than flee, the only instinct he knew was to charge. And when attacked, you had to fight back. **  
  
** That was how he would justify his actions. Protecting himself and the lives of others. After all, Draco said his magic acted out of self preservation in times of duress. Perhaps he, too, was only doing what he knew. **  
  
  
**  
  


~ * ~

**  
  
  
  
** “ Charlene!” **  
  
** She bit the inside of her lip. It was nosy Mrs. Brewber, the matriarch of the muggle family next door. The woman's brother was a state senator and the position gave Mrs. Brewber a sense of “community” and “outreach” which drove Charlene to drink. She could smell the fakeness wafting off the woman, mingled with her Chanel number five and La Mer face cream. With a resigned sigh, Charlene plastered a fake smile on her face and turned away from the mailbox. **  
  
** “ Allison! It's good to see yoo. 'Ow 'ave you been?” **  
  
** Allison Brewber waddled her way down the cul-de-sac, pregnant again. She wore one of those hideous woolen capes which were in muggle fashion, caught half-way between wizardwear and a poncho. The ends were caught up in a breeze, the woman's long brown hair pushed across her face. It took Mrs. Brewber a moment to disentangle the strands from her sticky lip gloss. She reached out for Charlene, planting air kisses to both her cheeks—either a pandering to her French background or some fluting of high society. Charlene endured it, keeping the stiff smile on her lips. **  
  
** Mrs. Brewber's hand went to her belly, supporting the weight. “Number four on the way,” she announced. “We just found out—its a girl!” **  
  
** Charlene offered a polite congratulations, eyeballing the letters she'd received in the mail. She let the woman prattle a bit. Eventually, she came to her point. **  
  
** “ I couldn't help but notice,” she whispered conspiratorially, “the handsome young man you have staying with you.” Mrs. Brewber waggled her eyebrows, indicating Harry, raking leaves from the lawn at the front of the house. He had several neat piles, already, and was hard at work. Mrs. Brewber leaned closer. “Charles said they bumped into each other this morning, jogging back by the river. He's from Britain?” **  
  
** “ Yes,” Charlene nodded absently. The less she titillated this woman, the better. “'Is name is 'Arry. 'Is father was Leo's best lieutenant—” **  
  
** “ Oh! You mean in Homeland Security? Back in England” Mrs. Brewber interrupted. **  
  
** Charlene nodded. “At MI5,  _ oui _ .” **  
  
** “ And he's here...?” **  
  
** “ Apprenticing,” Charlene filled in, wishing the woman weren't quite so keen on other people's business. She'd once let herself into the Harpers’ home unannounced, nearly catching a few potions brewing on the stove. A speedy Vanishing Charm had saved the day. Now Charlene kept her guard up around all the neighbors, just to be sure. **  
  
** Mrs. Brewber's face pinched. “He looks awfully young for the service.” **  
  
** “ 'Ee's just graduated school,” Charlene supplied. “Leon's  _ alma matter _ . It would seem 'Arry is... very gifted.” **  
  
** Mrs. Brewber observed Harry through the trees. The boy had paused to wipe sweat from his brow, peeling off his ratty sweatshirt. His tee nearly came with it, exposing a swath of toned caramel stomach. His physique rivaled any Calvin Klein ad. It was the look of an Auror, battle-hardened and deathly quick.  **  
  
** Beside her, Mrs. Brewber tittered, “He's... remarkably good-looking.” **  
  
** “ Fetching,  _ oui _ ,” Charlene agreed off-hand. “And very considerate. Yoo know, 'ee made me breakfast zis morning.” **  
  
** “ What a sweetheart!” A manicured hand was pressed to Mrs. Brewber's ample bosom as she swooned. “He's going to make some lucky young lady very, very happy one day.” **  
  
** Charlene thought about that a moment. Already, she'd seen the letters Harry passed to Leon, all addressed to influential witches and wizards involved in the fight against You Know Who. Harry wrote owls around the globe—to his fellow Triwizard Champions, Fleur Delacour and Viktor Krum, to potioneers in Belgium, curse breakers in Egypt and dragon tamers all across Russia. There were very few letters home. And Harry was standoffish whenever the subject of a girlfriend was brought up, leading Charlene to believe there had been a bad break-up or two, some troubles of the heart. **  
  
** She wondered how that could have come about. Harry was such a sincere and compassionate soul; any girl would be a fool to do him wrong. Perhaps there had been more to it, then. It was none of her business, anyway, and  _ she _ **** wasn't one to pry. She had faith that the right girl would come along in time. Harry deserved no less. **  
  
** Harry was a good boy; upright, noble and kind to a fault. He was everything a Gryffindor ought to be, Leon had said. And Harry's loyalty to Leon was clear, even this early in their acquaintance. Harry Potter was a young man with a job to do—and nothing would keep him from his goal. That brand of determination was admirable, though it could border on fixation at times. She'd seen the mindset before in many a soldier. She couldn't fault him for it. That was the type of attitude which brought men home from war. **  
  
** But she worried for him. The boy had so much on his young shoulders—quite literally the fate of the world. Greatness was expected of him. He was their champion, the last hope of the magical world at seventeen. It gave her a terrible feeling. **  
  
** She grimaced, hoping he might have the strength to live through this war—to live a second time.

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMERS:** “Elephant Gun” written by Zach Condon and performed by Beirut, released by Lon Gisland in 2007.


	44. Beretta: Da Mihi Castitatem et Continentiam, Sed Noli Modo.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PWP—Harry wanks. Seriously. That's all there is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** wanking, pornography, sexual fantasies, mild bondage/kinbaku karada

“Lord grant me chastity and continence, but not yet.”

\- St. Augustine

 

 

 

Harry was digging around Gideon's room, looking for a place to keep his extra jumpers, when he found them. **  
  
** Dirty magazines. Great piles of them.  _ Wizarding _ **** magazines, even, mixed in with the muggle. Moving pictures—limbs, **** naked flesh and naughty bits winking up at him as he flipped the pages. **  
  
** It was quite the stash, really. Harry felt a blush creeping over his cheeks as he picked up one book after another. Gideon Harper had been a right pervert, that much was sure. Then again, he'd been a sixteen year old boy who knew he was going to die. The boy's magazines read as a how-to manual, getting dirtier and freakier as Harry went on. First it was just scantily-clad **** women posing suggestively, touching their breasts. Then there were men and women together, with articles about something called a “G” spot and charms to stimulate it. Four or five books later, Harry caught his first flash of the familiar—two muggle blokes with their cocks out, wanking each other and kissing. Blasted Gryffindor curiosity getting the better of him, Harry kept right on **** turning the pages, ignoring the blush suffusing his face as he soldiered on. **  
  
** Leather. Whips. Two cocks in one hole. Some type of metal clothes pins which muggles put on their nipples. It looked painful, but the woman in the picture seemed to be, uh, enjoying herself.  **  
  
** Head cocked, trousers tight and peering at a trio of wizards buggering one another's brains out, Harry wondered if he made faces like that when Draco took him. One of the blokes had his mouth hanging open, drooling, his eyes screwed shut. The chap on the bottom looked crushed and about to vomit. As the picture moved, the fellow's fist pressed against his mouth, like he was trying to keep either the sound or his lunch in. Harry couldn't quite tell. The wizard fucking him had an enormous prick, though—even larger than Draco's. Harry thought he would lose his chips, too. **  
  
** It was good to know he wasn't the only one to feel split open by the activity—buggery had a tendency to rip apart your insides if you weren't careful. Wizards had better ways of dealing with the after-effects than muggles, it seemed—charms and spells being preferable to the... rather “manual” methods the muggle pages described. **  
  
** He paused on an article which looked vaguely familiar; granted the witch was naked in this photograph, but he'd seen a similar method of restraint during his instruction with Margie Gweir. He wouldn't have minded seeing her naked, like the witch in the picture. His eyes followed a fall of long dark hair, the conjured rope making breasts and bum bulge, exaggerating her curves. Harry licked his teeth, barely resisting the urge to dive into the photo and bite each red, rounded swell. **  
  
** He set the magazine down on the mattress, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed. His hand found its way to his mouth, brushing his lips as he considered the spells detailed. He recognized one—a wrist restraint Draco had used on him, binding him in leather before lashing him to the Black family piano in the middle of the parlor. That had been a trip. He rubbed at the tendons in his wrist, remembering the pressure, the brush of fine leather against his skin. **  
  
** Maybe there was something to this. **  
  
** After all, Draco had tied him up loads of times. Perhaps it was time he returned the favor. Gideon Harper had all-but left him a road map. **  
  
** Harry flipped a few pages, seeking out something simple... and maybe something for a man. Most of what he saw called for breasts, for protruding flesh, enough to be caught up in ropes and pinched, held. On a man's flat chest, something like that would only slide off. **  
  
** He found a solution with three magazines and a pamphlet all open at once. The pamphlet seemed to come from non-magical sources and warned, in no uncertain terms, of the dangers involved with restriction. These were mostly things he knew from his training—that restriction of blood flow could result from binding of the wrists or ankles, that numbness or purpling were warning signs, and that in any scenario, scissors or some other implement of escape should be kept readily available. He nodded, knowing that in his case, a wand to hand would always be enough. For his own sake, he'd keep his hands free. For now. **  
  
** Two magazines depicted patterns of rope: harnesses, they were called. To Harry, they resembled works of art, ropes placed just-so to accent muscles, limbs, breasts or, in one clever case, the appearance of a splotchy caramel birthmark sitting between a woman's collar bones. Red silk wrapped her torso, chest and neck, forming a pentacle around the marking on her light skin. In the image, her bosom rose slowly with her even breaths, swelling her breasts, the silk sliding over her skin. He liked the way she moved, hands free to trace the arch of her neck or flip the curtain of auburn hair from her shoulder. Harry's mouth watered, his trousers now unmentionably tight. Something like that on Draco... or even on himself.... **  
  
** He checked the magazine one last time before shoving the whole lot off the bed, toeing off his trainers as he scrambled up onto the crisp sheets. His tee and trousers couldn't come off fast enough. A wave of his wand sent his socks flying for the hamper. He took his time with his pants, realizing with a jolt that he'd donned Draco's that morning. A designer waistband stared back at him, French lettering embroidered in white thread against dusty green. The color looked better against Draco's paleness, bringing out the pinks and blues hiding under his skin. Harry examined the image he himself made, tight fabric hugging his bum, stretching over the fat roll of his cock. Hand snaking down his side, he understood why Draco wore these ruddy tight pants. They made your prick look huge, like a rabid creature fighting for escape from a cotton prison. He stroked the line of his hip, eyes closing as he replaced the image of himself with Draco in these pants, lying lazily on the bed beside him, hip bones jutting from his fancy green pants like a mountain range, all angles and rosy flush. **  
  
** His breath sped up, spit pooling beneath his tongue. **  
  
** He hooked a thumb under the thick waistband, drawing it down to hook beneath his sac. His cock sprung free, smacking against his stomach. He ignored it, instead thumbing the familiar hair between his shaft and bollocks. He closed his eyes again, remembering that Draco would be growing his pubic hair at Harry's insistence. Would there be hair on his chest? His stomach? How much might he have lost due to the scars? And would the hair cover his scars completely? Or might it be thin or light enough for the familiar marks to show through? And light blonde hair? Coarse, curly or sleek? White? Ashy? Possibly darker? **  
  
** His hand found his prick at last, squeezing the head with spine-shuddering force. He wished his palm were Draco's mouth, conjuring a smear of lube. But it wasn't enough, even as he stroked. **  
  
** He'd been spoiled—ruined by Draco. By his deft, knowing hands, his unassailable mouth and the daring weight of his prick, heavy against Harry's tongue, teasing his mouth or slapping his hole before taking him, good and rough. **  
  
** Harry let out a long breath, slowing his heart. It had been a long time. **  
  
** He threw his head back, given over to the memories, mind wandering as freely as the ghost-hands along his body. **  
  
** Sex was great and all—but it wasn't what he missed. He longed to put his palm to Draco's cheek, turning that pointed face up to the light, catching his stormy-colored gaze, grazing a thumb over his plump pink lips. The nearness. Their souls, like an acid cord of magic, connecting them. **  
  
** He wanted the hot roll of it, the burn of Draco sweaty and groaning against him—with him, there in the filthy, perverted depths of it. He wanted the sharpness of teeth breaking his skin, the sting of rounded nails digging into his skin, leaving their half-moon signature up and down his body. He wanted the press, the verve, the violence—to be together, unafraid. Unhinged. He missed letting go. **  
  
** So he imagined Draco's hands on him, Draco's mouth. He flipped his wand, picturing the cream-colored ropes winding around his chest as Draco's thin fingers working his skin, tangling through the black hair of his pecs, embracing—tightening, sweet and right. **  
  
** Arching his back, he sunk into the sheets, letting the magic take hold. **  
  
** Heat rushed over him, the roughness of rope in contrast to his hard body and the give of sheets. And he closed his eyes, reaching out as though Draco were there, millimeters away, just beyond his reach. He stretched, a hand caressing the sheets, remembering the curves and bone-pale swells of him, the ache and burn and fucking  _ give _ . He followed the swirling path of Draco’s scars from memory, fingers inching across the pale blue sheets. **** Helpless, his lips traced the line of a bicep as his fingers curled in his own hair, tugging as Draco would. The languid press was almost right, almost the sweet tremor of Draco's flesh under his mouth. He imagined it was and tugged harder. **  
  
** Every gasp and twitch pulled at the ropes, tightening, releasing with each breathy exhale—a great pair of hands encasing him, holding him close even as he arched against the crush of it. Air quickly became scarce, replaced by sweat and heat, daunting rapture **** and need. Draco's mouth would be on him now, working him, plying the sensitive nerves behind his ear until he was frantic, bucking. No wonder Draco always closed his eyes. It wasn't to enhance the feeling so much as to avoid the sight—purple-red prick and tight ropes and timorous muscle gagging for it, flexing under weak little strings he could break any second if his magic went wild enough. That was what Draco didn't want him to see—that erotic, writhing sight. **  
  
** He came with no warning, just spilled in his hand the moment he opened his eyes and saw himself—heedless, fervid, so right.


	45. Beretta: Mount Wroclai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has earned himself a day off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** smoking, some sexual references, Harry being all straight and shit (it's part of why you love him, be honest!)

  
  


_ "And I know when time _

_ will pass by slow. _

_ Without my heart, _

_ what can I do? _

_ You're in the halls _

_ The bell gives way to a larger swell _

_ Without my heart, _

_ what can I do? _

_ Oh, Wroclai." _

  
  


“ Mount Wroclai (Idle Days)”

Beirut

 

 

 

 

 

Things moved very quickly once Harry was able to contact Minerva McGonagall. Pavel and Anka Gregorovitch were brought to Leon's headquarters by Portkey. The elderly couple was placed in Ivan's care; he would conceal them in his own home, disguised as his grandparents visiting from Serbia. Ivan lived in a posh muggle suburb, so there was little risk of the wandmaker being recognized. Harry could read the gratitude in Gregorovitch's eyes as he shook hands with everyone in the room, getting Leon twice. He and his wife were happy to assist Mr. Harper with his research in exchange for their protection.    
  
It was only a matter of days before Leon had secured a sizable grant from some research committee, providing Pavel and Anka with a generous income and funding for the wandmaker to dig deeper with his theories about wand core properties under Transfiguration. Paperwork was already in the pipes to bring Yura Batushansky to America, reinstating him as Pavel's assistant, the position he'd held in Poland before the war broke out.   
  
Like two graying, bearded peas in a pod, Pavel and Leon made many trips to Manitoba, checking on the progress of Ferrard Lachlan's Quidditch sanctuary. The old men always came back bickering over one aspect of the wards or another, each throwing himself into research and trials to prove himself in the right. It was how Harry imagined Fred and George would be in their old age.   
  
Word from the twins reached him through McGonagall. The ginger pair was well, seeing to the remains of their looted, burned-out shop. They would be coming to the States for a visit as soon as their premises was properly boarded up and secure. Harry was anxious for the rambunctious twins to have a sit-down with the likes of Leon, Yuri and Gregorovitch. Sparks would surely fly. Harry prayed they would be productive ones.   
  
In an effort to further educate himself, Harry spent an intriguing afternoon in Jedidiah's potions laboratory. The place was nothing like what he'd been expecting; rather than the neatly organized shelves of Professor Snape's store room — every last ampule and jar meticulously labeled — Jed observed a method of absolute chaos. The Southerner brewed potions like Mrs. Weasley cooked, throwing in a pinch of this and a dash of that, never measuring, using just his fingers, grating roots and nuts right over the cauldron, measurements guessed-at, the whole thing gone about by feeling and instinct. One cauldron turned out to be sangria. Jed offered Harry a cup of his home-brewed sweet wine and they sat on his porch, their heels kicked up on the railing, sipping. They leaned dangerously in their wicker rocking chairs, watching the sun set behind the mountains. The quiet man lived in a vast and beautiful wilderness.   
  
Harry described the Dementor-repelling potion he'd seen at Ravenwood, Jed's eyes growing exponentially in circumference as he described billowing purple smoke driving the creatures back, away from their Death Eater allies.   
  
“ Impossible,” the brunet muttered into his cup. His rocking chair squeaked as he teetered forward and back. “Only a master potion maker 'r a lunatic could concoct somefin' like that.”   
  
This didn't bring Harry any closer to knowing whether it had been Snape or Ionescue — Dmitry and Mishenka's father — who had invented the purple-smoking potion. But he knew it existed. And it worked. A lot of people had been hurt at Ravenwood—some even lost their lives, lost loved ones, colleagues, friends. And Snape hadn't warned the Order what was coming, hadn't tried to sneak them any potion with which to defend themselves.   
  
Rationally, Harry knew there could have been any number of mitigating circumstances outside his knowledge. Maybe Snape didn't know about the potion. Perhaps he couldn't lay hands on any in time to pass it to the Order before Ravenwood. But irrationally, a darker part of Harry blamed Severus Snape for the deaths of those Aurors and civilians that horrible night in Spain. The anger made him want to redouble his efforts, made him value people like Jedidiah, Yura and Gregorovitch all the more. At least  _ someone  _ had their eyes to the future and was willing to be an active part of the solution. McGonagall claimed Snape was helping. Harry hoped the fruit of the man's actions would drop rather soon. Time was precious—and they were running rather short on it.   
  
He suspected Voldemort was sitting on more dire and dangerous tools than the Dementor-repelling potion. He remembered the grim faces of Sirius and Mr. Weasley in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place years ago, discussing a weapon—something of ultimate power. Maybe that weapon was an idea. Because it was more than a prophecy or a potion or a chunk of soul hidden in a snake. Harry could feel it in his bones. He knew Voldemort was up to something, was after more. Was after  _ him _ .   
  
And Harry wouldn't be caught walking into the jaws of that pit unprepared. Not again, anyway. This time, there were more than his and his friends' lives on the line. Hoping for the best, Harry hunkered down and prepared for the worst.   
  
  


  
  
He trained, learning a bit of martial arts from Hitori. He perfected his shooting with Leon and Ivan. He learned more about the team's gear and inventory from Maddie, helping her organize the warehouse. He tried to wrap his head around artifact theory under Hanson Tokko's superior tutelage.   
  
His results were mixed. The more he ran—waking up earlier and earlier with the dawn of each morning—the better he got at muggle fist fighting. After honing his reflexes, his dueling improved. Instinct rose in increments, compounded by practice, diligence and time. Hanson, Leon and even Jed attempted tweaks to Harry ’ s gear in order to amplify his magic and boost his spells. He wasn't as good as Chereshko Toleanu, who blew Leon away one afternoon in Manitoba, but at least he was no longer the biggest chink in the team's armor. Professor McGonagall sent along Godrick Gryffindor's sword by messenger after learning of Harry's interest in magical artifacts. Once he figured out how the sword's magic worked, he might yet discover a way to use it against Voldemort's Horcruxes.   
  
In the interim, he groaned every time Hitori ordered him to unsheath the sword and charge him. The sword was heavy and cumbersome—meant to be weilded by a man several heads taller than him and a few stone meatier. Harry did his best. He was better at a distance, shooting spells or bullets and then running, using his speed and small stature to his advantage. But he trained for the worst scenarios, not the best; so it was swords, strange wands, brass knuckles and fists, Dark magic and black-morning sprints. He fell into bed most nights, aching and tired, a mixture of dirt and gunpowder ground beneath his fingernails. He barely had the energy to wank, sleep claiming him the moment his head hit the pillow.   
  
  


  
  


~ * ~

 

  
  
Hunched over his breakfast post-morning-run and shower, Harry started.   
  
He relaxed a moment later, his tired brain finally registering the hand on his shoulder as Mrs. Harper's. She was in her frilly floral nightgown and slippers, her hair wrapped up in a scarf.   
  
“ Alright,  _ mon beau? _ ”  she asked, rubbing his shoulder in a motherly fashion.   
  
Harry's heart about dropped out of his chest. That familiar endearment—it simply meant handsome — reminded him painfully of Draco. It was a physical pain, like a fire racing through his veins, burning his energy to vapors, leaving him utterly drained. Harry slumped to the table beside his bangers and eggs.   
  
Mrs. Harper slid a plate of toast across the kitchen table, taking up a piece before seating herself in the chair beside him. Her hand kept rubbing slow circles over his shoulder.   
  
“ Oh, 'Arry,” she soothed. “This eez quite zhee mood we 'ave 'ere. What's zee remedy?”   
  
Head pillowed against his arm, Harry regarded her from the other side of his plate. He decided on honesty.   
  
“ I'm... tired,” he sighed. He couldn't summon the energy to toy with his eggs.  “ I didn't think I'd be doing this by myself. Before I left England, I had a falling-out with my mates. I'd always pictured myself doing this with them at my side. Its... its hard, all this... on my own....”   
  
Charlene nodded her understanding. She chewed her toast contemplatively before answering. “Yoo really 'avent spent time with anyone your age, 'ave yoo?”   
  
Harry shook his head.   
  
Leon shuffled into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee, black, before planting a kiss to each of his wife's rosy cheeks. She reached out, taking his free hand in hers.   
  
“ 'Arry needs the day off, Leo,” she said plainly. “'Ee's jus' a boy.”   
  
Leon took one speculative look at Harry before he nodded. “Take the weekend, Potter. You look knackered.”   
  
The old man went to fix himself a plate. Harry picked up his fork... but that was as far as he got. The utensil teetered in his hands.   
  
“ Yoo should 'ead back to England,” Charlene suggested to Harry, now that his day was free. “See your friends. I'm sure yoo miss zem, and they yoo.”   
  
Slowly, Harry brought a bite of egg to his mouth. Something in his gut kicked. “ My best mate in particular.”   
  
“ Boy or girl?” Charlene inquired, picking up another square of toast.   
  
“ Bloke,” the corner of Harry's mouth quirked. “Draco.”   
  
There was a clatter as Leon dropped his fork in the cast iron skillet. The Irishman cleared his throat loudly. “Odd name, tha'. Draco, like the constellation. Who ’ s 'is family?”   
  
Harry chewed, thinking of how he wanted to phrase Draco's relationship with his parents. He settled for, “Draco's estranged. He's on our side now but his father's a pretty famous Death Eater — maybe you've heard of him? Lucius Malfoy.”   
  
“ _ Mon dieu _ .” Charlene's hand flew to her bosom, eyes darting to her husband at the stove.   
  
Harry lifted his head from his arm, peeking back at the old man. Leon hadn't moved a whisker. His back was rigid. Harry caught sight of his square jaw clenching tight before the man set his plate down on the counter, excusing himself under his breath.   
  
Harry looked to Charlene for an explanation.   
  
“ I'm zure your friend ees delightful,” she reassured Harry.   
  
He fixed her with an honest stare over the rims of his glasses. “Look. Lucius Malfoy's not a nice man—by any stretch of the imagination. If there's some history between him and Mr. Harper, I'd rather know about it. Draco is... well, he took the Mark, but he was sixteen and under duress. ”  Harry's voice firmed. “I don't think he was ever a Death Eater. Not really. I know Draco. And I know he's not a killer. He may look like his father but they're very different people.”   
  
Charlene nodded slowly. It took a moment for her to put words to her thoughts. “ I believe yoo, 'Arry. And I would not place sins o' zhe father on hees son's head. Zat ees not what we believe in zhis 'ouse. But yoo should know...” she took a steadying breath, clacking her fingernails with her nerves. “ Lucius Malfoy is zee force be'ind my Leo losing hees job in England years ago.”   
  
“ Figures,” Harry snorted. “Well, when he breaks out of Azkaban—which'll be any ruddy day, now—he'll be coming after Draco. Retribution for going against Lucius' wishes and allying himself with me. So I'm not exactly keen on the man, myself.”   
  
Charlene toyed with her uneaten toast. “Families over z'ere,” she muttered. “Yoo know, Lucius and Leon are... third couzins, I z'hink. By blood.” Harry nodded, chewing his breakfast. He wasn't exactly surprised. The Harpers and the Malfoys were both pureblood Slytherin families. They were bound to have intermarried somewhere; then again, almost every wizarding family in Britain was related in one way or another. Hell, Ron and Draco were distant cousins—fourth, maybe? Harry and Draco were probably related by marriage somewhere along the line.   
  
Charlene waved her toast dismissively. “ But Leon doezn't like to talk about hees family. I 'ave never met z'ese people in my life....” She shook her head, disparaging and confused.   
  
“ Sometimes family isn't the one you're born into so much as the people you choose to keep with you,” Harry said sagely.   
  
Charlene folded her hands in her lap. And then she smiled happily.   
  
“ I remember,  _ cher _ , when Gideon was born. Leo was  _ so _ upset. 'Ee said eet was jus' hees luck, our son would look like a miniature Lucius Malfoy.”   
  
_ Gideon _ . That had to be their strikingly handsome son, the one whose room Harry was staying in. The one who died.   
  
“ I—I think Draco looks like him, like your son, ”  Harry stammered, reaching for his wallet. “But you tell me.”   
  
Harry kept their muggle photo in his wallet a certain way—folded, only the first two frames in a strip of four showing. The first images were completely platonic and non-sexual. The first showed Draco unprepared, head of magically brown hair bowed as he cleaned his disguise glasses with the hem of his white polo shirt. The Harry of the photograph peered at little Draco, smiling crookedly. In the second frame, they were both smiling at the camera, Harry's grin still distinctly lop-sided. Beyond the lens' view, Harry was reaching for Draco's hip, a Malfoy-pale hand already resting on The Boy Who Lived's inner thigh and worming its way higher. The resulting two frames were private—them snogging their brains out, about to rip one another's clothes off to suck and frot and fuck right there in that very public photo booth.   
  
Draco had kind of a “thing” about people seeing them kiss. As much as he was a complete ponce about it, the act made his pulse race and his eyes dilate to black. He liked it when people saw them together—just muggles or strangers. He liked poking at the muggle taboo of two blokes together, romantically, sexually. He liked the attention for being different. The affronted looks muggles shot them went right to the git's over-inflated ego. He liked showing Harry off: they were fit together. Sexy. Separately, they were each attractive... and so attracted to each other. Like magnets. It wasn't much of a secret. When Draco liked something, when he really enjoyed it, it showed. Sure, his trousers would bulge, but the joy was blatant in his eyes, in the crinkling lines around their grey, in the scrunching of his nose and the awkward, boffin sound of his chipmunk laugh.   
  
In the frozen muggle picture, Draco had that look in his eyes, forever preserved. Even with his hair darkened, even with thick reading glasses and a grin on his face, there was no mistaking a Malfoy for anything but what he or she was—pureblooded (in)breeding in all the right ways. Pointy, pale, and fiercely proud. Harry thought Draco looked lovely in photos. Especially when the man would just relax and maybe smile a bit.   
  
“ He's wearing a disguise,” Harry offered, showing Mrs. Harper the upper portion of the photograph. “But, I mean, you can't hide a face like that!” Harry joked. “What is he, part Veela, part Bowtruckle? I wish he'd gain weight like normal people. I've seen him eat an entire tray of biscuits, then drink a bottle of wine and not even have to loosen his belt. It's rather sickening.”   
  
Mrs. Harper chuckled. But there were tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.   
  
There was no denying it, what with the evidence in her face like that.   
  
They were, indeed, family.   
  
  


  
  
Harry put his pajamas back on at Mrs. Harper's insistence. He made pancakes until he finally got the batter just right, not too runny but not too lumpy, either. Then they curled up on the sofa, ate sweets, drank coffee and marathoned the entire  _ Star Wars _ trilogy.   
  
When the Jedis summoned their lightsabers by stretching out a hand, it reminded Harry of Draco and the way the blonde would call his wand to him. Harry said as much.   
  
“ 'Es wand must be older than 'imself,,” Charlene replied, popping the last tape in the VCR with a flick of her wand. “After thirty or forty years, a wand's magic will settle in. My Leo knows more about eet. Yoo should ask 'im.”   
  
Watching the films, Harry thought Darth Vader made an excellent foil of Lord Voldemort. Like Vader, Tom Riddle hadn't always been evil—just attracted to the dark side of the force, like any curious teenage boy would be. For all the unnerving parallels, Harry was pleased to know he would not be finding out Tom Riddle was his father. Nor would he have his hand cut off only to hang out of a rubbish chute, waiting for Ron and Hermione to pick him up. If he wasn't careful, he might start calling his Firebolt the Millennium Falcon. At least Hermione would get the joke.   
  
  


\- - -

 

  
  
Mrs. Harper tracked him down in the study late that afternoon, pouring over books about old pureblood magic. She had the cordless phone in one hand, the other hand clamped over the receiver.   
  
“ 'Arry, dear,” she said in her pretty sing-song, “I 'ave Arturo's daughter on z'ee phone...” Mrs. Harper rolled her R's like a pro. “Malaya. She's jus' leaving school. Would yoo want to go over z'ere, spend some time?”   
  
Harry was very thankful when the woman's rosy face remained neutral—no waggling of eyebrows or sneaky looks suggesting the young, dark-haired Miss Moreno might have a crush on him, though Harry was sure Mr. Harper had probably relayed as much to his wife.   
  
Harry thought about it. He didn't really know Malaya that well... but banging his empty head against these books wasn't getting him anywhere, either. A bit of socializing wouldn't kill him. Maybe he could get some information about the Harper's son, Gideon; after all, he and Malaya would have been in school together at Salem. And since the Salem Institute didn't have a house system like Hogwarts, it was fairly likely that they at least knew one another in passing. Harry's curiosity got the better of him.   
  
“ Sure. Tell her I'll be right over.”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
The Moreno house was a modern mansion, set in a hilly suburb of green grass and tall, lush trees. He'd thought Texas would be... drier, dustier.   
  
Malaya met him in the hallway with what he recognized as a devious glint in her eyes. It was the same expression she'd worn when she'd tried to kiss him... and when she'd hassled him about his relationship with Draco. He probably reacted a little coldly when she hugged him hello, wrapping her arms around his middle and giving him a good squeeze in welcome. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had yet to change out of her Salem uniform—a pale blue blouse, short black skirt, tights and a navy cloak with matching cardigan.   
  
She offered him a drink or a bite to eat. When he declined, she took his hand and began pulling him toward the wood and metal staircase, saying, “I have to get out of this stupid get-up immediately!”   
  
In her spacious bedroom, Malaya began peeling off her clothes—kicking her shoes, tossing her cloak, tugging off her jumper and unbuttoning that dainty blouse all in one go. Harry turned away, covering his eyes with a turned-up jacket collar.   
  
“ Oh, don't be shy!” she chortled, teasing. A moment later, her short little skirt landed in his lap with a soft crinkling of fabric, as though she'd dropped it there on purpose to see how he would react.   
  
“ _ Don't. _ ”   
  
The anger escaped Harry's lips, unbidden. Only the horrified spread of Malaya's dark eyes confirmed it—he'd hissed at her in Parseltongue. Her small hands gripped the hem of the undershirt she wore beneath her blouse, knuckles standing out white as snow along her clenched fingers. She was standing there in her pants, the shadow of her bra visible through the thin shirt. Harry stood, handing the skirt back to her before turning his back, folding his arms across his chest.   
  
“ I didn't mean to scare you,” he began. He was able to roll his eyes, since she couldn't see his face. He didn't exactly feel like apologizing—he didn't feel sorry at all, seeing as she'd provoked him to begin with—but he knew things would go more smoothy in the long run if he offered some type of apology. “I'm a Parselmouth. I was told it would only come out if I was looking at a snake. And that's how it was when I was young. But as I've gotten older, I'm finding that's not entirely true. It happens when I'm angry. Its happened when I'm asleep and having a vivid dream. Or sometimes in sexual situations.”   
  
“ All I told you was not to do what you were doing,” he clarified. He could hear the rustling of clothes as she dressed, listening silently as he explained. “Just because I'm dating a bloke doesn't mean I fancy girls any less. I've only had girlfriends before this. So it was a shock when you... to see you... when you started taking your clothes off like that. Do you see what I mean?”   
  
“ Yeah, I gotcha,” Malaya said, coming into his vision fully dressed in denims and a fancy silk top. “I'm sorry too, Harry. I guess I just put you in my 'gay file'. I keep forgetting you're into chicks.”   
  
“ Really?” Harry snorted. “I find it hard to forget.”   
  
“ I'm sorry, Harry. What else do you want me to say?” She let out a long breath, her hands listless.“Let's change the subject,” she suggested.   
  
“ Sure,” Harry replied readily. “There was something I wanted to ask you about.” Malaya nodded that he should continue. “The Harpers' son... Gideon. Did you know him at all?”   
  
Malaya shook her head. He couldn't quite read the emotion on her face, not knowing her well enough. It looked somewhere between sadness and relief.   
  
“ Not really,” she said. “I wasn't  _ his _ type, either.”   
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “And what's that supposed to mean?” he asked blandly, falling to sarcasm. “Was he a poofter, too?”   
  
“ I don't think so,” she chewed her lip, considering. “I mean, he might've been bi or something. Dee was just a total nerd—obsessed with potions. Everybody hit on him and stuff, 'cause he was hot as fuck, but he never really had... friends. Like, none. Nobody. People said he was kinda short-tempered, mean. Everyone on his Quidditch squad was a little afraid of him. But he got results, so....” She shrugged. “Like I said, I knew  _ of _ him but I didn't really  _ know _ him. I don't think anybody did.”   
  
Harry considered that. It sounded like Gideon had gotten his personality from his father. And maybe from his Malfoy ancestors, too. The boy sounded like Draco, surrounding himself with lackies and sycophants rather than opening up to make any real, lasting friendships. Harry felt sad for the guy.   
  
“ Um,” Harry cleared his throat. “What happened to him? He... he's gone, right? He died?”   
  
“ Oh my God!” Malaya's hand went to her heart, her eyes wide. “Nobody told you?”   
  
Harry shook his head. He wanted to get to the bottom of this. “When did he...?”   
  
She thought a moment. “About three years ago.”   
  
“ Do you know what happened?” Harry asked. “Was it an accident or...?”   
  
“ Leukemia,” she said quietly. “The cancer was really aggressive. They gave him something like ten months.” Harry slowly nodded his understanding.   
  
“ Dee had always been quiet; withdrawn, socially. But he kinda went crazy after the diagnosis. Stopped coming to school, went off on some Manticore hunting expedition without telling his parents or anyone—it took weeks to track him down. Mr. Harper's whole team was looking for him all over the world. Then, when his folks forced him back in school, he went and got Karen Stevens pregnant.” Malaya waved her hands. She was a very animated speaker. “Totally ruined her life! And she was, like, two years older than him or something. Knocked her up and ditched her. He even denied it was his baby when everyone at Salem saw her baby bump. Completely fucked her over.”   
  
Harry interrupted, trying to keep the babbling girl on point. “So the Harpers have a grandchild now?”   
  
“ Oh, no,” Malaya shook her head. “Karen lost the baby—said it was a Quidditch accident. Bitch is a Keeper for the Sweetwater All-Stars now. I don't think she's been hit by a Bludger since her fourth year. Everybody knows she took something to kill the baby, since Dee didn't care and he was dead anyway. ”   
  
Harry struggled to piece together all the things he was hearing, trying in vain to siphon out Malaya's opinions and get to the truth of the matter. He was glad, at least, that she wasn't sugar-coating it— that she was willing to speak the truth about the dead rather than hush up the man's misdeeds. “How did the Harpers react?”   
  
Malaya thought a moment. “I remember Mrs. Harper was really sad. She's the one who was gonna raise the baby. Karen's family seemed happy she didn't have the kid—motherhood would've gotten in the way of her Quidditch career, and that's what she really wanted, apparently. I think Mr. Harper was just glad there wouldn't be any walking, talking evidence of his son's final, massive fuck up. You know? A bastard grandchild he'd have to look at for the next twenty years. Harper's really old-school pureblood like that. All you European wizards are,” she waved a hand over Harry. “Your boyfriend's pureblood, right?”   
  
Harry was so busy processing how badly he felt for Mr. and Mrs. Harper—especially sweet, motherly Charlene—that he just nodded.   
  
“ And you're a pureblood, too,” Malaya accused.   
  
“ Not really. My mum was muggle-born.”   
  
“ Yeah but,” the girl protested. “You're, like, Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. You're grandfathered in or something.” The girl frowned suddenly. “Do you only like purebloods? Is that it?”   
  
Harry snorted. “My best mate, Hermione, is muggle-born. It's not a—”   
  
Malaya cut him off, putting an impatient hand to her hip. “I mean sexually. You only wanna fuck purebloods.”   
  
“ That's not true,” Harry protested forcefully. Then he stopped to think about it. He was more attracted to Draco than he had been to anyone in his entire life—and Draco was pureblood. The man's magic had been a part of what drew Harry in—his magicality was built in, inescapable. It was on his skin, in his spit, hanging out between the strands of his white-blonde hair. You couldn't separate Draco from his magic—he would never be himself without it. And Harry wouldn't have him any other way, any less his total and complete self—pure blood, Dark training, unpopular opinions and all. Harry accepted Draco for who he was. And pureblood culture took up a decent chunk of what Harry swallowed in order to be with Draco.   
  
Harry thought harder, about other people he'd fancied. Ginny came to mind: the Weasleys were considered low for their association with muggles but their blood was just as pure as any Malfoy's. Cho Chang: she was relatively pureblood, as far as Harry knew. He thought Luna was pretty: pureblood, too. Fleur! Fleur was breathtakingly beautiful: she was also a quarter Veela and one hundred percent pureblood. Fuck!   
  
Maybe he really  _ was _ attracted to purebloods. Maybe he was drawn to the magic, looking for all he'd missed out on—a magical upbringing, surrounded by a loving family who knew what he was going through, who could guide him through the explosions of his Endopathotic magic and reassure him, comfort him, make him feel normal and wanted and loved. That was what he wanted for his own children someday. And there was no reason a muggle-born witch couldn't help him create that type of home, of course. So maybe it was the magic more than a family history of it. Maybe it was the aura of deep, intrinsic understanding which hung around those women which had attracted him the most. It was certainly a portion of what drew him to Draco.   
  
“ Maybe I've fancied a few purebloods,” Harry acknowledged. “I'll admit to that. But you also have to consider how much time I spend in the magical world. Maybe I'm only attracted to purebloods because that's who I'm around all the time. I don't favor purebloods as a conscious thing. I had sex with a muggle woman over summer holiday, before Draco and I got together. And she was really lovely. So I wouldn't say I only want to be intimate with purebloods. That's not accurate.”   
  
Malaya looked at him like he'd sprouted Mandrake root from both his ears—like she couldn't comprehend a word he was saying, she was so distracted.   
  
“ What?” he shrugged his shoulders.   
  
“ Just... trying to imagine you chatting up a muggle girl.” She snickered, barely containing a laugh. “Actually, the thought of you hitting on anyone is kinda funny.”   
  
Harry pulled a face.   
  
“ You're so serious, Harry!' she chortled. “You've got that awkwardly-charming thing going for you, though. And you're hot, I have to give you that. But you don't know how to relax!”   
  
Harry considered her words. He knew how to kick back and have a good time—now just wasn't the time, though. There was a war going on. People were dying every day. He had to put a stop to that because he had the ability, the power and the unique opportunity to do so. He didn't care whether or not this girl thought he was “fun;” now simply wasn't the time to be carrying on. He had a job to do.   
  
But maybe Malaya and Mrs. Harper had a point. Maybe he had to rest his brain before it imploded. That's what today was supposed to be about, right? The war would be waiting for him when he woke up Monday morning.   
  
Harry gave the girl his most winning smile, offering her his hand. “I reckon I've been a bit of a stick in the mud, lately. I could loosen up a bit.”   
  
Delighted, the girl clasped his hand in both of hers, jumping up and down with excitement.   
  
“ We're going out tonight!”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
Malaya took him to the shopping mall—or rather, she nagged until he drove her, picking up her friend along the way only to meet more girlfriends in the mall's massive car park.   
  
To Harry's immense relief, it didn't seem as though Malaya had let slip to any of her friends that the great Harry Potter was a bloody queer. The girls flirted shamelessly the moment they laid eyes on him, touching his arms and chest, giggling over his accent, complimenting his clothes—the leather jacket, especially—and generally being cozy. He treated them all to overpriced cappuccinos and submitted to being dragged around the sparkly shopping center, feeling as though he were on a date with no less than seven Cho Changs.   
  
His only reprieve was when the girls disappeared into a lingerie store; he was able to beg off, blushing.   
He located a record shop and purchased a few albums, thinking he'd send them on to Draco. Malaya found him there and recommended a few additional artists which Draco might like based on what Harry told her of the blonde's taste in magical composers. She seemed to know an awful lot about music. She also told him about an adapted type of battery available in America which would power a CD player in a magical field such as Hogwarts. Harry made her promise to help him pick up the necessary items to send on. If he couldn't be there to comfort Draco, he understood that a steady supply of music would be the next best thing. So he'd give Draco more music than the man would know what to do with.   
  
As a collective, the birds goaded him into purchasing a cashmere jumper, bottle green “ to match his eyes” as Mrs. Weasley often said, along with a pair of trousers so tight they'd make even Draco blush. The stretch of fabric made him glad he'd taken up running, sporting some meat on his bones... because everything was on display under the suspiciously elastic muggle-made wool. He'd have to wear skin-tight pants, too. From the Moreno house, he Apparated back to the Harpers, digging through his duffel until he found several pairs of Draco's fancy underwear mixed-up with his own ragged boxers. Dutifully, he Apparated right back to Texas, allowing the girls to muss about with his hair and general appearance, only putting his foot down when scissors and tweezers were introduced.   
  
He wasn't surprised to learn that a few of Malaya's friends had boyfriends who would be joining them. He was disheartened, however, upon meeting them. The young men were cowed by their women and floored by his fame, unable to reel-in their slack jaws over meeting The Boy Who Lived in the flesh. Harry attempted idle Quidditch banter until the ladies deigned it was time to leave.   
  
Mr. Moreno and his wife said good bye to the crew of young people at the door. Harry shook both their hands, giving his earnest promise to keep an eye on their daughter. Their smiles were knowing as they handed him the keys to the Mclaren.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
Malaya's driving directions hadn't failed him yet. But it was hard to hear her squeaky girl voice over the car stereo, volume pumped, her friends giggling and screaming in the back seat.   
  
In the rear-view, Harry made eye contact with the poor fellow wedged between the squealing girls. The boy's face looked almost as miserable as Harry felt. It was one thing to go out with friends and have a night on the town:  _ this _ was little more than glorified babysitting. The chap seemed to know it, too. His expression was resigned, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, twirling his wand between his fingers like a muggle smoker would toy with a lighter.   
  
“ Malaya,” Harry shouted. They were stopped in traffic. “Can you turn that down? I can't hear myself think.”   
  
One of the girls—Harry couldn't tell which, they all sounded roughly the same—yelled something about him being a wet blanket.   
  
Harry fixed Malaya in his passenger's seat with an unwavering look. “Turn it down or I'm pulling over. I can't drive like this.”   
  
“ _ Fiiiinnnne! _ ”  one of the girls whined. Malaya twirled the volume to a reasonable level. Harry thought he detected a slight ringing in his ears. “Anyway, shouldn't we do our ID's?”   
  
“ Yeah,” Malaya agreed. “Pass 'em up.”   
  
The girls rummaged through their purses, the brunette pulling out her wand. She looked to Harry expectantly.   
  
“ All the clubs are eighteen plus,” she goaded. “So gimme your ID and I'll charm it for you.”   
  
Brazen, she reached for his bum as though to pull his wallet from his back pocket.   
  
He warned her with his eyes. The car behind them honked—he hadn't realized the light was green. It was an effort not to mash the gas pedal; he may have peeled out, screeching the tires unnecessarily, but the roar of the engine was fantastic. The fellow in the back seat—was it Justin or Jason?—gave an appreciative whoop.   
  
Malaya's friend went for Harry's bum. He squirmed in his seat, needing both hands on the wheel.   
  
“ Already spelled mine!” he offered quickly. “Ages ago! Eighteen is drinking age in England.”   
  
Harry checked the rear-view once more. The girls were exchanging silent words, communicating through their eyes and raised eyebrows, probably arguing over who would find themselves in bed with the great Harry Potter that night. They obviously thought Malaya was competition, they way they eyed her low-cut sparkly dress, her dainty hand sneaking over to rest on Harry's knee.   
  
“ That's our turn,” she said near his ear, pointing up ahead. “Left at the light and pull into that parking ramp, there.”   
  
Harry did as instructed, guiding the luxury sports car into a multi-storied parking facility and following the ramp to the second level from the top, an area with spaces reserved, each slice of concrete numbered. Malaya retrieved a permit from the glove compartment and slapped it onto the dashboard as Harry parked in number twenty one.   
  
In the industrial lights, she examined her watch.   
  
“ We only have a couple minutes,” she muttered. “Here.” One of the ID's was thrust into Harry's hand. It took him a moment to remember the charm he'd used back at Grimmauld Place, as the girl beside him was casting it silently over the other two bits of plastic. Eventually his magic took and he handed the muggle license back to its owner, Jason, in the back seat. The boy toyed with the cigarette behind his ear, bringing it to his lips.   
  
“ No time!” Malaya told him sharply. “And no smoking in the car.”   
  
Jason rolled his eyes, stowing his cigarette. He folded his hands in his lap, legs jittering, impatient to have his smoke. Harry patted his own pockets—he'd forgotten Dmitry's gift. Then again, there were only a few left in that pack, anyway. Perhaps he could pick up another, wherever it was they were going.   
  
Harry turned to the girl beside him. She looked lovely—exotic, with her long hair down, straight bangs coming over her brows, eyes painted with dark makeup and red gloss on her lips. Her shimmering dress was low-cut, a fact she'd hidden from her father with the aid of a woolen scarf woven through with what appeared to be tinsel. She unwound the scarf with a sigh, fanning the caramel column of her neck. The line delved down to her small breasts on display. Harry had difficulty swallowing and looked way, pulling at his jumper's collar.   
  
She was Colombian from her father's side, Pacific Islander from her mother. The long, almond shape of her eyes came from Mrs. Moreno, who was just as petite and twice as alluring. Harry suspected that was because Malaya's mother was subdued, elegant, almost regal. She didn't put on airs... while her daughter was bursting with theatrics and limitless energy. Malaya was the fire in the household, to be sure. And tonight, she wanted to party.   
  
Harry smiled at her, turning in the driver's seat to face her fully. “Okay. Where are we going? What's the big secret?”   
  
She smiled back. “A couple seconds and you'll see.”   
  
“ Really. I'm not wild about surprises. They make me —”   
  
He never got to say  _ nervous _ . For at that moment, there was a great crunching sound, like the Mclaren being crushed by a giant falling over in a drunken stupor — smooshing the automobile like the fruit it shared its vivid color with. Harry didn't have a chance to scream. Everything around them, the world outside the car windows, went abruptly black.   
  
Harry blinked.   
  
When his eyes opened, they were all in one piece. In a different car park. This one appeared to be underground, judging by the thick-set concrete walls all around. Gingerly, Harry peeled his hands from where they'd been gripping the shit out of the steering wheel. He hoped he hadn't left fingernail marks in the expensive leather.   
  
“ ...The fuck was that?” he muttered, flexing his fingers. His brain was vibrating uncomfortably, trying to process everything he'd seen—or rather, hadn't.   
  
From the back seat, Jason and the girls laughed.   
  
Malaya put a comforting hand to his knee. “Trans-Location Barrier built into the garage floor. The car drops through one parking space and lands in another. My dad's always going to New York on business, so he bought spaces and had the barrier plates installed.”   
  
She shrugged casually. Her father owned a very successful chain of Tex-Mex restaurants, Harry had learned. Arturo Moreno's family was very well taken care of. The man could afford luxuries like this, driving his fancy car through town, not having to bother with Apparating and acquiring other means of transportation upon his arrival. It was probably good, too, for his muggle neighbors to see him driving around the same way Leon drove his truck to work every day rather that simply Apparate into his office. It kept up an appearance of normalcy, prevented the muggles from asking questions, from getting involved. But this was advanced magic Mr. Moreno had installed. And the man probably had more than one parking spot like this, if he let his daughter use one for a night of gallivanting with her mates.   
  
“ Sounds convenient,” Harry bit his lower lip. His voice sounded tight in his own ears. He didn't appreciate surprises. Malaya could have easily told him beforehand. He supposed the girl was spontaneous. Too much of this playfulness and he'd have a heart attack. Working with Leon and worrying about Voldemort's Horcruxes was more than enough to give him premature gray hairs. He didn't need panic and unnecessary fear in his down time.   
  
Harry took a deep breath, preparing himself.   
  
He opened the car door, still marveling at the way they went straight up in the air like something out of the future. Malaya's friends crawled out from the back seat. The girl was fiddling with her mobile.   
  
“ So where are we, exactly?” he posed quietly.   
  
“ New York City.”   
  
“ Oh.” Harry zipped his jacket against the cold. They started walking up the slope which lead to the surface. Already, Harry could hear the noise of busy city streets. Malaya made a call, getting in touch with the rest of the group arriving somewhere nearby via a Portkey her father had set up. When the call dropped, she knew the Portkey had activated.   
  
“ They'll be at the Public Apparition on Lexington,” she told Harry, linking her arm through his. “Come on, let's go!”   
  
  


  
  
Harry decided he much preferred London. It was cleaner, for a start. And the smell... New York was positively rancid—cigarettes, car exhaust, trolleys roasting nuts or cooking meat on vertical, rotating spits, the sour assault of unwashed bodies, homeless people curled up in the rough shelter between buildings, bags of garbage piled on street corners, construction, hot tar, urine, and the salty sting of the sea wafting over it all.   
  
He tried breathing through his nose, his mouth—not breathing at all. He pulled his jumper over his nose as they passed an Underground station smelling more like a public loo than a mode of human transportation. Malaya wrapped her glittery scarf around the lower half of her face. Her girlfriends all made gagging noises, burying their painted faces against the shoulder of the nearest bloke.   
  
Harry removed a girl's hand from his rear pocket, pulling her away by the wrist before she could get a proper handful of his bum.   
  
He didn't like feeling like a piece of meat... unless it was Draco staring him down, licking his lips like a hungry lynx.  _ That _ he didn't mind so much. Though he appreciated the compliment implied, the gesture was ultimately inappropriate. He wasn't even sure how old most of these girls were—or Malaya, for that matter.   
  
Harry stopped and bought a cup of coffee, drinking it slowly, keeping the paper cup close to his face until all he smelled was milk and roasted cocoa beans.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
The club Malaya chose was merely a repeat of The Blue Iguana back in London—except this disco took up all five stories of an old brick building, music and dance lights pouring out from the open windows and into the excitement of the streets. The guard at the door scanned their faces and papers carefully, suspecting they were underage or drunk or both. Two of the boyfriends hung back for a smoke while the ladies tugged their hapless Harry inside.   
  
A crush of bodies vibrated in every room. Sound rattled high in his nose, threatening to shake his brains loose. Time and time again, he fended off Malaya and her friends in their attempts to drag him onto the dance floor. At the end of the day, he was stubborn and far stronger. They learned to let him be, perched on his stool at the end of the bar.   
  
He regretted not charming his identification. If ever there was a time for a drink....   
  
These girls were fit. And not just Malaya and her friends. Ladies approached him seemingly out of the mortar of the walls—a few blokes, too. Everyone was done to the nines, faces painted, hair styled and clothing painstakingly selected to create an overall picture which was hard to ignore. The place looked like sex. Everyone wanted it, moved like it. He recognized the movements more acutely than ever, now. Here and there he would see Draco in the slide of an arm, the pressing together of pink lips or a flash of very straight white teeth. Every blonde head dug at his heart. Every narrow waist and pair of low slung denims pulled at his prick. It was impossible, not to think of smoke, of lilting whispers, liquored kisses and mean teeth nipping down his spine. He wanted to leave bruises, to force his hips, to feel—to fuck.   
  
The thick air of sweat and bodies was too much. He snuck away, stealing off into the night, catching a breath of cigarette-and-dirt air. At least there were no memories in that filth, no roiling flesh to assail his eyes. He walked, head down and hands in his pockets, until the flash of lights left his eyes.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
Someone whistled lewdly. Harry wasn't sure if the cat-call was aimed at himself or the gaggle of rather drunk university girls stumbling along a few meters ahead of him. Despite the cold, their legs were bare, teetering in heavy high-heeled shoes. He dashed forward reflexively, saving one of them before she tumbled into a stack of rubbish bags on the street corner.   
  
“ Thanks,” the girl muttered, eyes too pissed to see him properly.   
  
“ 'S alright, love,” Harry said absently, settling the girl on her feet, releasing her as soon as she was safe in the arms of her wobbly-legged cohorts.   
  
“ Mmmm,” one of them eyed him blatantly, licking her lips. Up and down her sparkle-adorned eyes went, lingering on his bum and chest, groin, glasses and, at last, his face, blearily meeting his green-eyed gaze.    
  
“ Yeeer hawt. Wanna come home with us, British boi?”   
  
Several pairs of well-manicured hands reached out, grasping for handfuls of his leather lapels. He side-stepped them easily, picking his way over the rubbish pile.   
  
Most guys would've jumped at the offer for a threesome, really. But he was only interested in showing his prick to Draco. The thought of getting to know a stranger, sexually, horrified him—he was vulnerable between the sheets, laid physically and emotionally bare. The only person he trusted, with his heart or his knob, was Draco Malfoy.   
  
His mouth was moving before his brain registered putting any thought to their offer, one way or the other.    
  
Harry gave the women a helpless smile. “ That's rather flattering. But I'm getting married soon. To another bloke. I'm gay.”   
  
There was less than a split second of silence before he got a reaction.   
  
“ Fuck the village!” the girl he'd rescued screamed. Her voice echoed off the brick of nearby buildings and the hardness of pavement, running off down the narrow streets carrying her profanity, ringing through the cobbled alleys.   
  
“ Hot guy south of twenty-third street?” Another asked sardonically, throwing her hands in the air, defeated. “Must be gay! ”   
  
“ Sorry to bother you, honey,” said another, huddled in her jacket, addressing him. “You... don't seem like the type.”   
  
From the other side of the busy avenue, a scally fellow grabbed at his crotch, shouting that he was straight and game if the ladies were interested. When the lights changed in the fellow's favor, he and a few of his mates came charging across the street.   
  
“ Come on, then,” Harry sighed, giving support to jellied females at either side. “Let's avoid these wankers.”   
  
They all shrieked merrily, petting him and calling him adorable. He maneuvered the women towards a more crowded intersection, away from the drunk men. He could feel his “saving people” complex kicking like a baby in his guts. But he couldn't stop himself. These girls were falling-down drunk. He'd just see them home, or stuffed into a cab, and be on his way.   
  
“ I want pizza!” one girl declared.   
  
“ Two Boots!” another screamed.   
  
“ Are they still open? It's nearly one!”   
  
“ Hot Gay British Boy,” the chit under his left arm addressed him blearily, clinging to his shoulder. He was about the only thing keeping her upright. “If you can get us to Bleecker, I'll buy you a slice of the bes' fuckin' pie in Manhattan. M'kay? An' it won't be my pie,” she snort-laughed. “Promise.”   
  
Harry smiled. This Hero-Complex thing could get annoying, but at least someone was having fun. “Only if we stop by a smoke shop on the way.”   
  
“ There's one back up at Union Square....”   
  
“ No, that little place on Bleecker and Thompson....”   
  
When the girls weren't looking, Harry brushed a hand against his wand in his jacket's breast pocket, muttering, “ _ Point Me _ .” He felt holly and phoenix feather stir under his clothes, guiding him in the direction of clove cigarettes and greasy American take-away.   
  
Someone passed him a flask of bourbon, the metal warmed from contact with hot, drunken skin. And the liquor's spicy smell reminded him of Draco. He took a swig.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
Over the blare of music, Harry detected a familiar voice. He could hardly see for the colored lights flashing every so often in his eyes, leaving him momentarily blind, standing at the edge of a great sea of moving bodies. Out of the crowd, Malaya sprinted towards him.   
  
“ Oh my God, Harry!” In her high heeled shoes, the girl skittered to a stop beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist in a half-hug. She attached herself to him like a barnacle, staring up at him with wide eyes. With her perfectly straight bangs, burnt sugar skin and mascara-rimmed eyes, she looked like a perfect China doll. “ I couldn't find you for, like, an hour! Where were you?”   
  
He mimed smoking a cigarette. His other arm curled loosely around the back of her neck, resting over her shoulders.   
  
She squeezed his side, pouting. “Why didn't you tell me? Jason smokes, you coulda bummed one, saved a trip.”   
  
“ Sorry,” Harry muttered. Telling her that this club—this kind of place in general—wasn't for him was not the brightest idea. He didn't want to start an argument, didn't want to have to defend himself over nothing. He liked early dinners and old films, nightcaps and evenings spent with Draco, learning to play the piano or simply curling up together by the fire. If that made him old or boring or even gay, then so be it.   
  
Malaya was sniffing him, her temple pressed to the inside of his shoulder. Her nose traveled up his lapel, smelling him thoroughly.   
  
“ You smell really good. Not like smoke.” That last bit was almost an accusation. Only his summer months spent with Draco gave him the deftness of tongue to side-step.   
  
“ Special cigarettes,” he said, dropping his chin to his chest. “Breast pocket. See for yourself.”   
  
Deflection, plain and simple. The girl fell for it, diving into his pocket to retrieve the black box of equally black clove cigarettes, releasing her grasp on his waist in the process. Treasure acquired, she flipped it over in her tiny hands, examining it—all thoughts of Harry “smelling good” forgotten. He  _ would not _ lead this girl on; though she fit the bill, “his type ”  according to Draco, she was also too young, presumably, lived too far away, was the daughter of his coworker and—most important of all—he just wasn't that keen on her. Also, Harry already had the perfect boyfriend. He didn't need anyone else. He was already deliriously happy.   
  
“ Cool. Can I have one?”   
  
Harry shook his head. He gave the girl a stern look. “You're not old enough, here or in England. I won't be tricked.”   
  
Walking by, two women in their twenties stopped dead in their tracks, heads turning as one at Harry's voice. It was his accent, he realized, and his scold-deepened voice. Why was it that the only thing these Americans thought about was  _ sex, sex, sex? _ It was bloody annoying. Harry decided it was because they didn't have Molly Weasley to knock the tar out of them if they were ever caught snogging behind the garden shed. Providing Americans  _ had _ garden sheds. Because they certainly snogged. Everywhere, by the looks of the club's dance floor and darkened corners.   
  
“ Where's Jason?” Harry asked suddenly. Malaya pointed in response. “Thanks. I'm gonna ask him if he'd fancy a smoke with me. Be back later, yeah?”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
Harry stood on the rooftop with Jason and Max, another of the brainless Salem Institute boyfriends, leaning over a half-wall and surveying the city lights.   
  
Taxis honked, traffic moving off down the island as far as his eyes could see, to the ocean, over bridges and beyond. Down on the street, lashed people screamed, running, stumbling and laughing manically. An old man on the corner played a violin, his bowstring silent as Harry and his companions were several stories up, the instrument's case thrown open with a sign presumably asking for tips. Everything was packed in tight—people, buildings, sounds and smells all on top of one another like one great, crawling beast. Space was so limited, even the roof he stood on was a part of the dance club, lights blazing, stuck up on poles, speakers hung from scaffolding and a bar set up in the corner. He was kicking himself for not charming his ID to say twenty one. Bloody Yanks and their Puritanical drinking laws. Harry really wanted a tequila. Or four. It might make his present company more agreeable.   
  
The two boys, Harry's age or a year younger at most, were discussing American football. Whether or not they'd chose the topic with specific intent to exclude him was unclear. Harry didn't credit either of them with the intelligence or cunning necessary to ostracize. His assumption was confirmed a moment later when Max lit himself a second cigarette and turned to Harry.   
  
“ Who's your favorite team, then?”   
  
“ Probably Fulham FC,” Harry said. Just to be a dick.   
  
“ That's... football?” Jason asked. The confused expression he wore wasn't far off from the way his young face normally looked, which was rather unfortunate. He resembled a lost puppy looking for a good home. And a bath. His curly hair was greased with product, permanently wet in appearance.   
  
Harry nodded. “Footie, yeah.” He ashed his clove cigarette, tempted to smoke another after this.   
  
“ He means soccer,” Max clarified.   
  
Harry kept nodding. “Yeah, soccer. Sorry. I don't know American football.”   
  
“ You're shittin' me!” Jason exclaimed. “The Boy Who Lived's never played football?”   
  
Clearly, these chaps had been collected for their looks alone. They were handsome, sure, but even in tandem, they were about as amusing as banging two rocks together in the hopes of starting a fire.   
  
“ So, uh,” Max fumbled with his lighter. The bloke was a chain smoker. “You and Malaya.”   
  
“ No.” Harry shot that one down immediately. He took several protracted drags off his black-papered cigarette, reminding himself to stay calm. He could play this cool, like Dmitry would. He tried to channel the fit Romanian with his stance, his address, the set of his brows and shoulders—doing everything he could to communicate that he meant business.   
  
“ But she's hot,” Max protested, finally getting his smoke lit. “And she's into you.”   
  
“ You should go for it, dude,” encouraged Jason through a cloud of menthol smoke.   
  
Harry weighed his options. There were countless ways he could respond to this ridiculous peer-pressuring, at least half of them bordering between impolite and downright rude. But anything else was either a lie, a half-truth, or likely to cause a scandal.   
  
It was the Heather Dilemma reinvented: carrying a conversation with these blokes could only spiral into a series of lies and deceit. He'd never be friends with these lads, unlike Heather, who was charming, but that made little difference in the scheme of things.   
  
He knew it was wrong to lie. He also accepted that there were times when lying became absolutely necessary, like in the case of protecting a loved one. Lying about his relationship with Draco also made situations like this easier. Harry was perceived more simply, made easier to swallow, if he was a regular bloke with a regular nagging girlfriend. Draco's ex-Death Eater status—heaped together with his decidedly dark family history and Harry's previous string of purely heterosexual relationships—was a rather large pill to swallow. Then there was the social stigma attached to their relationship owing to their both being chaps. And apparently stigmas were just as bad this side of the pond, if not worse. All together, it wasn't a road he wanted to go down with his closer acquaintances, let alone relative strangers unsympathetic to his cause or his feelings.   
  
He missed Dmitry. He missed Nebojsa. He even missed Misha, despite the kid hitting on him half the time, waggling a pierced eyebrow and licking his thick, full lips. At least they judged him based on his character, his actions when every last one of their lives were on the line... not by where he and Draco liked to put their pricks.   
  
Did where he put his “ broomstick” really say that much about him as a person? So long as he wasn't raping anyone or buggering nine-year-olds, did it make a fucking difference? And why was everyone so bloody curious about his sex life? It was absolute pants.   
  
Not for the first time, he missed Ron and Hermione. For all the problems which existed in their seven-year relationship, they'd had the decency not to pry into his sex life as a rule, waiting for him to be comfortable, for him to bring it up. Then again, both Hermione and Ron were late bloomers. Harry suspected they were both still virgins. And that was great, lovely. He was happy for them having finally found each other through the shit-storm of a life that was being best mates with Harry Potter—petrification, broken limbs, botched Polyjuice transformations and even being knocked unconscious and placed at the bottom of the Hogwarts lake, guarded by Merpeople in a public spectacle. They'd put up with all that. And they loved him. Maybe they weren't exactly pleased with one another at present but that would pass with time. Harry had matured. He was ready to close the gap. He waited on them to follow along the path he'd set.   
  
Max and Jason were relaying Malaya's many positive attributes, listing them for Harry's benefit, it would seem—to aid him in his decision whether or not to “bone her brains out,” as the fellows put it. He heard mention of long legs, kissable lips and perky breasts. Harry considered how awkward and bloody weird it would be for him to blurt out that he sucked cock. Pretty damn weird, he decided, though none-the-less true for not being spoken aloud. The boys reviewed other girls from Salem who Harry might fancy a go with while he was in town—older girls with bigger tits, girls notorious for spreading their legs. It became increasingly clear than neither lad saw much physical affection from his doting girlfriend. They were moving onto the subject of what Harry should do first when he got each harlot in bed when Harry stepped in.   
  
“ Would you fancy it if these girls talked about you the same way?” he asked pointedly, gesticulating philosophically with his cigarette butt. He brought it to his lips with his next thought. “Discussing your pricks, guessing at your skill? They'd likely dismiss you for inexperience alone. With ridicule. So perhaps it's better not to discuss it at all. ”   
  
Jason looked at him as though he were a Jarvey sprouting a second head to spout poesy in heroic hexameter. Max's mouth hung open, processing Harry's statement. The Englishman could practically see the cogs working, clogged by cobwebs, behind the boy's eyes.   
  
Yes. He'd spent too much time with Draco — and was now speaking the blonde's signature language of  _ double entendre _ and under-the-table jabs. He couldn't help himself. It was his way of remembering Draco, immortalizing him. He'd like to think that, were Draco here, his boyfriend would be struggling not to snort behind his pale, Gaunt-ringed hand. The mental image gave him some comfort.   
  
  


  
  
When he returned to the Harpers much later that night — closer to the wee hours of the morning—there was an owl waiting for him, the tawny's missive stamped with the Ministry of Magic's seal. At least they'd escaped Voldemort's assault with their rubber stamps intact. Harry tore open the letter.   
  
The Minister requested his presence at The Barn. As soon as possible, on urgent matters of state.   
Harry plucked a muggle pen from a mug on the kitchen counter, hastily scribbling his reply in his usual untidy scrawl. He couldn't stop the smile blooming across his face. While he couldn't care less what Rufus Scrimgeour had to say for himself, a visit with the exiled Minister of Magic also presented a perfect opportunity to visit Draco.   
  
He'd be off first thing in the morning.   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** “Mount Wroclai” music and Lyrics by Zach Condon, frontman and genius of Beirut.


	46. Beretta: Borges & I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry sneaks himself into Hogwarts for an impromptu reunion with Draco. Sparks fly. Another 13k utterly unsuitable for minors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Spoilers, ho! This is a 100% fetish prØn chapter: consensual D/s, RACK-lifestyle consensual violence, Dominant!Harry, submissive!Draco, snarky!brat!Draco, bondage, fellatio, breath play, rimming/anal-oral sex, vibrator play, anal penetration)  
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This chapter stands as proof that, with a good bottle of port, anything is possible. 
> 
> What? You suffered under the misconception that I penned this fic sober? Pishaw. I go John Cheever on this bitch. Bukowski. Hell, Faulkner.

 

 

_Besides, I am destined to perish, definitively, and only some instant of myself_

_can survive in him. Little by little, I am giving over everything to him, though I am aware_

_of his perverse custom of falsifying and magnifying things... my life is a flight and I lose everything_

_and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him._

  
  


"Borges & I"

Jorge Luis Borges

 

 

 

 

The ceiling in Draco's room was a network of dark cracks, like the ceiling of the Gryffindor boys' dormitory. Harry could imagine himself lying in his old four poster, staring up at nothing, fretting about the Triwizard or Ron and Hermione's latest spat. It was easy to pretend, as he lay there, warm and comfortable, enjoying Draco's scent on the unmade sheets and soft cashmere pillows. Life was better, richer with Draco in it. If he had it to do all over again, he thought, he couldn't think of a better life than one with Draco in it. The blonde pushed him, challenged him, teased and agitated and, on occasion, inspired. There was no Harry Potter without Draco Malfoy. End of story. 

He waited for Draco to come bursting through the door, covered in sweat and mud from a Quidditch practice gone long. 

It wasn't as though Harry could head down to the Common Room and ask what was keeping the team and their intrepid captain—no one knew Harry was back. They couldn't. He'd snuck into the castle using his Invisibility Cloak with the intention of lying in wait, surprising Draco in the halls or up in their bedroom. He tried not to worry as the minutes ticked slowly by. Shadows spread across the stone ceiling, mixing with the cracks to form little eddies of darkness. He waited, thoughts swirling in his head.

He'd considered, for a long time, the sly hints which Draco had been leaving—winks and hints peppered throughout those first two weeks of their relationship, when they'd had the luxury of time, getting to know one another's bodies inside and out. “When you're ready,” Draco had said. “Can't call me 'baby' til you've had me,” he'd said. The blond was biding his time, working up to it... waiting for Harry to fuck him—to take him down to his knees and make love to him. And he wanted to. _Fuck_ did he want to. But he worried he might not be enough—good enough, “endowed” enough, pleasurable enough. Draco had had sex with other men, while Harry had only their relationship and a lifetime of wank fantasies to base his performance off of. He had an inkling of what to do, how to go about it. He had more fantasies than he knew what to do with. But... what if he was horrible as a top? He... really liked “receiving,” as the magazines called it. The thought of change, of cocking up— _literally_ cocking up—such a good thing made him keenly nervous. What if he was pants at it?

He breathed deep, taking Draco's scent into his lungs as the doubts raced through him—a train on a familiar looping track. 

When he and Draco were together in that way... it was special. It was like nothing he'd ever imagined. He couldn't produce the magic on his own, either; it took the two of them rolling together, sweating and panting, touching, kissing. Nothing could ever be as good as that brush of skin, as that dampness and mind-numbing heat. They were right. The world followed suit when they were together, too. Everything settled, making sense when Draco pressed against him, bare-chested and breathing ragged, a pretty flush dripping along his cheeks. Together, they were so undeniably right. 

They'd been like that since the first moment. When their lips met, it was magic—fire and sparks, light igniting behind his eyelids, trickling down his throat until it reached his heart. He'd felt his chest seize up that first time, heart threatening to beat its way out of his chest, blood boiled-hot in his veins. He'd thought he was drunk. It made him giddy, even thinking about it now. And it had been so good—the most exquisite trembling as he'd shook, eyes closed and head thrown back, fighting the bonds which held him to the bed. Need had consumed him, blinding him to any doubt he may have once harbored about pulling a “How's Your Father?” with another bloke. In that moment—as Draco Malfoy hovered over him, naked, wand drawn—he knew he would be taken care of... protected. He could sense it in the man's eyes, in the teasing play of his fingertips as he traced the lines of Harry's Forbidden Forest of body hair: Draco was taking his bollocks in hand, was giving over everything he had as fuel to Harry's desire. 

Now he wanted the last of Draco. He wanted to pull every last fiber from the man—yank it from his throat if need be. He would choke the pureblood bastard, would take it from him, throwing him down and making love to him—making his love known and felt like never before. It was time. No—it was long overdue.

Harry licked his lips; slow, savoring the lingering sweetness of air tinged with Draco. His lashes flickered shut, blocking out the room's sun. The shadows of clouds drifted by. He felt the play of them on his face as they passed.

He'd been thinking about this for a long time. Probably since that first time he and Draco had had sex in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. He knew Draco wanted to be bound, wanted to feel that blissful tightness against his skin. It was a dangerous brew, given all that had happened to him. Draco had a bad history with helplessness—it had suffused his sixth year, when he'd taken over for his father as a Death Eater, tasked with sneaking Voldemort's followers into Hogwarts. And before that, his virginity had been sold to the highest bidder by his own father, the man whom Draco would later replace. And then there was Mulciber. Harry had seen the man's face in the murk of Draco's mind, shadows like mud splayed across his bent-up face, the lines of the bars of Draco's cell painted over that ugliness, cigarette in hand, reaching for the zip of his trousers. 

Draco Malfoy had been “done to,” had been had in all the wrong ways, brought about by fear, deception and his own panicked desperation for life and human connection amongst all that terrible uncertainty which had been his life these last couple years. And those memories didn't just go away—they were written across his body, scarred along his insides just as the words “I shall not tell lies” sat inscribed on Harry's hand. 

Harry knew he had to tread lightly. Yet he couldn't deny the man what he so clearly wanted. Draco was a master of restriction, his spells flawless. More impressive was his knowledge. With every spell, with every bit of rope or scrap of leather, he understood the pressure applied, the relation of weight and tension, nursing every last bite and spasm and scream, coaxing them out through his game of struggle. 

There was only one way by which Draco could have come to understand those sensations so deeply. It was simple: he did it to himself. He tied himself up—hit and choked and finger-fucked himself in the ass, just to feel it. Draco gave rise to the struggle too well not to know it himself. The only way he could have attained such understanding was by practicing and perfecting his skills on himself. He enjoyed it. And he would take just as well, if not better, than he gave.

It had always been cat and mouse with them, parry and thrust. Draco had done it first—tying Harry down right there at the beginning, no questions asked, no hesitation; the first spark—hoping Harry's return-fire wouldn't be long in coming. 

Harry placed a hand over the gift he'd brought, the brown paper bag rough and dingy under his fingers. It was his idea of a compromise, meeting Draco half-way, a sort of playful, half-strike. He hoped it was enough.

At last, he heard Draco's footsteps in the hall. Instantly, he recognized the cadence of his boyfriend's step, the steady rhythm produced by his distribution of weight. His sound was constant, sure and unhurried. Perhaps he'd put on some muscle? _Was he taking better care of himself?_ Harry wondered. _Was he growing his body and pubic hair, taking regular meals, working out on the Quidditch pitch?_ _How much of Draco had changed? How much remained the same?_ Harry propped himself up on his elbows, giddy with anticipation, staring at the door as though he might will it open with the brawling strength of his impatience. 

Draco threw the door open. 

He was beautiful—covered in sweat from a long Quidditch practice, his hair a flaxen, rumpled mess. A Gryffindor sweatshirt— _Harry's_ Gryffindor sweatshirt, for he knew the ripped-up collar and shredded cuffs—was flecked with mud. Draco had managed to keep his hands and face clean. He'd shaved his cheeks but wore a vaguely defined mustache and goatee, little more than blonde fluff decorating the pink puff of his lips. 

Distracted and tired-looking, Draco tossed Harry's Firebolt onto the sofa, flicking his wand at the fire to put a few extra logs on against the castle's chill. Tugging off fingerless Seekers gloves with his teeth, he at last set eyes on Harry. 

The blonde froze with a strip of leather between his perfect white molars. 

“'Erry!” he shouted, disbelief and the glove muffling his voice. He yanked off the remainder of his borrowed Quidditch gear. “What're you doing here?”

“Everything's okay,” Harry said plainly, assuring. “I have a meeting later... but I wanted to see you.” 

The blonde pulled a face. “Yeh coulda told me,” he sniffed, taking the hem and sleeve of the Gryffindor sweatshirt he wore, sweat soaking the pits a dark maroon. The roots of his hair were greasy, his cheeks windblown and ruddy, red as the sweatshirt he eagerly divested himself of. “I look a right mess.”

Harry ginned. “Doesn't make a difference to me. It's good to see you, Draco.”

The blonde smiled back. “Shower, then?”

“I... brought you something,” said Harry, picking up the package beside his thigh. 

Draco released his hold on the sweatshirt, sounding a _splat_ of wet cotton against the stone floor a second later. He arched a brow. 

“A present?”

“Yeah. It's muggle. But something tells me you're gonna like it.”

Draco put his hands to the sleigh bed's curling foot board, leaning his weight. There was more definition in his arms, his shape less spindly. The long line of his shoulders fell from either side of his neck, all bones and angles Harry longed to bite. A line of ashy blonde ran from his navel downward, disappearing beneath the waistband of Armani pants. 

Harry tore his gaze back to Draco's still-flushed face as the man mused,  “Let's see... muggle and something I might like? Simple,” he shrugged, conclusion arrived at. “It's either tequila or clothes. Tell yeh wot: I'll have a quick shower—”

Draco had the thick tongue of his belt in hand, tugging. A lean tendon flexed the length of his forearm. The image incited a riot in Harry's trousers. 

“It's not clothes,” Harry interrupted. “Or liquor. And how about you skip the shower for now? I like you sweaty.”

“Not alcohol... muggle... ripe as I am....” Draco's eyes went as big as Dobby's and seemed to glitter. “Good Gryffindor! It's your cock, isn't it?” 

Laying back against the pillows, Harry smirked. “Sort of. Why don't you come here and find out?” 

Kicking off his trainers, Draco vaulted over the foot board, bounding into bed. He reached for the package only to have Harry dangle it off the side of the bed, just out of reach.

“I picked up a kit at a muggle shop and made this for you,” he smiled softly. It had been ruddy embarrassing, walking into that road-side sex shop in rural Ohio. His face had been red as a Quaffle. They'd asked for his driving license at the register to prove he was of-age. “It's... er, just open it. You'll see.” And he shoved the paper bag into the blonde's hands without further ceremony. 

Draco withdrew the length of spongy green silicon. It was a perfect replica of Harry's erect cock. 

It had been a right pain in the arse to make—fitting, seeing whose arse it would be going in presently. First he'd wanked furiously, using Draco's cock ring spell to get himself as thick as possible. Then he'd applied a cold plaster paste from the kit, coating his prick, yanking his hair and all-but fondling his nipples and bollocks to stay as hard as possible while the mould set. When it dried, he released the cock ring spell, sliding himself out of the plaster case. Without his prick in it, he could make out the clear lines of veins along the inside, every bump and curve of his equipment preserved for posterity. All that was left was to heat and pour in the silicon—adding, as a finishing touch, a metal cylinder containing a switch and batteries, allowing the thing to vibrate for...? Well, for pleasure, he supposed. Nothing could be better than the hum of vocal chords behind a wet, wanton throat wrapped around his cock—but this was probably alright. He figured it was better than Draco using his fingers or magic in lieu of the piece he wished inside him.

Draco turned the rubber cock over in his hands, experimenting with the texture and weight against his palm. It had come with a packet of glitter—to dump in the plastic. Harry had foregone such decoration. His dick didn't need to sparkle.  _Some things are better understated_ , he could hear Draco in his mind.  _That cock a' yers, especially._

Harry reached over, flipping the “on” switch. Draco gave a squawk of surprise when the dildo began to vibrate softly in his hand. Slowly, Harry twirled the base, ramping up the frequency. He'd used special American batteries to ensure it would work in Hogwarts' magical environment.

Mouth ever-so-slightly agape, Draco's tongue darted out to lick his top lip. 

“Yers,” he said after a moment's hesitation. Slender fingers closed around the base, testing the toy's girth. He couldn't take his eyes off it. “A copy a' yers.”

Harry nodded. 

“And its safe fer...?”

Harry could see the enthusiasm barely contained behind Draco's eyes. As it was, the man's gaze flicked up and down the plastic penis in his hand, messing with the vibration speed with a silent fascination.

Amused, Harry let out a snort. He dipped closer to Draco, cocking his head to the side. He jutted his chin toward the green silicone prick in Draco's fist. It looked... bigger, perhaps because it was detached from his body and distinctly the wrong color. It was obscene. “You're not gonna leave me for that thing, are you?” 

“Dunno,” Draco replied, sour. “At least this one fucks me.”

Shamed, Harry swallowed thickly. It took a moment to find his voice. And it came deep with warning. “We'll see about that.”

He brushed a hand to his trouser pocket, glancing his wand. A Warming Charm ran the length of the toy. Draco's eyes snapped up to meet his own, mouth open and about to speak. 

“Take your denims off,” he told the blonde, cutting him off before he could get started. “Now.”

Draco didn't move—frozen, petrified. With the wind still clinging to his cheeks, it was hard to make out the blush beneath. Leaning closer, Harry spotted it. 

He spoke in Draco's ear. “You can have this, right now, or me at some later date. Your choice, dragon.” 

Slowly, Draco gave a nod.

Harry used a hand at the man's ivory throat to bring him to the mound of pillows separating them from the headboard. Draco went willingly, sinking into the give of mattress and feather-down. Dildo in one hand, his other snuck to the belt holding his trousers up. Those were Harry's, too, the leather belt a cast-off from Fred and George most likely acquired shortly after his arrival at Grimmauld Place, summer before fifth year. Contemplating, Draco fingered the cracked leather, sliding the tongue back and forth under a loop of those loose, worn-out denims. 

Sinewy bits of the blonde's throat worked beneath Harry's hand as Draco spoke. 

“And yeh would... wot? Watch?” he asked quietly. Silvery eyes focused somewhere in the dip of Harry's collar. 

Harry's hand tightened involuntarily. He only realized when Draco's gaze shot up to meet his. He kissed the bridge of Draco's nose, inhaling the lingering sweat of his hair and skin... letting his grip grow firm, unyielding. Pulling away, he watched in delight as Draco's pupils dilated, drinking in the sight of him. 

Harry's voice was a low thrum leaving his lips. “I don't think I could just sit back and _watch_. I might get the urge to... participate.”

Draco's eyes were black now, only a silver rim round the edges of his gaze. A blatant erection tented his denims, lifting his belt buckle away from his body. The meat of his prick lay against his lower stomach and, peeking out from borrowed fashion, was the head of his prick, pink and glossy, pinched by the waistband of his pants as it ventured up his stomach. Gods. It was unfair, that Draco was so huge. And Harry knew for sure, now, after comparing with those stupid magazines. Draco carried a prize in his pants. The pureblood was hung.

Harry held his lust-lidded gaze. Seeing Draco so turned on did funny things to his brain—made it shut off, made him grind his teeth and clench his fists, made utterly lewd things drop unbidden from his mouth. It was like an impulse—a curse.

“You want it. _Tell me how much you want it_ ,” he hissed in Parseltongue. 

Draco exhaled—it was a sigh of sorts. His next breath was a gasp, rattling through his windpipe with a sick quiver. Yet he didn't speak. 

Harry tightened his grip. “No?” he teased. Draco's lids closed in a silent chuckle, the side of his mouth turning up, lopsided and sweet. Harry brushed his nose against the man's pointy one. “Should I take my plastic cock and go?” 

Harry leaned back to catch Draco's expression. If his shifting weight put more pressure on the blonde's throat, it was a happy side effect—welcome, if the swelling in Draco's trousers was to be trusted.

“Tell me,” Harry repeated, this time in English. 

Draco made no reply. 

Harry gestured to the dildo with his eyes. “Drop it,” he commanded. And Draco did so, fingers releasing the toy onto the white bed spread where it rolled with a puff in the fabric, landing a forearm's length away. 

Harry slid his hand further up Draco's neck, threatening, until the line of him was elongated, head canted back at a wild angle. Muscles wavered under Harry's hand, pushed to the limit. Draco's head was forced back into the mattress. Draco had gotten stronger—Harry once again felt power under salt-scented flesh, sensed the hammered tone of muscle announcing itself with strain, with vigor. When he touched Draco's bare chest, he no longer imagined he was caressing a fledgling bird, no longer sensed a flickering, unsure heart beneath his hand. Draco was all man. Now his look matched.

Delighted, it was hard to keep the pleasure from splitting his face. Instead, Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Beg me.” 

“Malfoy's... don't beg,” Draco managed, his voice a wisp. When he swallowed, his Adam's apple worked against Harry's palm. Sweat escaped his hairline, tracking a wet line down his temple, through a blonde side burn to dribble over Harry's fingers. 

Harry bent, giving his weight over to his hands—one braced on the bed and the other still smothering Draco—until he hovered at the man's neck, taking that drop of sweat into his mouth before it could reach the sheets. The boy moaned—writhing at the first feel of wet mouth against his skin. So Harry mouthed along a tendon, breathing hard, working his way to that most sensitive spot behind Draco's ear. Worrying it with nipping front teeth earned him a strangled shout, Draco's body arching up under his own. 

The blonde loosened his trousers. Harry pushed his skinny hands away, palming Draco's length through his worn-out denims. His touch became lighter and lighter as his teeth worked harder, pinching until ivory skin was mottled pink and red with the first hint of purple rising in spots at the center. Tomorrow it would blossom into a fantastic and painful bruise. Draco's breath was a desperate pull, his exhale a windy sob.

Draco's hand returned to work his denim button and zip. This time Harry pinned his narrow, still-delicate wrist to the bed. Draco let out a muffled yelp, red-faced. He could barely breathe, the mingled look of pleasure and pain warping his features. He ground his erection against Harry's thigh, desperate for more. Harry sucked an earlobe into his mouth, tonguing flicking in a steady, agonizing beat, until Draco broke. 

“Fuck... fuck. Gods, please,” he whispered at last, gasping for breath between every word. “Harry. Kiss me. Suck me,” his voice nearly cracked, wavering. “Fuck me with that... thing, knowin' full-well I'd rather have _you_. Do it. Do it. Jus'... touch me. _Please_.”

He would never forget the look on Draco's face—that brave, grimacing, spooked rabbit face. The harsh lines of him, all angles and pink flush and sweat. The way his eyes fluttered, closed in something like shame. Embarrassment, that Harry knew of his filth, of the gutter his sex inhabited. And a tiny hope that he might be indulged in this, that Harry might feel it too. 

Harry cooed against his spit-wet lips. “Draco....”

They shared a kiss, seeming innocence shattered by the hand tight at Draco's throat. The blonde's breath caught, shaking in his sternum. 

“I've got you,” Harry whispered.

His next kiss caught blonde goatee in its sloppiness. Releasing Draco's wrist, they both worked at his denims, pushing them off. The more Harry tried to help, the more he ended up squeezing Draco's throat. Grey eyes rolled to the back of his head as he made his first true choking noise. His other hand pawed at the neck of Harry's tshirt.

“Fuck, sorry,” Harry pulled his hand away.

Draco wheezed mightily... and then he was laughing, his tittering, marmot-like laugh, grabbing at Harry's hands. “Don' apologize, ya virgin twat! First time yeh did sommat right an' yer bloody sorry fer it?”

He loved it when Draco talked that way. Harry's hand flew back to the man's now rather reddened throat, squeezing, giving over his weight until there was nothing but a spluttering, writhing column of flesh beneath him. He let up enough for Draco to catch a single breath before doing it again. Before long, Draco's eyes were bulging, one pale hand slapping at Harry's forearm. His other fumbled ineffectually with the brunet's belt.

Harry removed his hand only long enough to tear off his own shirt, casting it off, his glasses skewed. He didn't care, diving back for Draco's bitten-up lips. The blonde divested himself of his denims and pants in short order, twining his fingers through Harry's hair to press their faces all the more tightly.

The feel of Draco's erection, heavy against his hip, was pushing him over the edge of arousal. Blood boiled in his face, burning his ears. He growled. It had been way too fucking long. He'd wanted Draco for too long for it _not_ to be here, now, like this. 

He pulled his wand, flicking out one silent spell after another. Draco squirmed. Harry couldn't help opening his eyes to watch as Draco's arms were pinned behind his back, bound in rope at the wrist and elbow. His perfectly cut jaw worked soundlessly, teeth clacking in shock as his back-end was cleaned out and stretched just a little, lubricated just a little. Harry had perfected the spell on himself, of course; the magic catered to his preferences, which was fine. He wanted to get his hands on Draco, anyway. To stretch him, feel him. 

The flush overtaking the blonde's cheeks made it real, the way his mind couldn't make words to match reality. Harry ran a finger down that long, pointed nose, enjoying the look of complete shock as it rode the landscape of Draco's features.

With Draco's hands immobilized, Harry was free to do as he wished. Granted, he would miss skinny, urgent fingers ripping his hair out, but this let him set the tone. He kissed a damp path down Draco's neck, nipping at his collarbone before tracing the line of a scar with his tongue. The trail led down the man's chest, the white line splitting his pec right through the nipple. Harry breathed hotly, the faintest tufts of chest hair tickling his nose—so white they were nearly invisible, even in the brightness of midday. He bit harder, working over the coral patch of skin covering Draco's ribs. There were no scars there: only taut, shiny skin, stretched almost too tight now that the man's muscles were returning in earnest. But he could still bite at the bones of Draco's ribs when he arched like that, pushing off the bed, Harry's weight collapsing against him each time they fell. It made him sweat. Harry could taste the first drops of it on marred porcelain skin.

Draco was a shivering, bucking, whinging mess before Harry made it to his leaking prick. His fingers twitched in a regular rhythm, tied down at the curve of his lower back, digits curling and uncurling, nails digging into his palms. They were just a mass of knuckles; their only distinguishing mark being the Gaunt Ring on his finger—his left fucking ring finger, Harry noted. Some beast residing deep in his chest gave a primal, victorious roar. It wasn't the first time Draco had worn Harry's ring on _that_ finger. And if Harry had his way, the former Horcrux wouldn't be the last ring Draco fucking Malfoy wore.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_ Please! Merlin and Mordred, Salazar's shite-buggering cock, Gryffindor's kneazling goodness, mother—fuck! If you've ever loved me,” the blonde begged, practically howling. “Suck it!”

Hovering, Harry raised his eyebrows. He'd always wished he could articulate just one eyebrow or the other, like Draco. But that particular skill had always eluded him. He waited a moment, knowing Draco would correct himself in the end. Draco wanted it too badly not to.

“Please, Harry,” the blonde mumbled, sweat dotting his brow in earnest, throwing his head back against the mattress. His pillow was somewhere on the floor, discarded with his clothes. “ _Mon coeur._ Won't you  _please—s_ _'il te plaît—s_ _uce ma bite?_ ” 

Harry smiled before loosing his tongue, licking a broad stripe up Draco's shaft from bollocks to head. Beneath him, the blonde melted, practically purring. The satisfied sound he made gurgled so deep in his throat. Harry took a narrow hip in one hand, arse cheek in another, and sucked. 

Draco did his best to thrust greedily into Harry's mouth. Arms bound, he used his shoulders and heels to arch himself off the bed, doing his best to choke Harry back in his own way. Harry was forced to pull back, abandoning Draco's hip in favor of gripping his prick at the base, holding back the very new sensation of pubic hairs trying to make a run up his nose. He heard Draco's fingernails scrabbling and scraping at the bedsheets. His bollocks were drawing up, too, creeping closer to his body the closer he came to shooting off. Harry swiped his tongue over Draco's slit, wincing at the taste of precome—he'd never quite gotten used to it; some poofter he was—before pulling back, wrestling an ashy blonde pubic hair from its roost beneath his tongue. 

Flushed to bursting, Draco watched Harry with wide eyes as he flicked the offending hair away, wiping his spitty fingers on his denims. 

“Ya _told_ me ta grow it out...” Draco reminded him. 

“An' it looks good,” Harry shot back, cheeky. “Proper-like. But I forgot about the whole giving head, hair-in-mouth thing. 'S a bit like flossing, yeah?”

Draco rolled his silver-black eyes. “Enough fer ya teh stop?” he half teased. The other half was patented Malfoy whining at its best. If Draco were a girl, he'd be pouting his face.

“I think you've had enough,” Harry shrugged.

The truth was, he wanted to see Draco hard when he took it up the bum. Something about that physical sign of pleasure drove him wild. It wouldn't be the same, if Draco went soft when Harry took his ass. He knew it was stupid—he knew it. He'd lost his hard-on a little, the first time Draco had him. That was inevitable, though; Draco's prick was bloody enormous. But that niggling, nasty voice in the back of his mind told him that if Draco lost it while taking his prick—even for a moment—it meant the blonde didn't love his cock, didn't really want it. And that would hurt too much to bear. So he worked Draco to the point of blue-balled agony, just to be sure he'd be able to keep it up. 

Harry smirked. Draco had the boner of the century, leaking all over his stomach, precome sitting in pools where his hair went from invisible blonde to a more earthy tone. There was no way that stiffy was going away any time soon. 

So he relaxed, kissing Draco's chest, his neck, his face, pulling him so close they were breathing one another's air, all hot and tight and fucking perfect.

Somehow, he wasn't shy about it. He seriously thought he would be. But the tell-tale virgin awkwardness never reared its head. It was the most natural thing in the world. He was kissing Draco—fondling his ass and sucking his sweet, spit-slicked lips—and then prodding at that furled hole with his knuckle, pushing harder as Draco arched his back, giving in, greedy, hungry for it. Draco panted, biting at Harry's tongue, insistent sounds rising in his throat. So Harry slipped a finger in.

Draco did not feel like a girl. 

There was no petal-slide to meet him, no softness of labia or the wet curls of a woman's innards. Draco was raw. Bare. Just a hole, a stalwart ring of muscle and then his tender, pulsing-tight insides. _Constricted_ came to mind. Followed shortly by _fuck I need to get my cock in there before I die._ But not yet. 

He groaned into Draco's eager mouth. It wasn't long before their kiss broke, cheeks rubbing. Harry pressed his nose to Draco's protruding cheekbone, nipping at the hollow of his cheek. 

“Mmm... more.” Wet lips slid against his jaw, tongue not far behind. 

“Yeah?” Harry whispered. 

Draco rolled against his chest, nodding languidly, half-arsed, more interested in the finger _in_ his arse than anything else. The blonde was drunk with the feeling; jelly-limbed, sweat-soaked and weak-kneed. He ground back, leveraging with his elbow and knee to the mattress, trying to work Harry's finger deeper inside. He was so easy, so open, so bloody desirous of it all. 

Harry bit down—his teeth closed on a sweaty tendril of white-blonde hair. Jaw tight, he removed his fingers, mumbling, “Roll, then. On your stomach.”

Draco complied quickly, sliding to his front as Harry moved away, rising to his knees. He crawled between Draco's legs, spreading them with a hand to the insides of his thighs. Unafraid, Draco opened his legs.

It was just a small, puckered hole—like Harry's own. Curiosity getting the better of him, he'd taken a peek at himself with Mrs. Harper's hand-mirror after a shower, wanting to know what all the fuss was about. Just a dark little thing, missing the ribbon-like trimmings found between a woman's legs. Draco's was pale between his cheeks, dotted with the washed-out hairs which crept up from his unshaven sack. That hole was a cave-in, all of his outsides collapsing to become the inside—guts and small and vulnerable. He was simple, lovely. And he was Harry's for the taking. 

Draco's fingers beckoned for Harry over the swell of his ass. His cheek was pressed to the bed, eyes closed and a devious smirk twitching the side of his mouth. When he was sure he had Harry's attention, he aimed one finger—his middle finger, the prat—down his crack, as though pointing out his hole. 

_There_ , the gesture read. _Fuck me there, you idiotic excuse of a wizard_. His finger tapped impatiently between his cheeks. _Before I lose my patience_. 

Harry could've laughed. Or punched him. He wasn't sure which impulse was stronger. He took Draco's hand in his, nestling in those two pale ones. And then he laid a hard smack across Draco's bum, cracking painfully, leaving the imprint of four fingers in the dimple of the man's behind as he tensed, squawking out a slobber-mouthed rendition of the Malfoy huff. 

“I know where to put it, thank you,” Harry snipped, mock-polite, giving Draco's bound fingers an uncomfortably tight squeeze. He wanted to make sure the blonde still had circulation before he did anything more advanced with the rope. “Git.” 

Harry reached over and grabbed the dildo—more to frighten Draco than anything else. While the prone man was distracted, Harry drew his wand from his denims with his other hand, casting another spell. More ropes shot out from thin air, winding around slender ankles before hoisting them up in the air—until they connected with Draco's bum, a pleasant, fleshy _thwap_ filling Harry's ears. The ropes knotted themselves, winding through those at Draco's wrists and then securing themselves higher up his arms, wrapping his shoulders for added strength. He was hog tied—rather prettily, if Harry didn't say so himself. There was no way Draco could wiggle out of this. Harry knew it for a fact; he'd tested the pose himself. It was overly secure.

Even if Draco's circulation was bad, he would be okay in this position for at least ten minutes, maybe as long as twenty five if he'd been playing Quidditch as often as it appeared. And Draco didn't have any cigarettes that Harry knew of, so his lungs would be in excellent condition. Yes, he could enjoy Draco in this compromising position for a good while.

He tucked the tip of the dildo in his pocket. He wouldn't need it right away.

“...Harry?” 

That was a very small voice, even for Draco. Harry reached out, stroking his thumb over his favorite birthmark, digging into the fold of flesh between thigh and the curvature of scarred white arse to massage that precious tea stain fleck, over and over again. 

“Yes?”

“I...” Draco faltered. Swallowing thickly, he started again. His eyes were screwed shut. “I've done it myself a bit but... I'm not ready. Yeh have ta....” 

He'd seen Harry go for the stupid green phallus and thought he was getting on with the main event already? Maybe Draco was more naive than Harry thought? Then again, none of Draco's previous tops had particularly cared whether he was prepared or not—whether he was ready or willing or even wanted it. The bastards probably just shoved right in. 

Upset beyond measure by the thought, Harry had to take several deep breaths before he could speak evenly. He didn't want Draco to hear his rage and misconstrue its source. The blonde was vulnerable enough with his legs spread.

“I know,” he whispered. He dropped to his chest and slithered forward on his elbows until his forehead rested against Draco's palm. He tossed his wand aside, then his glasses before they got too smudged. 

“...Imperius?” Draco asked very quietly. 

“Not a fucking chance,” Harry snorted, scraping teeth over Draco's cheek. “Not after the last time.” 

“Legillimens, then.” 

Harry turned his face up, catching one of Draco's fingers in his mouth. He sucked—making sure Draco would stay hard, but also making sure the man knew he was going to be taken care of. Harry released the digit with a wet, tongue-swirling slurp, swallowing back his own spit so he could speak.

“I don't think you need it, Draco. You can tell me, right? If it's too much?” 

The pureblood's response was to bury his face in the sheets. 

Harry's voice turned warning. “I won't stop.” 

Draco nodded. By the sound of it, that was a very bedding-muffled “good” coming from his lips. 

Harry kissed his tailbone, licking the salt of exertion from his skin. Draco smelled like the pitch, like grass and wind and leather Quidditch gear, like musk and wild apples and something tart like vinegar or vodka. Harry rolled the flavor in his mouth, drinking it in, before kissing lower. 

He'd never contemplated licking someone's ass. It was... well, it certainly wasn't talked about, wasn't covered in his measly muggle sex education class. It made sense, though, licking the place to get it warmed up before shoving your prick in there. “Down there” was a personal place, awkward and generally ignored as far as Harry had been concerned the first seventeen un-gay years of his life. Before Draco, the thought had never crossed his mind. It was an arsehole, dirty and uncouth. Snogging it didn't sound particularly appealing... but now he knew how good it felt, thousands of tiny nerve endings bundled up down there, begging for attention. It hadn't been a sexy place before Draco went there—before Draco made it so. He did a lot of things for Draco without thinking; feeling his way through, going on instinct, what he figured might work or even feel good. 

So he licked with the flat of his tongue, just a taste. And Draco groaned, long and low, throat of loose-ground gravel and something like the clanging of church bells in his ears. Slender fingers scrambled to touch Harry's hair, to twirl it between familiar digits, to pull as best he could. Harry worked his lips, his spit, suckling—and Draco's legs spread even further, giving himself over. He groaned again, the sound rising through his flushed face, ending in a hissing, drool-filled nasal keen. 

Harry pushed Draco's cheeks even further apart, using his thumb to stretch the man open. Before he could hesitate, think or second guess himself, he drove his tongue forward.

The honest part of him knew he was nervous—afraid. Afraid he wouldn't like it, afraid Draco would jerk away, say he was doing it wrong or, Merlin forbid, ask him to stop. Deep in his stomach, there was a fluttering—thirty thousand Snitches let loose in his bowels, threatening to run up his throat and into Draco. This was new. And never one to be tentative in the face of the unknown, Harry barreled forward. 

His hand was probably clenched ungodly tight over Draco's smooth white cheek. He was probably tugging too firmly on that jerking ring of muscle, stretching it too much too soon. He didn't know better. And maybe Draco was too afraid to say. 

Maybe he'd never had this done to him before; after all, the pureblood always topped with those few notable exceptions. It was part of who he was just as much as his platinum hair or that irascible pile of personality which always came spilling out when he drank. Draco was a top. Because having another man between your legs like this... it changed you. Harry recognized that. It let loose a very disjointed, bloody needy part of the psyche; a creature which was fledgling, powerless and weak. And those feelings had to scare the life out of Draco. Malfoys didn't do weakness, vulnerability, or any emotion which didn't serve their purpose. But the way he moved was new—was heartfelt instead of jaded, like he'd put a white-knuckled fist to his lips if he could just to keep those sounds from dropping out, to keep the spit and the need trapped behind his teeth.

He tasted like insides, like liver and spleen and body, the flavors of skin replaced by earthiness, muscle and musk. He smelled like cock and sweat, the familiar stink of a Quidditch locker, complete with vaguely moldy towels, the odor left behind by a lack of shower and those bloody tight pants the blonde always wore. Harry licked it away, replacing it with his own spit, with the salt from his brow and the sharp spill of magic. He worked his mouth until they were just spit and body, lazy sliding like clouds across the sky.

Harry could all but feel the bruises forming beneath his fingertips—blue and purple prints in the shape of his thick fingers and how they would hang off the paleness of Draco's skin. The harder he pushed, the more Draco railed against him, pushing back, legs tight, offering more. He wouldn't stop moving, fingers scraping at Harry's hair and scalp, the sounds of him unbridled.

He liked it. He bloody loved it. Queer or faggot, arse banditry or whatever anyone wanted to call it! He couldn't fucking care when it did this to Draco, brought him this painfully close to something like freedom.

Draco wasn't gay, though. Not really—only half a poof at best. And Harry didn't think he was one, either. He'd been thinking that for a while, now. The label didn't fit because he didn't prefer blokes—just Draco. And like Draco told him, over and over again in exasperated tones, fancying one solitary chap didn't make you gay: it made you a seventeen year old boy who grew up in a cupboard. _Became a man in one, too,_ Harry realized with a jolt. Finally, he was acting on every lewd thought he'd ever had—every wank fantasy, every midnight sheet-soaking, wake-up-in-a-puddle-of-cold-spunk dream. And there wasn't a single thing weird or wrong or gay about that. He was indecent; a randy, salacious pervert, flippant and hard and horny as fuck and there was absolutely nothing wrong with the way he started rutting against the mattress when Draco ground back, spearing himself on Harry's tongue. It didn't occur to him that he had his tongue up the ex-Prince of Slytherin's arsehole—only that Draco was hot and wanting under him, driven mad by the feel of his mouth and the touch of his hands. 

He did this to Draco—made the man wild like this, made him pant, grunt, groan and soon, scream. It was a matter of pride as well as pleasure. And Harry would push the man to breaking-point. He closed his hand around Draco's bum, squeezing without mercy. He wasn't finished and Draco was squirming, throwing off his rhythm, each thrust of his tongue to match the bucking of his hips against the bed.

Draco scrambled, trying to push himself up onto his knees, twisting and swerving to get a fist full of Harry's hair and yank so deliciously hard. Harry gave him a finger and then two, waggling his tongue between them as he spread Draco open. He didn't need his glasses to see that expanding, deeply red maw—ridges, body, insides. He licked once more before a third finger joined the mix, biting his way down to the tender skin between Draco's hole and bollocks.

Draco strained and struggled, daring newly-born muscle to push up onto his knees, begging Harry to lick the skin of his sack, to take one of those heavy testicles into his mouth. His abs shook as he pushed, face to the mattress, trying so desperately to get up onto his knees. Harry knew how limited Draco's range of motion was, how much strength and fight it would take him to get up. He waited and watched, tongue out, letting Draco pant and grunt, trying to land a ball to mouth. 

Finally, one egg-sized fur ball fell against Harry's tongue. He hadn't been ready for the feel of pubic hair—coarse and prickly against the insides of his lips, getting between his teeth and curling up his nose. But that didn't stop him; after all, growing it out had been Harry's own idea. And he fancied the look. Body hair gave Draco's narrow frame something more substantial, a certain wisdom of age caught up with the swell of the man's pale skin, blonde hair holding onto the smell of him and keeping it close.

Harry licked until Draco let out a scream, all of him vibrating from his guts outward, a very new sound—wordless, crying. He wanted to be taken, fucked, done-to. He wanted more and harder and pain. And he wanted Harry to be the one handing it out. That aching timbre did all the begging for him.

With Draco teetering but stable-enough on his knees, Harry was able to reach up his body, hand sliding over the landscape of him, fingering the new hair there, tracing up to tweak his nipples. The hardness was incredible—Draco had firmed up in the time they'd been apart, brick muscle blooming beneath the sinew of him. The pureblood's pecs were high and tight, rigid. As much as Harry wanted to keep feeling the man up, he knew better. He withdrew, wrapping a hand around the base of Draco's cock to hold him off.

Draco whined tremendously, absolutely petulant. He wanted to come. Unfortunately, that didn't quite work with Harry's plan. He nibbled and bit his way down Draco's inner thigh, sliding back.

“You'll live,” he told the man, laying a swat across his backside. When Draco tightened, it gave Harry a flash of that hole twitching shut only to peek back at him, wet and ready. Patience in shreds, Harry reached for the vibrator. 

Draco quit breathing. All at once. He went stiffer than a possum playing dead.

Harry ran a warm hand up the man's thigh. “Draco?” No response. “Breathe. It'll help you relax.” Draco had said as much to him those first few times. Harry knew the truth of it. Breathing really helped.

But Draco wouldn't—outright refused. The skin of his neck was naturally a pinkish-blue, now stained red with the shapes of Harry's fingers, mottled against paleness. Harry wondered how long the average person could hold their breath for: a minute, perhaps two? His best bet was to force Draco to gasp as soon as possible, to snap him out of it. It wasn't safe to do much of anything if the man wasn't going to breathe.

“Fine,” Harry sighed. “Down, then.” Harry put his elbow against Draco's palm resting over his tailbone and shoved, using his weight advantage to push the blonde down. Draco resisted, eyes screwed shut. “Come on,” Harry grunted. Soon the strength of his arm beat-out Draco's bound thighs and the man was squashed against the bedding where he belonged. 

Harry slid his elbow sideways, until he found the bone just at the top of Draco's bum, giving pressure to back his insistence. He draped his forearm over Draco's back, letting his fingers glide over the Dark Mark on Draco's arm. He'd bound the man at hands and wrists on purpose—it was the most secure, above all, but he also wanted to see the Mark, wanted it present to serve as witness. He rubbed at the black shape on Draco's skin, massaging the way he would his own temples or the lightning scar at his forehead. As Draco eased under his touch, Harry pressed the toy to his entrance. 

He paused, waiting until he was sure he had Draco's undivided attention. 

“Oh, wait. Lube! Right...” he chastised himself. And even though Draco's face was pressed against the mattress, Harry could still make out his pink lips mouthing the words “sweet Merlin.” Harry watched as nostrils flared, sneaking in the tiniest of breaths as Draco sighed over the trademark hopelessness of The Boy Who Lived. Mission accomplished. 

Harry passed his hand over the toy, conjuring a smear of the slick substance Draco preferred. After, he returned a hand to the man's Dark Marked arm, holding him down, holding him still; a warning that it was coming now. 

He decided, at the last second, that he wouldn't watch his green plastic bits as they sank into Draco. Instead he bowed his head, bending, pressing his face to Draco's hand, sucking the smallest finger into his mouth and swirling his tongue—losing himself to the feeling, his own wetness and the clean, comforting taste on his tongue. Draco. Draco's warm, sweaty palm against his cheek, fingers tracing the stubbled line of his jaw. He wasn't aware his hand had slid forward, the toy with it, until Draco gave a great, rasping shudder. 

Draco was biting at the bedsheets—Harry suspected he might get bitten, too, should he get close enough. He couldn't make out at first whether that scrunched up face and staccato, achy noises were of arousal or pain... or just relief; overwhelmed that they were finally doing this. 

Draco's mouth gaped, lips slack, as though he wasn't getting enough air. His breath was weak and gasping between the sounds he made—a grunting from somewhere deep in his gut, resonating through his pointed nose and hard-clenched teeth. It was always three sounds, distinct from one another, before he had to suck in another breath.

Harry checked to see how far along they were—not very. With Draco spread, Harry could make out the familiar curve where the head of his cock met the shaft, done in Slytherin green and jutting out of Draco like a lance. Lubricant pushed out from either side, squeezed out as Draco's muscles fought the intrusion. The pad of Harry's thumb worked over Draco's Dark Mark. He couldn't resist bending to kiss the spot before pressing, laying kisses to the twisting line of Draco's spine as the man arched under him... making Harry thankful he was using a surrogate cock of sorts over his own. The shapes Draco made, the growling groans and sweat-murky shakings would have undone him in seconds, otherwise. He'd never be able to hold on—not with the way Draco felt beneath him, pinned and writhing, whining and fucked. 

He pushed. Draco screamed. And it was so bloody perfect.

The sound of him was roughed-up, like too many punches to the gut, as though every kiss Harry laid to his spine was a switch strike to his most tender places. Jittery, anxious, his knees trembled. Harry had to remind himself to breathe at the sight—stripped, helpless, vulnerable. 

He pulled the toy back to just the tip once more, pressing the green head around Draco's rim, sliding and coaxing. This stupid cock had its advantages—it stayed rock hard, for one. He could see what he was doing, manipulating it with his hands rather than his inexperienced and frankly overeager hips. And it was easier to vanish the vibrator, should something go wrong, than to lop off his own equipment with a spell. It gave him a patience he hadn't known he possessed, allowing him to separate his own arousal from Draco's. It was as though he were seeing Draco for the first time, stripped and bare. His face scrunched as Harry teased, this time sucking at his smallest toe. Draco loosed an unexpected moan, squirming under the restraints. But the rope held fast, leaving tiny red trails blooming against his skin.

They got much farther with the next thrust, more than half-way in before Draco's face contorted, something like a bark escaping his throat. Harry held back even less on the next pass, holding Draco's ankle and tugging him down against the pressure. He held it there, letting Draco adjust. 

“Too much?” he asked.

Stubborn, Draco wouldn't answer. 

“This silent treatment stuff?” Harry grumbled under his breath. “The more you do it, the more I wanna break you in half.”

He watched Draco's mouth for a reaction—anything. Sharp white teeth bit at his lips, whines escaping him as his face contorted... but he didn't say a word. He didn't beg Harry to stop, though it looked like he desperately wanted to. 

But when Harry pulled back, Draco came with him, not yet willing to let go. The pureblood tried to follow the toy with his rump, knees spreading as wide as they could go as he slithered down the bed. Harry teased him again with the head, pulling all the way out just to drive him mad.

“You want it, then?” Harry went on. Eventually the smart-ass in Draco wouldn't be able to take it anymore and would fire back. Harry was counting on it. “Think you're ready?” 

Draco grunted in response. The ropes bit at his wrists, his ankles, leaving red fibrous rolls across his bone-pale shoulders. The more he struggled, the more his skin blushed, rope irritating his flesh, looped strands like dozens of itchy fingers holding him back.

Harry was tempted to use Legilimens, to know if Draco was thinking about the pain and discomfort of now, or about the times this had been done to him in the past. Harry wanted it to be different: it _was_ different. As much as it was uncomfortable, Draco wanted this—possibly more than Harry himself did, the way the blonde had been dropping hints for so long. Draco trusted him. He'd never have the guts to ask for it if he didn't know Harry would take care of him no matter what.

Harry leaned close, hovering at the back of Draco's neck, forced to put an arm to the bed so he wouldn't fall. 

“ _Tell me, Draco_ ,” he hissed, knowing his snake syllables would be understood. “ _Tell me what you want._ ”

He'd asked Draco that same question months ago under the Imperius Curse—and gotten something near a seizure in response. If things went bad, he could Vanish the ropes in a second and have Draco free. But he hoped this time Draco could give him an answer.

He used his arm on the bed to pull at Draco's shoulder, twisting his spine in a wicked display. Draco's back pressed flush against Harry's chest. Draco took advantage of their alignment, hands groping for Harry's crotch and giving his prick a good hard squeeze when his fingers found it. Harry's hips gave an answering thrust. He tucked his knee between Draco's legs for balance, licking at a bead of sweat as it trickled from his hairline. Slowly, he laid a kiss to each burn mark marching in a line down Draco's neck. 

“ _Tell me_ ,” he ordered.

“...You,” Draco wheezed at long last. “Want _you_.”

Harry burrowed against the curve of Draco's neck. “Draco. You know I can't do that yet. I told you. This is what you get.”

“Then jus'... move,” Draco panted, sounding more than half delirious. His hair was a mess, all over the place, sticking up at odd angles and covering one eye. His voice rattled in his throat. “Make it move.”

“What, this?” Harry asked, flipping the vibrating switch on the dildo. 

Draco jerked. Then he began to tremble, biting his bottom lip. His eyes drifted closed.

“Move it _in and out_ ,” the blonde enunciated carefully, bordering on exasperation, “you complete and utter ponce. I need ta _fuck_.”

Harry pretended to think about that one. He wanted Draco mad with it—brought to tears, to breaking point, like he'd promised months ago. If ever there was a time to take Draco down, it was now. 

He eased the vibration just a smidge higher, glorying in the shudders it elicited, even with just half an inch or so inside. He liked the way Draco's pectorals shook, all high, well-formed and tight, looking nothing like breasts but just as sensual, with their little pink nipples hardened to nubs, swirls and gashes of white scars adorning every last shaking inch of him. The lines seemed to wiggle as Draco's muscles shifted beneath his skin.

He gave it all in one go; quick, so Draco wouldn't suffer.

“How's that?” he teased. 

If Draco had been any more cognizant, his mouth might've dropped open in indignation... his wet, slattern little mouth. Harry was a tad disappointed it didn't—he had the urge to stick his dick in it and come. He wanted to make Draco swallow his come, conquered from both ends. 

In fact... why the hell not? Harry patted around for his wand. With a quick Sticking Charm to the vibrator, he was crawling up the bed to do just that. 

“Open up,” he told the blonde, unhooking his belt and dropping his fly. “You're suckin' it.”

Draco needed no encouragement, his mouth dropping open obediently, tongue extended, ready to take Harry's cock in his mouth the second it was out of his pants. Harry had to put an arm against the headboard, bracing himself to maintain his balance while straddling Draco's shoulders. He gripped himself around the base, guided into Draco's waiting mouth by a long pink tongue. Draco actually sighed around his girth, lips tight, tongue flicking. His hot breath ghosted over Harry's shaft, teasing his knuckles as he gripped himself, holding steady. He reached to give the tip of Draco's nose an affectionate bump with his thumb. 

And then the blonde was off—as if his nose were a button marked “go”—nudging Harry's fingers away to slurp at his length, bobbing like the girls in the wizarding porno rags he'd been getting off to in the blonde's absence. Harry suspected Draco was far better than any photo slag. He wasn't going to last long. He'd been wanking like a man possessed the last week or so; still, the edge was so close, nipping at his balls. He wouldn't, _couldn't_ last—not with Draco sucking at his cock like a thousand galleon trick, grinding against Harry and the bed, trying so hard to push the dildo further into himself, as though he wanted to be condensed from every angle, pushed into until he disappeared.

Harry rocked his hips into the blowjob, letting Draco pull back to have his mouth fucked. He fisted a hand in sweat-sleek blonde hair, riding it out—growling incoherently as he came, pressing into Draco for everything he was worth. 

Beneath him, the blonde let out a gagging slurp. Harry retreated quickly, the last of his orgasm pumping across Draco's lips and the bridge of his nose, clinging to the white fluff of his goatee. A mixture of come and spit ran out over his bottom lip, big grey eyes screwed shut in case any of Harry's seed splashed up. A single fleck landed against his eyelash. Harry reached to wipe it away with his thumb. 

“You okay?” he muttered. 

Draco's response was to lick the come from the corner of his mouth, tongue running over his bottom lip as though searching out the last of it, eager for whatever he could reach. 

“... Brillian', yeah,” the pureblood mumbled, scrunching his nose. A line of spunk, still warm, made a tear-like track down his cheek. Harry's thumb swiped at that, too, wiping his hand clean against the sheet. “Don't botha',” Draco said, face nudging at Harry's hip. “Jus'...” and his eyes drifted down. His own cock was leaking puddles against his stomach, clear liquid shiny and caught up in the channel of hair connecting his chest and groin. The expression on Draco's face was clear, one smug brow raised. _Suck me,_ his big eyes said, dilated with wanting. _Please suck me._ He could all but hear Draco's voice in his head, sending fizzing whizbees sprinting up his spine.

Harry's cock twitched to attention, slapping Draco's cheek. The man's tongue snuck out, smiling as he twisted to steal a wet passing swipe. Harry took his dick in hand and pulled it to the side, beyond reach of Draco's greedy mouth, poised as though he were going to slap the man's come-covered cheek again.

A cheeky grin lit Harry's face. He wanted Draco to beg again—couldn't get enough of it, actually. He traced the line of Draco's jaw with his prick; teasing, knowing Draco couldn't move any farther. 

“What do you say?” He dearly hoped Draco would conjure up another plaintive little _please_. Or—and only if he was very, very lucky—he might get a _Sir._

Draco's eyes were on Harry's cock rather than his face as the git answered, “Slap me again?” 

Harry chuckled. “You'd like that too much.”

“An' I _wouldn't_ fancy a wank?” Draco scoffed. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Either way, you win, love. I wouldn't be complaining if I were you.” 

Draco licked his lips, eyes at last drifting up to Harry's face. His voice was breathy as he spoke. “Untie me?” 

“So you can wank yourself?” Harry shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Don't think so.” 

When he let go of his prick, Draco lunged for it. Harry caught the pureblood with the heel of his palm to a sweaty forehead, smacking him back to the bed. 

“Stay put,” Harry warned. He took up his shaft again, teasing himself along Draco's lips, making sure Draco would do exactly as he was told. He could see in Draco's eyes how much he wanted to dart forward, to pull Harry into his mouth—to please him. But he held back, obeying his verbal restraints as much as the physical ones, proving he could take direction. 

Harry bent to Draco's mouth, sliding down the bed. When their faces drew even, Draco's eyes fluttered closed, waiting, anticipation clear across his features, blushing and still streaked with come. He bit his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. So Harry kissed his top lip, his pathetic excuse of a mustache, breathing words over it. 

“Good boy.” 

Draco's eyes came open, meeting Harry's own. They were nothing but green, reflecting the color of his own. Harry had to concentrate to draw a breath. 

“Who said you could look at me?” Harry asked quietly. 

Quick as a flash, Draco's gaze dropped. 

Harry snorted, dropping a peck-like kiss to the man's still-bitten mouth. His lips caught Draco's front teeth but he didn't care. 

“Hey... I was kidding.” Harry nuzzled Draco's nose, giving the man his weight. “All these weeks without you... how could I not want to see you?”

Beneath him, Draco was consumed by a blush. It traveled down his finger-reddened neck, flushing his chest, pink running out beneath the hair and scars. 

“Watch me,” Harry ordered, pushing up onto his hands and observing Draco's wide eyes, making sure they followed his progress as he straightened his arms, hovering. “Don't let me catch you with your eyes shut. Got it?” 

Swallowing, Draco nodded, evidence of their game on his smirking lips. The man lived for a challenge, after all. Harry had come all too quickly. Hopefully, he could return the favor. Already, Draco's hard prick poked at his thigh, dripping for lack of attention.

Harry kissed his way down Draco's front, fingers and tongue following the white lines of scars. It was a familiar path, hairs brushing against Harry's nose and cheek as he went. He'd pictured these scars—seen them a thousand times in his head.... Every time he wanked. Every time he stepped into the shower, handled a broomstick or climbed the stairs of Grimmauld Place. 

Draco was always with him, like a ghost. How many times had he pictured the blonde bumping elbows with him at lunch, or beside him each night, curled against his chest, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing? Those fleeting fantasies, tricks of the imagination, were nothing compared to the reality of the man before him. The bite of his sweat in the air, the cracking knuckles of his fingers, still slightly chilled from being outside, the mixed blush of emotion and red sting of hands painting his throat. It was these details he'd missed—the white scar at Draco's hairline, the caramel freckle in his eyebrow, even the underside of his jaw where his stubble grew fastest. That roughness matched the hair now decorating his body, blonde fluff along his lower abdomen hiding a few of the skinnier scars from view. The larger ones cut through his hair—the follicles gone, cleaved away by curses and knives and horrible memories. Harry touched those scars, soothing with his hands, his mouth, his warm breath. Draco shuddered at his touch.

He kissed his way to Draco's hip, palming the erection which fell against his cheek. Draco arched under him, asking for more. Harry used a hand at the blonde's ass to tip him onto his side, taking some of the stress off of his fingers and feet. Draco pushed against Harry, bucking his hips, searching for friction. A glance upward revealed tears pricking at the corners of Draco's eyes.

Harry mouthed along the side of his cock, earning himself that mewling moan which meant Draco was happy. A slow lick and he pulled back. 

“What?” he asked. 

Draco blinked—fast, trying to prove he could keep his eyes from falling closed in abject, serviced bliss. Harry knew the feeling. The blonde chewed the inside of his lip. 

Harry brought his hand up, checking the tips of Draco's fingers. Draco quickly closed a hand around Harry's thumb, squeezing to say he was alright and Harry should venture back to his leaking cock. Harry rolled his eyes. Once, he'd have found it funny, reading Draco's intent from the speed of his breath and the wrinkling of skin around his eyes. Now it was damn useful when the blonde got stubborn like this. 

Harry wrestled his hand from Draco's grip, running a fingernail over the sweeping arch of his foot. Draco hissed, head jerking. Tendons in his neck strained before his gaze returned. He was fighting tears. 

Harry raised his brows. “Numb?” 

Nostrils flaring, Draco licked at his lips. “Pins an' needles.” 

“M'kay.” 

Sighing, Harry extended a hand, calling for his wand. He thoroughly enjoyed Draco's gasp of surprise when the instrument landed in his outstretched hand, Luke Skywalker-style. 

“You don't have a monopoly on the old ways, anymore,” Harry chided, “ya cunt.”

He flipped his wand, releasing the ropes which held Draco's ankles. Fibers dissolved against Draco's shoulders, leaving several rows of imprints like tiny railroad tracks had been pounded into his flesh. Harry had never gotten marks like that from a hogtie—then again, he hadn't thrashed around nearly as much as Draco, focusing his energy on the comfort of the ropes rather than their imprisoning power. He blamed the blonde's pureblood porcelain skin. He bruised deliciously easy, after all. 

Draco immediately rolled his shoulders, legs falling out from their bindings. His ankles were especially red from all the twisting and fighting he'd done, impressions of his heels worked into the dimple of each perfect arse cheek. 

Long legs shook as they straightened. Harry moved away, giving Draco room enough to stretch. He was all legs, long lines and fluted, column-like muscles. Harry stroked the back of one parchment-pale thigh, fingers raking. Draco's head dropped against the mattress before he remembered the command not to close his eyes. 

Harry chuckled.

“Might be easier with your hands, yeah? Too bad.” 

He knew it was fucked up—making Draco crane his neck like that, legs awkward and open, splayed out and coming unraveled. But he didn't care. Not with the way Draco's fingers moved, reflexive and graspy, or the way his hips rolled, trying to land his cock to Harry's mouth, now he could use his heels and shoulders again to leverage against the bed. He waited until Draco was a wild, quivering, hoarse-growling mess before he reached, ghosting a hand over bollocks and blonde hair, to crank the switch higher.

Draco screamed for God—and after a few loud, soulful pangs, “God” became “Harry.” He drowned out the mechanical thrum of the vibrator with his screaming—grunts and groans and quick barks of air catching at his throat.

Harry loved the sounds Draco made—not because of their tone, or the squelch of barely-contained drool spilling between each needy grunt—but because they were Draco. Pure and unadulterated Draco. Unapologetic and randy as fuck.

He caught Draco's gaze before sucking down the head of his cock... just to see his eyes glaze over, to watch as he gave in at last, mewling and rocking, thrown to the winds, thrashing in fits as he burned up, as he let go. It had all been building inside him for so long, like a windy gale caught in a room with no place to go. Draco opened the door and it all came rushing out—keening and wails and curses, screams of buggery and torture, anger, fear, love. Everything he'd kept hidden away for so long. All one endless divide crashing down, ripped out of him like a sore stuck to a bandage—quick, but not without pain.

He waited until Draco was a shivering, jibbering, twitchy-toed mess before touching him again, easing the toy out of him just enough that he'd feel it pressing back in. He pulled off Draco's cock entirely, rolling it under his palm as he focused his effort on Draco's entrance, oddly enthralled by the way he seemed to cling to the plastic, never wanting it to leave. 

Harry couldn't keep his mouth away. He couldn't resist the nearness, the brush of silky skin, the warmth of Draco against every inch of himself. He kissed at the ridges of Draco's stomach, nuzzled and licked at his sides, played footsie with their calves and toes, all the while working him deeper, searching for the right angle which would throw his beloved over the edge.

One minute Harry was licking the tenderness of his hip, biting at the sharp protrusion of bone; the next his bollocks tightened and Draco was coming. He arched, nearly throwing Harry off, taking up fists of the bedsheets beneath his still-bound wrists and shaking from head to purplish toes. A cry rattled through him, wordless and guttural. And a splash of spunk landed in Harry's hair. 

“Ah—I—uh,” Draco panted. “...Fuck!” 

“Yeah,” Harry smiled, licking indentations shaped like his teeth all along Draco's pelvis. He gave the blonde a moment to come down from the best high known to muggle or man. A vague spell stopped the toy's incessant hum. At last he ventured to ask, “How're your hands?” 

“Oh, sod off,” Draco wheezed. “I... am not... made of glass.”

To prove his point, Harry pinched the fat of Draco's thumb, down close to his wrist. When the blonde didn't so much as flinch, Harry made up his mind. If Draco couldn't feel a pinch past the numbness, it was time to let his hands free. Harry patted around for his wand, keeping a hand on Draco.

_Finite Incantatum_ set Draco's hands loose. The blonde closed his eyes, using dead fingers to rub at his raw-rubbed wrists. Draco was more of a fighter than Harry had anticipated—perhaps a silk binding next time, rather than cotton rope. As much as he liked the marks decorating Draco's skin, they had to burn.

Harry took that blonde-bearded chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling Draco's face up to meet his own. 

“Closed your eyes, didn't you?” Harry accused. 

Draco met him head-on, nonplussed. “I came my bloody brains out, idiot.” 

Harry's voice deepened. “Did I say you could?” 

The tilt of Draco's head was rather charming, curtain of white-blonde hair falling over one eye. 

“Do I care?” 

Harry knocked the git onto his back. Hovering, he pronounced, “Fine. Never listen to a word I say, see if I give a damn.” And he caught Draco in a kiss, cooling come spreading out as their chests pressed, pulled together as their lips worked. Slow at first, it became something more, Draco's tongue darting out to test the landscape of Harry's teeth—as though they'd changed. Reassured, he mapped the lay of gums and tongue, at last biting at Harry's thickened lower lip with a happy, sated sigh.

“But for the record,” Harry articulated softly, pulling Draco closer, “you don't sound like a hog at the slaughter. I killed one—don't ask, the story's not worth telling. But I can say with some authority that you definitely don't sound like one.” He took a deep breath, then another, gathering his thoughts. “More like a big dog yelping.” 

Draco snorted, choleric. “Tha's supposed ta make me feel betta?”

“Or a small dog barking,” Harry shrugged. 

Draco's face fell. “I'll take large dog, then.”

Harry pushed back to sit on his heels. He jerked his chin. “All fours, then.”

Draco eyed him warily. After a moment's hesitation, he did as he was told, rolling onto his stomach and pushing up on shaky, fawn-like limbs. Harry could see the tremors in his biceps and the sides of his creamy thighs as muscles worked to move his weight. Harry sucked at the backs of his teeth, resisting the urge to sink in a bite. When he saw Draco's arms about to give out, elbows knocking, he pushed those skinny arms away, taking Draco face-first to the mattress with a muffled splutter. He only needed a heavy hand to the blonde's shoulder blades to keep him down, ass in the air.

He slapped at Draco's thighs, urging them apart. The blonde's knees slid over the sweat-damp bedsheets, spreading his arse cheeks for Harry's inspection.

Intrigued, Harry removed the vibrator with an otherwise amusing slurp, eager to have a good look at the damage. Face against the sheets, Draco groaned his embarrassment. He'd always been morbidly curious as to what it looked like back there... after. Now he could look his fill. Draco's hole was still stretched from the dildo—not completely loose, but worked enough that he opened when his cheeks were nudged apart. Harry started to pant as he stared. It was an oddly beautiful sight. That was _his_ hole, he thought brazenly. He could fuck Draco right now... but he'd almost rather stare. It was just that fantastic—all of it, shiny and red and calling to him. 

Before he knew it, his hand was on his hardened prick, jerking himself roughly, open-mouthed and gulping air. He inched forward on his knees, slapping Draco's ass with the red crown of his cock. Draco let out a wail and wriggled himself back, asking for more. His own prick hung spent between his legs but he still wanted it. Harry was floored. 

A second away from coming, he put a hand to the tail of Draco's spine, pushing down to hold the pureblood perfectly still. Harry leaned into that hand until the head of his cock wasn't more than a few millimeters from Draco's entrance. And then he touched the tip of himself to Draco, to that slicked and waiting hole, letting just the tip slip inside. And he came in an instant, shooting into that resounding, crushing heat. He shot before he could help himself, overwhelmed by the sight, the feel—Veela-buggering _fuck_ , the slicked-up feel of Draco trying to swallow him whole.

It took him a moment to get his breath back.

“Feel sufficiently claimed, _mon coeur_?” Harry wheezed, rubbing Draco's tailbone with the heel of his hand. 

There was a moment of silence as Draco recovered from the shock of what Harry had done.

“Only... if ya felch it out,” Draco quipped, breathless, the side of his face squashed against the bed. 

Harry dropped his softening cock, reaching for the dildo he'd just dropped by his foot. It came away from the sheets with a string of lubricant, like drool.

“In that case,” Harry adjusted his grip, holding Draco still with his other hand. “Why don't you keep it for a while?” And he worked the dildo back inside with a series of only vaguely inconsiderate shoves, giving Draco's thigh a smack before securing the toy with a wandless and nonverbal _Rederre Magnes._

Draco's fingers splayed flat against the sheets as he choked on air, trying to breathe through the intrusion. Harry cracked his wand against Draco's hip like a riding crop to a horse's rump.

“Something for your ass to remember me by.”

So he wasn't _entirely_ sure how a Magnetizing Charm might work on someone's rectum. Draco was a bright wizard—Head Boy, after all—and this was sixth year Durmstrang stuff. Draco could figure it out. And the thought of him struggling to pull Harry's green plastic prick from his wanting, slattern little arse was nothing short of priceless. Just deserts, even. Harry might never frown again.

“Wait,” Draco's blonde head shot up, a genuine panic making his eyes wide. “You're leaving?” 

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged, already out of bed and pulling on his pants and denims with casual, efficient movements. “I have a meeting with the Minister in an hour.” 

“You're leaving me _like this_?” Draco, highly disgruntled, gestured to the thing in his arse.

Smiling from ear to ear, Harry nodded.

 

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** Quotation from the lovely prose verse “Borges  & I” by the late great Argentinean Jorge Luis Borges. One of my idols.


	47. Beretta: One More Time With Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has been hiding in America. When he returns to England, the war comes crashing down around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** recollections of violence, mention of acts of war/genocide, **minor character death** , aftereffects of war, injuries, some blood, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, religion, Harry being clueless!Harry

**  
**

  
  


_ You thought by now you'd be so much better than you are. _

_ You thought by now they'd see that you had come so far. _

_ And the pride inside their eyes would synchronize into a love you'll never know, _

_ So much more than you can show. _

  
  


_ Hold on, _

_ One more time with feeling. _

_ Try it again, breathing's just a rhythm. _

_ Say it in your mind until you know that the words are right: _

_ This is why we fight. _

_ This is why we fight. _

  
  


"One More Time With Feeling"

Regina Spektor

**  
  
  
  
** The Ministry **** of Magic **** truly was hiding **** itself **** in a barn. The countryside of Northern Ireland surrounded the dilapidated structure, windows shattered and great gaping holes in the rotten beams making up its walls. Drizzle made the whole scene hazy, even in his mind. **  
  
** Once ushered inside, it hadn't taken Harry long to say his peace. **** But he'd gotten a fair look around. **** Though the space had been charmed—the interior at least twenty times larger than its humble outsides suggested—no one had the time or inclination to change the appearance much. The ceiling was all wood beams high above, where hay would have been stored back when muggles used the place. The floor was nothing more than humble **** packed dirt, turned to mud with the traffic of feet and the constant rain. Thankfully the inside of the building was leak-free—undoubtedly the work of magic, what with so many holes in the true structure. Having heard the rumors, Leon supplied Harry with a pair of heavy workman's boots; his footfalls were heavy in his ears, walking through the hushed rows of make-shift tables and chairs, led with somber pomp to the Minister of Magic's roost.  **  
  
** Scrimgeour sat in what had once been a chicken coop. His assistants used the abandoned animal cubbies as shelves, housing paperwork, magical instruments and a variety of official-looking seals. Scrimgeour was harried and troubled, his hair whitening rapidly, the strands almost bleaching themselves before Harry's eyes. The man tried to speak to him of support and public morale, **** arguing **** Harry ought to take a leaf from young **** Draco **** Malfoy's book and at least appear to be on friendly terms with his government. Harry stopped the Minister right there. **  
  
** He advised the man, in no uncertain terms, that he disagreed with the current policy and could not ethically offer his public support until there were significant changes, both in law and regime. Scrimgeour's aids paled while their boss's face reddened. **  
  
** Harry went on to suggest that, should the Minister wish to proffer an olive branch, he might consider allying himself to  _ Harry's _ **** cause... rather than dragging him away from his own work for nothing more than scowls and pandering. The Ministry of the Americas might be a good place to start, he offered, with their Field Operation Teams trained for situations like the ones England—and most of Europe—faced with Voldemort at large. Ferrard Lachlan was also put on the table as a contact, with his philanthropic efforts and willingness to give back to the magical community at large. **  
  
“ ** Show me this government can care for the people more than for itself,” Harry chastised, ruffling his hair. “Prove to me that you mean what you say. Then, perhaps, we'll talk.” **  
  
** More than the expression of disgust on Scrimgeour's spluttering face, Harry recalled the rafters in that place; the way sound echoed and bounced around, words flung here and there, falling on deaf ears, landing in big piles of manure. Though the stuff had been cleared away long ago, its stench remained, replaced with even heavier piles, carted out still-steaming from the Ministry halls. **  
  
** It was all shit. He wondered why he wasted his time. **  
  
  
  
  
** Tonks stopped him on his way out, offering a smile and a pat on the shoulder. **  
  
“ ** Good for you,” she added under her breath. “I think we'd all like to tell him where he can shove it,” and she angled her head back toward the Minister, now barking **** angry **** orders at his aids. **** Tonks **** winked at him **** through her fall of violet curls.  ** “ ** You're an inspiration, Harry.” **  
  
** He snorted, waving off the compliment. **  
  
“ ** Oh,” she added, waggling a finger. “You've got something in your hair, by the way.” **  
  
** Harry patted the back of his head, a finger coming back sticky. Tonks shrugged, casting a Cleaning Charm at his hand and then his unruly locks. **  
  
“ ** Good as new,” she grinned casually, unaware that Harry had just faced the Minister of Magic—lectured him, really—with an ex-Death Eater's come in his hair. Bloody priceless. **  
**  
  


  
  


  
  


~ * ~

**  
**   
  


**  
** It was only a few glances. Here and there, coming and going. But eventually Leon caught on. **  
  
“ ** Sixty-eight Triumph,” the old man said from behind Harry, startling him from his consideration of the disassembled vintage bike **** Leon kept in a corner of his garage. “Helluva motorbike.” **  
  
** Harry gestured to the partly dismantled machine **** amid all **** the clutter. “Think you'll get her running again?” **  
  
“ ** Runnin'?” Leon started. And then he laughed. “I can get anything ter **** _ run _ , m'boy.” **  
  
** Harry nodded, an idea popping into his head. He turned. “Think you could show me the basics?” he asked. “I have a fifty-nine Bonneville back home, was hoping to fit it up. Is there much difference between the years?” **  
  
  
  
  
** Within half an hour, they were up to their elbows in grease, engine parts splayed all over the tarp as Leon walked Harry through the basics of a magically-adapted engine. Harry resorted to using a quill and Recording Spell to make sure he didn't forget anything vital. **  
  
** Fiddling to clean the intake valve of what he now knew was a catalytic converter, Harry cast about for non motorcycle-related topics of conversation. **  
  
“ ** Um. So I was wondering, er... how you knew my father.” **  
  
** Leon's salt and pepper mustache twitched. That was the old man's only visible reaction. He remained hunched over the carburetor he was rebuilding. **  
  
“ ** Nobody told yeh?” Another twitch, like the Irishman was chewing his lips. “I was 'is boss. Aurors Office, after I took a transfer from the Hit Wizards.” **  
  
“ ** Could you tell me about my Dad?” Harry asked slowly. “I've only ever heard about him from his friends or people who despised him.” **  
  
** Leon chuckled over his work. “Yer father knew how ter **** rile folks up, tha's fer damn sure.” **  
  
“ ** Yeah?” The side of Harry's mouth quirked up. **  
  
** Leon used the back of his weathered, age-spotted hand to wipe a bit of grease from his jaw. Then he glanced over at Harry. **  
  
“ ** When yer dad came outta trainin', they had him in the Investigation Department. Big mistake, there. My first mornin' on the job, James was in Barty Crouch's office—head o' department, mind you—makin' a stink over this formal reprimand what-had been handed down. Investigation Officials dinna have arrest privileges back then, ya see,” Leon explained. “Yer dad had chased a wizard wanted fer murder charges—chased 'em through the muggle underground. Seven stops, if I'm not mistaken. But he made the **** arrest, an' the man stood trial fer 'is crimes. I knew right then: James was the sort'a man I wanted on my team. I couldn't strike the reprimand from his record, a' course, but I got 'im promoted to Auror Squad within the week. Some fellas,” Leon chewed his lip in thought. “Some have the fire in 'em—they need ter catch every **** bad **** wizard out there, make the world a safer place. Tha' was James. **** Impulsive... maybe sommat reckless, but driven. Good wizard, he was. Good man.” **  
  
** Harry considered that—his Dad, just out of Hogwarts and eager to prove himself, chasing down a dangerous Dark wizard wanted for murder. That made James Potter sound like a father to be proud of. **  
  
“ ** Some people have called my father arrogant. Would you say that was accurate?” **  
  
“ ** Headstrong,” Leon offered. “Stubborn. But rarely unpleasant. Had a penchant fer risk-takin' what landed 'im in St. Mungos a few times a month, but never too **** wild. Always kept himself inside the law. **** I remember he settled down quite a bit once you were on the way, lad.” **  
  
** Harry wasn't sure why, but his face heated. He focused his attention on the fuzzy pipe cleaner in his hand, working it around the nooks and crannies of the **** converter's **** metal housing. When Harry didn't speak, Leon continued his reminiscing. **  
  
“ ** I met ya once,” the old man smiled **** broadly, “when you were just a wee'n. Yer mother brought ya by. James would always be flashin' pictures round the office—thought the world a' yeh both. An yer mother I liked. Smart lass. Classy. Worked in Charms, I believe.” **  
  
“ ** She was an Unspeakable,” Harry offered. “I don't know much about what she did.” **  
  
“ ** None a' us do, lad,” Leon reassured him. “Tha's the point.” **  
  
“ ** So...” Harry fished around his head for the right words. “Did they seem... happy?” **  
  
** Leon's mustache twitched again. “Honestly?” He set down the carburetor, looking away pensively. “I thought they were full young when they had you. Not long outta school, jus' startin' their careers—o' course yer dad had tha' cottage willed to 'im by some relative, an' they seemed ter get along like two fish in water. So who's to say, eh?” **  
  
** Harry nodded his understanding. “Because, you and Mrs. Harper, you waited, right?” **  
  
“ ** Well,” the Irishman cleared his throat. “Supposedly my  _ cher _ **** couldn't have wee ones, on account a' her...” and Leon waved his old man fingers near his forehead like his wife had telepathy... or antlers. “Dee was... our little miracle, not long fer this world.” **  
  
“ ** I'm really sorry,” Harry swallowed thickly. He was still polishing a now spotless catalytic converter, not knowing what else to do with his hands. **  
  
“ ** 'S alright,” Leon offered agreeably. “These things happen. You jus' keep tellin' yerself there's a reason behind it all. Young people dyin' all around, these days. We were blessed, 's wha' we were. Yer folks, too, I think. Havin' someone ter love... it gives yeh hope.” **  
  
“ ** Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I know what you mean.” **  
  
** Suddenly, Leon took the motorcycle part from his hands, examining it. “Tha's gotta be clean by now, eejit,” he teased, inspecting Harry's work. **** The old man **** nodded his approval. **  
  
“ ** Here's a thought; how's about I make a Portkey tomorrow, yeh **** pop **** back 'ter England fer that fifty-nine a' yers an' we'll have a look. See what-all shape she's in. Sound good?” **  
  
** Harry couldn't help the grin cutting across his face as he accepted the old man's offer. **  
  
** Distantly, he wondered if this was what having a grandfather was like—someone to dote on you, feed you sweets and call you “sonny.” Then again, Mr. Harper taught him to use a rifle, worked him to the bone and snuck him ales when Charlene wasn't looking. Less-than-ideal grandfatherly behavior. But maybe that was just Leon. **  
  
** At any rate, they'd be family someday soon. After he and Draco got hitched, like the tapestry said. Leon and Lucius Malfoy were third cousins, which made Gideon and Draco fourth cousins. So Leon wouldn't  _ exactly _ **** be Harry's grandfather, but something like his third cousin by marriage, once removed... or... the cross-Atlantic lines scrambled his brains. **** Family wasn't limited to blood: family was the people you kept near you, the people willing to stick it out with you through hell or high water. **  
  
** Ron and Hermione were his family. The Weasleys and the Order. His family was growing every day, new and wonderful people stepping into his life. And as much as he fought with the oldest members of his family, that was normal. Just because they disagreed didn't lessen the love between them. **  
  
** These people were Harry's family. He had a responsibility to protect them. He'd gotten it from his Dad apparently, as much as his Mum. They would both do anything to keep him safe. Harry knew that feeling. He had it for Draco, for Ron and Hermione—even Ginny. They hadn't worked as a couple but that was no reason to punish her. He cared for her, same as always. And they would be family, too. Just... not in the way either of them had expected. **  
  
**  
  


~ * ~

**  
  
  
** There was something desperately wrong. He knew it the moment his sneakers hit the slightly dusty floorboards of Grimmauld Place. He'd Apparated into the formal parlor, met by gloom, natant particles of dust and ash kicked up by his sudden arrival, a murky view of the Black Family tree and sheet-covered furniture which couldn't be arsed to perk up and greet him proper. **  
  
** There was something wrong. He could hear whispers—like when he used to dream of the Hall of Prophecy except these hushed voices weren't confined to his subconscious. The sound was real, echoing, coming from what sounded like the kitchen. Before he could take five steps toward the door, it opened, revealing a deadly-aimed wand tip and the very anxious face of Mikhail Ionescue. **  
  
“ ** Harry,” the lad spoke, air whooshing out from **** his barrel chest as he heaved a sigh of relief. Like his brother, he put a meaty hand over his breast, as though to still his fluttery, quick-beating heart. The gesture reminded Harry of the first time he'd met the Ionescue brothers and their band of merry men; that night at the pub seemed eons away, now. It was before the war. **  
  
** Something about Mikhail's face was off. His bright eyes were sunken, no eager smile curling his features. Strained, purplish veins showed at his neck, jumping as blood hurried through them, worry and fear dilating his eyes and draining the color from his complexion. He was scared shitless. **  
  
“ ** Mishenka,” Harry replied gently. He'd gotten the impression it was more of a baby name, something the guy's grandmother and big brothers would have called him back when he was in nappies **** but in that moment it felt right. Harry watched the boy's jaw warble dangerously, clenching and unclenching as he struggled to find words. **  
  
“ ** You...” he licked his pale lips and began again. “You have to come vith me. Down... ve ** —”  ** He turned quite suddenly, detecting the sound of movement in the hall still too faint for Harry to pick up. A moment later, Chereshko appeared in the doorway behind Misha. “Harry's here now,” the boy advised. His normally smooth, Patrician **** tenor was shaky. **  
  
“ ** I see zhat,” Chereshko laid a hand on Misha's shoulder, guiding him out of the doorway so the older man could enter the dimly lit room. He stowed his wand, meeting Harry's gaze with an unreadable one. “Yoo've heard, zhen.” **  
  
** Something in Harry's gut did an unpleasant somersault. He swallowed. “Heard what?” **  
  
** Chern closed his eyes, pulling breath through his prominent **** nose. It took the **** tall wizard **** a second to respond. “Valaam. Zhey destroyed zhe city. Hundreds vere killed—” **  
  
“ ** Nebojsa, he...” Misha interrupted from the doorway, a choked sound escaping with his stilted words. **  
  
“ ** Vill be  _ fine _ ,” Chereshko reassured, squeezing the boy's forearm. “Please, come sit,” he offered Harry. Chern's **** fire was gone—the man was on autopilot, eyes dead, limbs tired, his expression sunken and sallow. “Yoo've only just arrived. Tea?” **  
  
“ ** Please,” Harry nodded. He didn't feel particularly parched but sitting down for this type of news seemed like a good idea. He followed the two men out into the hall, recognizing the deep, rolling burr of Yuri Batushansky as they neared the kitchen. The burly Moldovan sat at the kitchen table, muttering spells. With each incantation, another mystical device before him would whirr, emitting clicks and ticks and little puffs of smoke. Harry spotted a Sneakoscope among the otherwise foreign objects littering the table. **  
  
** Yura looked up when Harry entered, bearded **** face devoid of his usual warm smile. The fellow's beard and curly black hair were a tangled mess, eyes and nose tinged with red. He looked like he hadn't slept all night. And perhaps had been crying. Harry sat down on the bench beside him, laying a hand to the huge man's shoulder. That hand looked like a child's, wiry and small compared to the bulk of muscle beneath it. **  
  
“ ** What happened?” Harry managed. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. But it was probably the right thing to ask. “Where's Dmitry—and Nebojsa?” **  
  
** Chereshko remained silent, busying himself at the stove with the preparation of tea. **  
  
** Misha reached across the table, waggling his thick fingers until Harry took his hand. The boy's fingers had been scrubbed raw with hot water and soap; still, he wrapped Harry's hand in his, bracing. **  
  
“ ** Death Eaters attacked the city at dawn,” the young man said slowly, measuring his words in an attempt to adhere to the facts. “Nebojsa vos in the muggle monastery for vespers—in the cathedral at the very center of town. Chern, Dima, Vadik and I vere still asleep. Yura vos out vith the patrol and Dušan vent to relieve him. They came vithout varning—no Dementors or Inferi, just waves of men climbing the banks—through the voods, over the valls and into the city like ghosts. They came in the fog vhich hangs over the lake. Ve voke to the sound of the church bell struck by stray spells. By the time ve got through the fighting in the streets, half the cathedral had collapsed. The spires, blue domes—crashing....” **  
  
** Mikhail visibly shook himself; blinking profusely, as though the grit of masonry dust hadn't left him, as though smoke still stung his eyes. Harry pictured a great Russian cathedral, all done in white plaster with gold cornices and great round powdery blue domes that reached to the heavens... crumbling to the cobbled street where Death Eaters chased screaming muggles, wizard guards wiping the sleep from their eyes, **** dying all around as they fought back. It was exactly the sight he was trying to keep from Draco, from Ron and Hermione—and probably the last thing Dima wanted his tortured lover and baby brother to wake up to. **  
  
“ ** I vent into zhe cathedral behind Vadik and my brozher. Vadik vent first. He vos burned by magic—the pain knocked him unconscious vithin a minute but he survived. Vhen ve found Nebojsa...” the boy gulped, squeezing Harry's hand **** tighter. It took several calming breaths before he could get the swirling images out of his head. His eyes remained unfocused, as though if he stared at nothing he could recall facts and events **** without seeing the wreckage in his mind. “A beam from the ceiling had fallen. It vent through his back, near the spine. He vos dying. Ve had to vanish a kidney to save him.” **  
  
“ ** Misha is very talented vith medical spells,” Chern mumbled, staring daggers at the kettle to make it boil. The tall fellow **** was a skeletal shadow, hovering in the corner by the stove. **  
  
** Mikhail **** shrugged at the praise offered. “Not so much talent. I learned the spells.” Yura made a rumbling, half-growling sound from beside Harry—not unlike a Swedish Short Snout with dragon tamers treading too close to her eggs. If the dull  _ thunk _ **** was any indication, Yura must've attempted to kick Misha under the table and gotten **** the bench **** instead. Sheepish, the boy looked to Harry and elaborated, “It vos vot my fazher vanted, for me to become a Healer. I became accomplished to please him.” **  
  
** How like Draco Mikhail was ** — ** willing to do anything for his father's affection and approval. Harry wondered if Vuk had been like Misha; it would be one more thing he and Draco might have **** shared. And Vukasin, like Draco, tried to get out when he realized how wrong his tiny pureblood world really was. **  
  
** In the quiet, bubbles rattled the tea kettle, steam escaping. Harry promised himself he wouldn't let what happened to Vuk **** Ionescue happen to his brothers—or to **** Draco. **  
  
“ ** So Nebojsa's gonna be alright?” Harry inquired. **  
  
“ ** Damaged,” Yuri nodded, “but he'll live.” **  
  
** Misha's gaze drifted toward the ceiling. He bit his lower lip: it was almost a smile. “Dima's having kittens.” By the look on his face, both Dima and Nebojsa had to be above stairs. Harry imagined the brown-haired Ionescue brother scratching at his beard and pulling at his hair, fretting over his boyfriend—his heart—demanding to know what he could do to ease the pain. Nebojsa would roll his eyes and tell Dima to be quiet and sit down before he gave himself an ulcer. The thought of them snipping at each other like that brought a smile to Harry's face. **  
  
“ ** I'm sure,” Harry nodded. “Is Vadik okay?” **  
  
“ ** Skin Re-Growing Potion. He's in bandages now but give him a few days.” Misha accepted a cup of tea from Chereshko, releasing Harry's hand with a final fond squeeze **** to wrap his fingers around the hot porcelain. A steaming mug was deposited before Harry alongside a jar of what looked like home-made cherry syrup. Harry spooned a bit of the sticky mixture into his mug, letting the sweetened steam drift up and warm his face, fogging the bottoms of his glasses. **  
  
“ ** I'll bring Vadik his tea,” Chern said shortly, lifting a serving tray from the buffet. **  
  
** Yuri raised a hand, halting him. “Vait,” he managed, voice thick. **  
  
** Chern stayed with his back to the table, not moving a muscle. **  
  
** Misha's black brows pinched together, making wrinkles across his smooth forehead. He drummed his fingers against the side of his mug, each fingernail making the tiniest of clinks to fill the silence that had fallen. **  
  
“ ** Look again,” Misha said at last, fixing Yura with a hard and unreadable gaze. **  
  
“ ** Zhere's no ozher vay,” Yuri shook his shaggy head. He looked miserable. “Looking again von't change zhe truth,  _ dorogoi _ .” **  
  
** Misha jumped to his feet, banging his fist on the table so hard that two of Yuri's copper instruments teetered, toppling **** over. A plume of purple smoke went up, and what looked like muggle asprin tablets rolled across the table, spilling onto the floor. Misha snapped something in Russian—if Harry had to guess, the way the young man **** leaned across the table, hissing **** in **** Yuri's face, **** suggested Mikhail thought he was being treated like a child. With his dark hair, booming voice and tight fists, he looked like Sirius. It was a pose the man had often struck, bellowing at Snape or Dumbledore in this very kitchen. Maybe loss and war just did that to people; grief and heartache and a life half lived, endlessly on the run. **  
  
** Yuri's pebble-black eyes shot between Misha and Harry. He replied in English, his words slow, heavy, **** planned so that Harry could understand. Yuri didn’t want Harry to be left out of this. **  
  
“ ** It's not as zough yoo have to do it.” **  
  
** Misha's jaw clenched but he didn't say another word. With a huff, the boy **** stormed from the kitchen. If it weren't for the portrait of Mrs. Black demanding a hush over the hall, Mishenka **** probably would have stomped his feet the whole way. As it was, Harry watched him pace the entry, tugging at his lengthening black **** hair as he mumbled to himself, casting wary **** eyes between the staircase and the closed dining room door. **  
  
“ ** ...Do what?” Harry murmured into his cup. **  
  
“ ** Dušan,” Yuri answered simply. “He replaced me at zhe guard house.” **  
  
** Harry watched as Yura drew two solemn, tell-tale **** fingers across his throat. **  
  
** Dušan Iliev, eighteen years old. He'd dueled the Death Eaters. And they cut off his head after they killed him. Harry couldn't breathe. **  
  
“ ** Ve have to put it back on,” Yura said, more to himself. It was a conviction. “Ve can't lay him to rest like zhat.” **  
  
“ ** His cousin?” Harry asked. “His family you'all were staying with?” **  
  
“ ** Dead.” **  
  
** Yura stood. Chereshko was silent, his back still turned and white-knuckled, gripping the counter-top as though it were the only thing keeping him upright.  **  
  
“ ** Zhere vere five hundred muggles, twice as many vitches  _ i _ **** wizards concealed on **** zhe magical side of Valaam. Less zhan two hundred zurvived.” A simple and silent swish of Yura’s hand wandlessly **** cleaned the mess Misha had made of his devices. They packed themselves up in a leather satchel **** beneath the table. “Death Eaters **** zlaughtered zhe Merpeople, hunted zhe centaurs, burned zhe forests. No one could put out zhe fires. Ve had no vhere else to go.” **  
  
** Harry stood, too. “Stay as long as you need to. You're welcome as long as it's safe here.” **  
  
“ ** _ Mulţumesc _ .” Yura seemed to speak for them all—the silent Chereshko and brooding Mishenka, laid-up Vadik, broken Nebojsa and heart-sick Dima. Even Dušan's headless corpse, hidden away somewhere out of sight. **  
  
“ ** Um... where is he?” Harry stuck his hands in his back pockets, head down and watching his trainers shuffle beneath him, not knowing what to do with himself. “I'd like to pay my respects.” **  
  
** Yura's gaze went over Harry's head. The man looked more than his age. Yura **** couldn't have been more than twenty five but in that moment, the shadows **** of his face and the weariness of his eyes made him ancient. **  
  
“ ** Zhe dining room. But not yet,  _ prietene _ ,” the man cautioned. “He vouldn't vant to be zeen like zhat—too proud.” **  
  
** Harry nodded, fingers wiggling anxiously in his pockets. There was nothing he could do but stand there and watch, a passive audience to the drama of his friends' lives and deaths. There was nothing he could do and he felt it keenly. **  
  
** Glancing at the table, Yuri cast a quick Stasis Charm on the mugs of tea. Their trails of steam froze in mid-air; still and waiting, like the tall, unmoving man in the corner. **  
  
“ ** But...” Harry protested: what, he wasn't sure. **  
  
** Silent, Yura left the kitchen with a conjured needle and thread. He left to sew Dušan's head back on. Harry followed. **  
  
** Harry waited with Misha **** on the half flight of steps leading from the main hall to the kitchen, sitting elbow-to-elbow on the top step and staring at nothing, swirls of dust kicked up in the fading light of the entry at their backs. Neither turned to be blinded by the last of the sunlight streaming through the slender windows. Even the portrait of Sirius' late mother was caught up in the hush fallen **** over the house. **  
  
** Chereshko rattled around the kitchen a few minutes before emerging with a laden tea tray. The tall man went to sit with Vadik in Draco's music room, the big man propped up with many pillows on the sofa, white bandages catching the last of the daylight. Chern separated the chess board from its pedestal and brought it over to his quiet companion's lap. Harry watched the slow progress of their game through the doorway, observed the hushed conversation passing between them, his head drooping to Mikhail's sturdy shoulder as the stale, leaden minutes went by. They waited for Yura to emerge from the barren **** dining room, up to his wrists in blood with silent tears streaming down his pockmarked and darkly-bearded face. He dropped to his knees right there in the hall, shaking, weeping, horrified. **  
  
** Mishenka's teeth began to chatter. **  
  
** There was an oath from the second floor landing—something vituperated of cocks and loose women, Gods and buggery and  _ shit, shit, fucking God _ **** _ shit _ . The language was Russian but Harry **** understood the vehemence, the anger, every pulse of it. He knew the sound of shoves, of a heavy, rage-laden foot colliding with the banister in a maligned, misaligned **** kick. Harry scrambled to his feet and up the stairs, passing a very harried-looking Kreacher all-but- _ sprinting _ **** from the man looming at the top of the stairs. Dmitry stood with both fists clenched tight in his hair; sandy-colored waves bursting from between his thick fingers, cheeks and eyes a mass of red. A second later the fellow's wand was out and he was firing silent hexes at the floorboards, literally cursing them, strung out on the last dregs of adrenaline **** and fear. **  
  
** Harry made the landing and caught him round the middle **** in a rugby tackle, knocking them both into the wall before they hit the ground with a thud that squeaked and squawked the floorboards something fierce. Harry was lucky enough to land on top, the Romanian having at least six stone on him. **** Dima's wand was at his throat in a heartbeat. Birch wood dug at his skin where Draco liked to bite. **  
  
“ ** You'll wake him!” Dima **** warned. If there were tears in his eyes, they didn't appear in his voice. He was all ardor, hissing rage. For a moment, Harry considered the brunet **** might actually be speaking Parseltongue. **  
  
** Harry shushed him. One heave of those knotted shoulders told him—Dima was unraveling. **  
  
** Harry joked beneath his breath. “ _ I’ll _ **** wake him? **** And your cursing the floorboards **** won't?” **  
  
** Dmitry **** blinked at him a moment, seeming to come back to himself. Something shifted in the dark centers of his eyes, his sanity returning. He put his head to Harry's chest to hide the fat gobs of tears bursting at his lashes. **  
  
“ ** It's okay,” Harry told him, petting aimlessly at the husky **** torso and shoulders below him. “He'll be okay.” **  
  
** Dima gasped, ropey muscles of his neck jumping wildly as he fought for air through the sobs. “I nearly lost him,” he spoke through a sharp inhale, beating his forehead against Harry's chest. **  
  
** Harry shushed him again. They were right outside the linen closet in which he and Draco had sat the morning of **** his seventeenth **** birthday, Draco massaging his shoulders and just being there, being a friend in the only capacity Harry was willing to accept back then. He closed his eyes, recalling how good Draco had made him feel that day, when so many dark thoughts were swirling through his head. He let the feeling, the memory, take over his mind as though he were casting a Patronus Charm. When he felt so full of hope and comfort he might burst, **** he put a hand to **** Dmitry's shoulder, pushing him **** to the ground, forcing the man to look him in the eye. Those **** amber eyes were flooded, wavering beyond the smudges of Harry's glasses. **  
  
“ ** The worst is over,” Harry told him softly. “I know it was close. And **** I know you were frightened. But he's alright. And he  _ needs you _ .” **  
  
** Dmitry sniffed, his head thunking to the wooden floor. They'd conveniently missed the padding of the **** runner carpet by several feet. **  
  
“ ** You're right,” the wizard **** whispered back. “I'm... zorry I kicked your house elf.” **  
  
** Harry shrugged. “Kreacher? Probably deserved it. No worries. ** ”  
  
** Dmitry sat up, leaning his weight back against his hands as he regarded Harry, a peculiar emotion in his hazel eyes. Harry couldn't quite put a finger on it. But he was aware of his **** being seated on the man's lap like a cheap tart and eager to be off, back steady on his own two feet. The position was... inappropriate, both of them being in relationships and all. And Dima was huge. Straddling the man as he was, Harry swore his hips would pop out of their sockets if he moved wrong. It made his pelvis ache to hold himself suspended over the Romanian's crotch—but he did it anyway, not wanting those parts of their anatomy to touch. It wouldn't be proper. **  
  
“ ** Here,” Dmitry smiled, sliding back and then jumping to the balls of his feet with athletic grace. He offered Harry his hand. **  
  
** Harry took it, squeezing hard when there was a loud noise beside them—like something colliding with the other side of the wall. A second later, it came again, louder. **  
  
“ ** Nebojsa,” Dima said at once, yanking Harry to his feet with such ferocity that something tweaked deep in his shoulder blade. The big man didn't waste a second, ripping open the bedroom **** door and bolting inside, wand out. Harry followed, holly and phoenix feather to hand. **  
  
** The Serb was lying in bed, breathing hard, a book grasped **** in his raised **** hand, **** poised to throw it at them. Two big dragonhide boots sat by the door. Nebojsa had apparently thrown the footwear to get their attention and was starting-in **** on the novels. **  
  
“ ** _ Iubito... _ ** ”  ** Dima breathed. He lowered his wand. **  
  
** Nebojsa threw the book at his boyfriend's **** head. “I call you—I  _ scream _ **** for you... notzing! Zo I zhrew zings.” He snatched a washcloth, presumably used to wipe his forehead when he was unconscious, and “zhrew” that, too. Dima stood rooted to the spot, letting the rag catch him across the face. “No more Zilencing Charms on zhis room _ , Dimka _ . And vhere is my vand?” Nebojsa **** fixed his boyfriend with a demanding, dagger-point glare before peeking over at Harry through his long lashes. “ _ Zdrävo _ , Harry. Zhank you for offering your home. Ve had no vhere else—” **  
  
** Harry cut him off. “Really. It's not a problem. I'm glad you're here.” **  
  
** The Serb gave the smallest smile before his gaze went back to Dmitry, repeating, “My vand?” **  
  
** Dima was patting his pockets furiously, the back of his bull-neck red from blushing. “Mishenka must have eet—lost his vand dueling. Yuri hasn't replaced eet yet.” **  
  
** Nebojsa shrugged, pulling the covers off his legs. His thin torso was wrapped in a white bandage from armpits to hips, compression to help his **** internal **** wounds heal. He winced as he swung his bare feet to the floor. **  
  
“ ** You ought to keep **** in bed,” Dima cautioned. **  
  
** Nebojsa snapped something—to Harry, it sounded like a protracted, Serbian version of “fuck off.” Dmitry raised his hands to shoulder height, palms forward and backing away. Dmitry stopped only when his back hit the corner of the room, folding his powerful arms over his chest in a pout. Redness remained all around his eyes even as his blush faded. **  
  
** Harry stepped forward, attracting the Serb's fiery attention. If a familiar face wasn't calming him, perhaps a stranger's was in order. **  
  
“ ** Might I help at all?” **  
  
** Nebojsa looked terrible—like he could hardly hold himself up. There were empty potion phials on the bedside table alongside a bowl of water, several rags and a slice of half-nibbled-on toast. A bucket wasn't far off. Harry watched as the man swayed slightly on his feet, moving to counteract the spinning in his head. A greyish green pallor hung over his skin, usually as bright as Draco's. He looked like death warmed over, a walking skeleton—his muscle might have peeled away under his skin were it not for the bandages holding him in. **  
  
** Leaning heavily against the bed frame, Nebojsa aimed a skinny finger at a table by the window, pointing with an arm which only shook a little before drooping to his side. “Light zhe candles for me?” **  
  
** Harry stepped to the table, lighting the collection of tapered white candles with a whispered spell. Nebojsa teetered over, hand to the wall to keep his balance as he moved. When the wall became too far, he reached for Harry's shoulder, instead. Harry slid a quick arm around the man's bony waist when he began to drop. **  
  
“ ** Kneeling,” Nebojsa muttered. Harry looked up to see an indulgent half-smile. He preferred it to the previous bilious rage. Harry aimed a Cushioning Charm at the floor before letting the man down, taking a knee himself in the process. From this angle, Harry looked again at the candles. Carved into each were symbols—Cyrillic alphabet. They had to be names of people in his life who had died. There were a few items, too; a woman's sterling necklace adorned with a single blue gem, a photograph of tree-covered mountains taken from the edge of a cliff, the photographer looking out over the magnificent scene. It was a wizarding picture. Harry could see the tiny trees moving in the breeze. And at the center of the candles was a piece of carved wood, looking like a miniature set of double doors. They even split down the center. **  
  
** Nebojsa reached out, parting the wooden doors with his nimble fingers. The tiny doorway **** stood no more than two inches high, the inside painted a luminescent gold as backdrop to the most detailed figures Harry had ever seen. They were saints, dressed in robes of red and blue, halos around each head. Each face looked out as though eternally asking for the suffering of the world, taking it upon themselves. They were martyrs. **  
  
** Harry understood. It was what people did to him. And sometimes, like with Draco, he did it to himself. He wanted to take people's troubles, their pain, to ease it in whatever way he could. Being their **** Chosen One gave people comfort and a sense of purpose. He reminded them of the larger picture: he gave them hope, no matter how dark things got. And there wasn't anything wrong with bringing people that kind of peace. **  
  
“ ** You—” Dima began. He was probably going to tell his ailing boyfriend off for kneeling on a cold wooden floor. **  
  
** Harry shushed him, not bothering to turn round. With the hand still around Nebojsa's waist, he gave a gentle squeeze, telling the man it was okay, that Harry had his back if he wanted to do something as ludicrous as pray. **  
  
** Nebojsa murmured, a hand to his neck. When his hand came away, the inky tattoo of a cross pulled away with it, peeling from his skin with a shiver of air, becoming metal in his hand. Magic. He placed it with a thick  _ clank _ **** on the table—put it down before he dropped it, more like. The thing was solid metal, Harry could tell by looking at it. **  
  
** It seemed he'd prayed like this before, prizing the cross from his neck in order to have something to look to—probably in the darkness of whatever dank cell the Death Eaters had kept him in. The cold of that place still hung about him, in his strangled limbs, glacial eyes and jangled, jutting ribs. He reminded Harry of Sirius in that moment—this house had a habit of caging caged men, brokenness drawn to brokenness, all collapsing in on itself. Sirius hadn't really had anyone; not even Remus, not really. At least **** Nebojsa had some semblance of a family in Dima and Misha, something, someone to carry him through. **  
  
** He focused on the cross, glittering in the candle light, gray like Draco's eyes. **  
  
** The relic was heavy, old and worn-looking, sharp at the bottom where the cross tapered off to a point, almost like a sword's tip. Silently, Harry wondered how many times the wizard had used it as a weapon... used his faith, literally, to save his own life. **  
  
** Words left his mouth before he could think them through. **  
  
“ ** How can you have magic and believe in a muggle god?” **  
  
** A thin-lipped smile graced Nebojsa's face. It brought back a glimpse of the handsomeness he'd surely flaunted, once. Before the Death Eaters laid hands on him. **  
  
“ ** Harry. Vhere do you zhink your magic comes from? You believe ve have zhis for no reason? Zhat zhere is no greater purpose behind your parents having zhis gift, giving you life, giving you zhat same gift, zhat you might grow up to be zhe man you are? And zhe man you may one day become?” His smile grew fond, spindly fingers running over the long metal spike of his cross as Draco's did over his piano keys. “I cannot believe zhat is chance.” **  
  
** And then he sang—chanted, really. He would sing several syllables on the same note before his voice rose or dropped, scooping out sound like a footpath through knee-high snow. He had such a beautiful voice, high and sweet. But no less rich for the purity of his tone. The same qualities which made women's voices lovely applied to his. He made the air dance, the sound shivering down your spine. Harry closed his eyes, feeling it, letting it fill him, binning every stray thought collecting dust in his mind until there was nothing but calm, peace, and a secret kind of knowing, of his heart and who he was. **  
  
** There was magic in this, too. He gave a squeeze to the man's waist, saying he understood. **  
  
** Dmitry joined in after a time, lending his rib-rattling bass to what must have been a common prayer. His was a compliment to the melody, a tepid hand to follow the notes already shimmying down Harry's back. Ghost hands rested upon his shoulders. It was a good thing he'd already taken to his knees. **  
  
** He'd never wished so much in his life that he could sing. He'd have to speak the variation **** of Russian they sang in, too, but that didn't matter so much. Dmitry's part wasn't much more than a few sustained vowels, swelling and ebbing like a tide with his breath. Still, Harry **** wished he could sing. And that Draco would sing with him. **  
  
** Nebojsa faltered, coughing. It was a wet sound in his throat, bloody and hard. He clapped a fist to his mouth. But Harry still spotted flecks of dark red as they splattered in a micro-pattern against the white candles. **  
  
** Dima surged forward. Nebojsa was hoisted up in seconds, piggybacked to the bed. Harry followed, feeling helpless. Set on his back, the Serb curled immediately into a shockingly small shape, just a ball of bony angles and sleep pants, hugging his knees. He coughed again, blood sneaking past his fist to dribble down his bone-pale **** wrist. His free hand clutched at the neck of his boyfriend's thermal shirt. **  
  
“ ** Get Misha,” he mutter-coughed. **  
  
** Dmitry tore off, barking a short, “Stay vith him,” at Harry before **** barreling off, **** cursing **** his way down the hall. “ _ Pula mea, blya puțoi.... _ ** ”  
  
** Another great cough blew Nebojsa's hand away from his mouth, spraying the bed sheet with gore and spit. His eyes were screwed shut, jaw quivering, hacking up his insides. The rolling of his shoulders activated lean muscles, shifting all along his tattooed back, the meat of him **** rippling under the bandages. The man **** took up fists of sheets, long fingers clenching. **  
  
** Harry watched the play of his muscles, oddly fascinated. Nebojsa was skinny. But  _ fuck _ , he was strong. Harry tried to imagine that gaunt frame with an extra stone of muscle. Maybe two. The resulting image was a little disorienting. **  
  
** Harry **** approached the bed very slowly, not sure what to do, not sure how long it would be before Misha and Dmitry came charging through the door, confident—always so much bravado and self-assurance with those two. Nebojsa was the brains behind their operation, though—their Hermione. Their heart. It had to be hell on the brothers, to see him suffering like this. **** Nebojsa **** was the closest thing either of them had to a mother, after all. **  
  
** Harry sat on the very edge of the bed, casting a quick  _ Evanesco _ **** to save the sheets. Wand in hand, he touched Nebojsa's bandaged side. He wished he could heal thoughtlessly, like Draco. He wished he could heal with spells and potions, like Misha and Madame Pomphrey. Anything to help rather than hurt. **  
  
** Beneath his hand, the Serb began to shake, convulsing as he struggled to dull the pain. It looked like he was holding his guts in with that fist pressed tight against his mouth once more. **  
  
“ ** I....” Harry had no idea what to say. **  
  
** Long face screwed up in torment, the man reached out, taking Harry's hand and squeezing like The Boy Who Lived was his only link to the world of the living. What color the Serb **** had was quickly draining from his face, replaced by a frightening blue-grey palor, reminding Harry of an Inferius—bloodless, dead. He glanced back at the door, wondering what could be taking Misha so long. **  
  
** Harry dropped his wand. What was the use? He didn't know many medical spells, and nothing from his repertoire would be useful here. **  
  
“ ** I don't... I can't...” he mumbled, panic rising. He leaned close, touching his forehead to Nebojsa's bare, cold-sweat-slicked shoulder. Comfort was all he could give. Nebojsa squeezed his hand in return. **  
  
** Misha came trundling in at last, hauling a leather satchel which  _ clink _ ed and  _ clank _ ed with potion vials. Rather than shooing Harry away, the brothers merely took up beside him, Misha kneeling **** on the floor by his patient's head and Dmitry on the bed behind his partner, his fingers tracing steady circles through the bandages. Harry focused his attention, holding Misha's borrowed wand while the younger man **** checked Nebojsa's eyelids.  **  
  
** Misha gave Harry a job—instructing him to **** set **** fire to a spring of evergreen, the ashes of which were mixed into a potion before it was poured down the sick man's throat. Harry caught Dima's hooded **** eyes a few times as they all worked, trying to gauge if it had been this bad before, if the brothers **** knew how to handle this any better than Harry did. Dmitry's hooded gaze wasn't offering any hints. Tears welled up at the corners of his eyes. **  
  
** Eventually Nebojsa's breathing evened out, the snakelike coils of his arms relaxing as he fell into a light sort of sleep. Harry and Dmitry retreated to the hall, leaving Misha to tidy the mess they'd made. **  
  
“ ** Do you think bringing him to a formally trained Healer might help?” Harry whispered, twirling his wand between his fingers in an idle gesture he'd inherited from Draco over the summer. “Er, not that Misha's not good enough. It's only....” **  
  
“ ** I understand,” Dima replied, cupping Harry's shoulder with one big hand. “I've zhought about zhis, of course. But zhe wizarding hospital izn't zafe for us.  _ Srce moje _ **** looks different now... but if any of zhe ozers vere recognized... it could be very bad for us.” **  
  
** Harry nodded swiftly. “Gotcha. Yeah.” It wasn't a secret that Dima and Nebojsa were best mates ** — ** few knew of their romantic connection, but surely MediWizards and Healers would know the sons of a famous Potion Master like Tihomir Ionescue. It would only be a matter of time before someone put two and two together. Harry's toes twitched in his trainers. He kept twiddling with his wand as he paced, trying to think of something. **  
  
“ ** Maybe Madam Pomphrey, the Hogwarts nurse?” **  
  
“ ** 'Ogwarts,” Dmitry repeated. Beneath his weight, the floorboards gave a dusty squeak.”Maybe. Ve'd razher not.” **  
  
“ ** Just think it over, okay?” Harry's brows quirked as he glanced up at the big man. For all his size, Dmitry was anything but a brute—sensitive, emotional, deeply caring. It still amazed Harry that people like Dima and Draco could be related to such nasty pieces of work—Tihomir Ionescue, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange. Maybe the saying that there was madness in genius had some truth to it. In some people, the potential for greatness could drive them spare. Harry hoped Dmitry could keep it together; he was such a nice man, after all. Except for the attempted patricide, of course, but he'd had his reasons. **  
  
“ ** If Nebojsa isn't looking better,” Harry offered. “Or even if he is. Don't be a stranger, alright?” **  
  
** Examining the floor, Dmitry at least gave him a nod. **  
  
** Yura cleared his throat from the bottom of the stairs. He said something to Dmitry in rapid Russian, his expression twisted like he'd rather snog a Blast-Ended Skrewt than say whatever it was he was saying. Dima didn't look happy, either. **  
  
** Harry caught Dmitry's arm, fingers closing around the Thestral tattoo coloring his bicep. “What now?” **  
  
** Dmitry shot something back down the stairwell, dismissing Yura. When he regarded Harry, his jaw was tight, deepening his already chiseled, masculine features. Compared to this image, the younger Misha looked like a pup, and Dima the full-grown beast. **  
  
“ ** Ve have to burn Dušan tonight. Zhere is... Dark Magic in zhe body. It cannot be left... zitting around, fermenting. No good.” **  
  
** Harry's lips pursed. “Have to burn him, you say?” He had an image of a viking-like send off, with a fiery canoe out on a lake, big men in armor lining the shore, chanting. Maybe he'd seen too many movies. “So someplace outside, no one wandering about.” He wracked his brains for a suitable place. **  
  
“ ** How about the Forbidden Forest?” he suggested. **  
  
** Dima gave him a funny look. “You zeem eager to get us to 'Ogwarts any vay you can.” **  
  
** Harry rolled his eyes. “You don't have to stay the night. Come right back here if you like—fine by me. But if Nebojsa gets worse,” Harry eyed the still-open bedroom door, knowing the Serb was Dima's weak spot but harping on it anyway, dancing a jig all over it like an overenthusiastic leprechaun. Something told him to keep these fellows close—they were a part of his family now.  ** “ ** If you have need... **** Madam Pomphrey and her Hospital Wing are right there waiting. I know her. I’ve trusted her with my life more times than I can count. ** ”  
  
** Dima looked to be **** considering it. “And McGonagall? Vot vould she say, do you zhink?” **  
  
** Harry shrugged one shoulder, glancing down at his watch, still set to Ohio time. “It's a funeral. I don't think she'd refuse you that. I have to catch a Portkey soon, but I could **** get her on the floo before I go.” **  
  
** He wanted to leave **** this **** as **** Dmitry's decision. With Nebojsa currently out of commission, he was their gang's  _ de facto _ **** leader. No matter Harry's personal opinions on the matter, the guys needed to choose for themselves. **  
  
“ ** Alright,” Dmitry gave in with one last glance to his boyfriend and baby brother, currently curled up in bed together, Misha hugging Nebojsa's dark head as he slept. “Just for zhe night.”

 

 

 

 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** “One More Time With Feeling” from Regina Spektor's 2009 album _Far_ , released by Sire Records.


	48. Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news and a plot afoot at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** drama, wizard angst?, copious helpings of Neville Longbottom

Malfoy was in a towering snit. It was still unusual to see him in the common room, though most people had acclimated to the idea of the ex-Slytherin sweeping through the halls in crimson and gold. 

But this was quite an uncomfortable bit of Malfoy—sharp, seething Malfoy, cold-eyed and hissing at half the Gryffindor Quidditch team shortly after dinner on a Tuesday night. Just... too much Malfoy. They weren't Slytherins. They hadn't had six years to get used to the fits, to adjust to the manipulation and the occasional out-right tantrums. Malfoy was certainly throwing his toys out the pram at present; the blond knocked over a chair, shoving it angrily out of his way as he stormed up to the largest of the studying tables. With a flick of the man's wand and a silent spell— _Evanesco_ , the O.W.L. Vanishing Charm Neville had never really gotten the hang of—several more chairs simply disappeared, leaving occupants to fall on their rears with a collective _bump_. Nearby, Hermione and Ron packed up their books and left in a hurry, knowing better than to be caught in the Head Boy's war-path. Seated in the plushiest arm chair by the fireplace, Neville gulped.

The Head Boy had been like this for several hours—ever since he caught Dean Thomas sluffing class to have a snog with fifth year Hufflepuff Laura Madley. Some people said she was Malfoy's girlfriend—and none of those somebodies were in Gryffindor. The lions knew better. After taking a flurry of points from both houses, Malfoy had allegedly aimed a few carefully worded barbs before storming off, impossible and irascible as ever. Normally Malfoy's moods wore off after a time; presumably, the fellow hid upstairs with a bottle of gin and worked his issues out in private. Maybe the Headmistress had confiscated his bottle. Maybe he'd run out. Whatever it was, the blond was taking it out on his players tonight.

“Coote,” Malfoy sneered. “Don't think I was _sooooo_ busy chasing Thomas that I didn't note the bloody Troll you posted in Charms.” The Beater, Coote, flinched, going as red as the Common Room walls at Malfoy's words. Heads swiveled their way. Malfoy's fits never failed to draw a crowd—that much hadn't changed with the git's loyalties. “It's the bench until your marks are passing.” 

Coote and several others groaned and began to protest. They had an upcoming match with Ravenclaw, and Slytherin wasn't long after that—but Malfoy kept right on, waspish as ever. The prefect's diction was practically spitting today. 

“ I won't tolerate any behavior which reflects negatively on this house. Detentions, poor grades or loss of house points are unacceptable and  _ will _ prevent your seeing game time. Have a little more 'fun' and I won't hesitate to throw you off my team, Thomas,” he snapped at Dean mid-rant, white hair whipping around his head like a dog's floppy ears. Somehow, even when compared to a mutt, Malfoy was far less endearing and a great deal more dangerous. “As your captain and as Head Boy, your idiotic actions can only reflect poorly on this House. And on me.  _ Do not disappoint me _ .” 

As the team gave a collective shiver, Neville chanced a glance at the other end of the room for a collective reaction. Older students were staring but the younger years couldn't have cared less. The first and second year girls were utterly disinterested in Malfoy's disciplinary outburst—they'd played Exploding Snap almost the entire time, darting curious glances at Kieran Gweir. 

The raven-haired first year boy was parked right behind Malfoy, close enough for the Head Boy to trod on should he turn about. Gweir was like Malfoy's shadow, always following the git around, content to be ignored so long as he was close to the ex-Slytherin—basking in the man's cankerous, raging-alcoholic glow. Some classes, Malfoy smelled something foul of the stuff beneath all the fancy soap and woodsy cologne. The odor of fermented grain hung around him, not unlike the air of uncertainty blanketing the castle these days. Malfoy was a muggle time-bomb; one primed to explode, taking all of Gryffindor with him. The tower would surely come apart brick by bloody brick. Any day now.

Yet the younger Gryffindors worshiped the ground Malfoy walked on: Malfoy made them feel safe, looked after—if by a madman. And none of them looked up to Malfoy more than Kieran Gweir. 

Theirs was certainly an odd relationship. Malfoy paid as little attention to the dark-haired child as most girls paid to Neville; yet he, like Gweir, kept coming back for more abuse and ridicule. 

Maybe Gweir had it better. At least Malfoy shot the boy those tight smiles every now and again, the sides of his eyes crinkling and the ghost of an upturn playing around his pressed lips. There were two bright spots of color appearing on the blond's cheeks now, the flush made doubly evident by his fair skin and general paleness. There was a streak of white at his hairline, a long white scar interrupting the coral and pink suffusing his face. 

Behind him, Gweir resembled a Harry Potter doll—perfect except in miniature, all tanned and tousle-haired—blinking up at Malfoy with hands stuffed in his robe pockets. Malfoy was one of the few who went about in robes outside of classroom hours and his little shadow emulated him in every possible way. 

Turning swiftly, Malfoy finally did trip over the youngster. 

“Gweir,” the blond rolled his eyes, righting his robes at the shoulder and smoothing a sleeve down. His voice was short, curt. “ _ What? _ ” 

The first year wasn't bothered one bit by Malfoy's tone. Either through pluck, determination or stupidity, he actually smiled at Malfoy, pearly white teeth and pink cherub cheeks lighting up the room. Even Neville had to admit, Gweir was already a lady-killer at eleven. In a few years, he'd be counted among Witch Weekly's Heart-Stoppers. If he remained under Malfoy's wing, the child would undoubtedly grow to become a _bona fide_ terror.

“You said we would play chess tonight, Malfoy,” the boy chirped. “I'm free now if you are.” 

Malfoy heaved a visible sigh. “Fine.” He waved a regal hand at the boy, long white fingers flicking as though pushing crumbs from an invisible table. Somehow, Neville doubted Malfoy had done an ounce of manual cleaning in his life, Professor Snape's detentions included. Malfoy could weasel his way out of anything—except, it would seem, a friendly game of chess with this reincarnation of The Boy Who Lived. 

“My quarters,” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Five minutes. Off with you.” 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Draco knew it was important when McGonagall summoned him in the middle of N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes. He couldn't fathom how terrible, how wholly and world-upendingly bad the situation was until he saw the expression of loss and ill-disguised terror soldered on the woman's face. 

“I think you'd best sit down, Malfoy,” she intoned. A stiff wing-backed chair scooted itself up to Draco's knees, taking him off his feet in a brush of magic. He nodded, watching her unmoving features and body language for any indication of what was to come. It was as though she had nothing left to give—no tears, no heartache, no rage. The witch had been wound down to her last string and held taut to that last little web of lies one tells oneself, riding out the storm.

Draco took the initiative. “I take it something's happened, Headmistress. Let's not beat about the bush. The sooner I know what's going on, the sooner I can be part of the solution. Or the cover-up,” he shrugged casually, a single shoulder rising as he slouched back against his chair. “What-have-you.” 

A muscle at the side of her right eye twitched. With the magnification of spectacles, the tremor was exaggerated, seeming to take over her face. The twitch became a flinch, a dive, a mad grasp at salvation in the guise of normalcy. So the Headmistress' calm was fake: Draco wondered not  _ who _ was dead but how many. And how grisly.

“That's one thing I always liked about you, Malfoy. Never one to muck about...” she petered off. 

“Who's dead?” Draco interrupted in a monotone, scooting forward in his seat. It wouldn't do to look inattentive. “My father?” he raised a hopeful brow. 

The Headmistress was thrown. That muscle shook again, a tad more rapidly as she thought. “I don't believe so.”

Draco let out a puff of air. “One can always hope. Who, then?” 

“I've only had the first reports now,” she conceded to stress, elbows landing heavy upon her ancient desk as she massaged her temples. “The worst of the battle was before sunrise but we're having some trouble identifying bodies. I leave it to your imagination to supply the particulars,” she breathed. The slow circles administered to her brow metered her sentences, words falling to the tempo of fingers at the sides of her head. “One of my confirmations is a Ministry Auror by the name of Margaret Gweir. Her son is in your house. I presume—”

“I'll handle this, Professor,” Draco said at once. “Have you sent for him?”

She nodded. “The boy should be along presently.” 

“How was she killed?” Draco asked, doubting the particulars would be appropriate for a grieving eleven year old but wanting to know for himself. Kieran was strong—perhaps in a few days, he could swallow the truth. “And where?” 

McGonagall continued ministering to a blooming migraine. She spoke in clips of information. “At Valaam. Dementors. Hers was one of the few corpses in recognizable condition.” 

“Valaam,” Draco repeated, sinking back into his chair and regarding the wooden-beamed ceiling through a growing fringe of blond. 

Harry had said that Dmitry and his band of merry outcasts were at Valaam—but that had been weeks ago. Perhaps they'd moved on. Draco kept his fingers crossed for the men's continued safety, casting his worry aside in order to focus on the matter at hand. He was going to have to comfort someone—and he was bollocks at this 'emotion' business. He was probably better at teaching! A combination of little patience, a short fuse and the empathy of an Ashwinder made him the worst possible candidate for either occupation, yet here he sat. Somehow McGonagall thought this was a good idea. To Draco, it smacked of ulterior motives, interference and just a dash of supremacy. But the price of authority was the niggling fact that there would always be someone above you, pulling your strings just as you manipulated those beneath you. It was the price one paid to rise up in the world. His father always said so.

That was a chilling thought. Draco schooled his features as he spoke to the ceiling. 

“Gweir is an illegitimate child. Who will take him now that his mother is gone?”

“His grandmother,” McGonagall replied, appearing relieved that Draco was taking an interest—taking the immediate problem off her hands, more than likely. 

“No chance of the father stepping forward?” 

McGonagall shook her head sadly. “Margie Gweir was kidnapped by Death Eaters the fall of her fourth year—took her from Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, right under our noses. Her father had refused to support He Who Must Not Be Named during the war and so a rogue group kidnapped and raped his daughter until Gweir changed his mind and opened his Gringotts vault to save his child. By the time the Aurors found Margie, Kieran had already been born. She wouldn't give the child up. Raised him as her own. I'd say most have forgotten the story. She was a lovely woman with an equally lovely child.”

Draco's head slumped to the side. Sunlight streamed from the nearby window, lighting his face yet he couldn't feel its warmth on his skin. “Shit,” he whispered. Faces flashed through his mind—the faces of his father's shadier associates, searching for a mop of black hair, sweet round cheeks or delicate blue eyes. He couldn't place Kieran's features but something told him he'd seen a ghost of the boy's face before. The child's father was certainly a Death Eater he knew. Possibly someone still ensconced at Malfoy Manor.

Images were chased out of his head by a gentle chime signaling the arrival of someone at the Headmistress' staircase. A moment later there was a soft knocking at the door. Then Kieran Gweir was peering around the portress with that muzzy head of hair, eyes big as dinner chargers in a face of porcelain youth. 

“Come in, Mr. Gweir,” McGonagall gestured, conjuring a second arm chair beside Draco's. The boy's face shifted when he set eyes on his Head Boy—he seemed to draw back, the muscles of his neck visibly tightening beneath his slightly-too-large shirt collar. Bright blue eyes darted between Draco, nervous and wary in his chair, and the Headmistress slouched over her desk of parchments.

“Am I in trouble, Professor?” Gweir asked, inching into the room. 

“No,” Draco said. His voice sounded strange in his ears; honey-laced, thick and smooth. With a jolt, he realized he sounded like his father. He swallowed uncomfortably, his voice coming back a mite softer. “But... I must speak with you about something.” 

Gweir nodded, calm because Draco was calm. He set himself in the second armchair, swiveling so that his shoulders and face were towards his blond friend with his legs pointing to McGonagall's impressive oak desk, feet not quite reaching the floor and kicking in an erratic little beat.

Draco reached across the distance, settling the boy's movement with a hand to his knee. The lad ceased instantly, brow crinkling as he attempted to read Draco's intent. 

“I'm very sorry.” 

Some mechanism whirled and ticked in McGonagall's cabinet. Perhaps a Sneakoscope. Draco wished its untimely demise. He was trying to think and the tick-tick- _tick_ ing was incessant, throwing him off. Behind McGonagall, the painted image of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore gave a snort in his barmy canvas sleep. 

“I...” Draco tried again. His hand closed over the boy's knee. He couldn't help it. “Your mother, Kieran.” 

The boy's eyes went unfocused, staring slack and glassy at Draco but seeing nothing. His eyes were river stones, water rushing over them, momentum and verve stirring only for a moment before slipping away.

“No,” the child whispered. Draco's fingers tightened, palms beginning to sweat. “No.” 

“I'm so... sorry.” 

Gweir fell face-first from his chair, weak and weeping. He quivered and shook like a leaf caught up in a great gale. Their knees scant inches apart, Draco surged forward to catch the lad, wrapping arms around his shoulders and drawing that smaller frame to his own. 

“No... no,” the boy sobbed against Draco's bony shoulder. “Mum.”

He shushed the child—it was all he _could_ do, running a soothing hand down that quaking back. The roughness of woolen winter robes caught at his fingernails, shivs of friction, heavy cloth and worlds of emotion separating him from his young friend. There was absolutely nothing he could do. He felt... helpless, trapped. There was no one for this child, only an ex-Death Eater's shoulder to cry on, Dark Marked arms to hold him before a bitter old woman locked him in a dusty manor wing, never again to be held—to be loved so fiercely as at this moment. Against his better judgment, Draco felt tears prickling at the sides of his eyes. They were clamped shut so very, very tight.

Headmistress McGonagall gave off a matronly air, making to get up from her desk. She couldn't have crying children on her floor and Draco couldn't blame her.

“I've got him, Professor,” Draco insisted, taking a hand from Kieran's back to wave the woman off. 

She made a noise somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “I'd say you do, Malfoy.”

He looked down to find Kieran unconscious—not quite sleeping but in some undoubtedly magic-induced state, unruly head of hair tucked in the crook of Draco's bicep and forearm. A very faint coral light crackled where the boy met his body: the light was barely visible, hardly more than the hazy buildup of static electricity between winter uniforms.... Except they both knew it wasn't.

“Mr. Malfoy?” McGonagall intoned. Her face was a long, hard line.

“I...” Draco gestured, forgetting he had Gweir's weight. The boy canted wildly in his arms—Draco dove to catch him, supporting his neck like one would cradle a babe. Not that he'd ever held one. 

“I assume there's a very good explanation,” the woman spoke to her hands, bracing her weight as she leaned over her desk, peering at the very queer pair of them. “And I'll have it from you. But not now.”

He had no explanation, either for her or himself. Kieran, unconscious, could not demand one, though he had every right. Draco took a deep breath. Air came into his lungs smelling of camphor and bergamot—the child's shampoo. 

“Much appreciated,” he managed. He couldn't help but notice how the old professor watched his hands. At first she had merely glanced, as though to check if he had his wand to hand... but now she stared, contemplative. Worried, even. Curious.

A Gryffindor trait, then—that insatiable attraction to powerful and sometimes dangerous things which were rightly none of one's business. It was a curiosity this cat could certainly do without.

The Headmistress nodded. “Please offer my condolences when he wakes,” she indicated the boy with a delicately raised brow. Draco suspected Kieran wasn't truly asleep but kept that thought to himself, climbing to his feet and supporting the boy's torso against his legs. He leant toward the desk, a hand in Kieran's hair to keep the lad from toppling. 

“Of course,” Draco nodded. “I'd like to see him upstairs, if I might.” 

“I'll inform Prof.'s Babbling, Binns and Firenze of your absences,” she concurred, including both students' schedules. Picking up an Eagle Feather quill, she penned a quick note to a scrap of parchment on her desk. “Looks like he's coming round—must be the shock, poor dear,” she tutted behind her teeth, smoothing a stray salt and pepper hair back into her stern bun. The errant strand jumped right back out of place. Draco kept his silence, eager to be away. “You'd best get him back to Gryffindor Tower, then.” 

“I thought _my_ quarters, actually,” Draco shrugged, getting hands under the boy's arms and hoisting the tiny chap up onto his back in a remarkably swift movement. Gweir truly weighed nothing, barely more than a bag of Quaffles. By hunching slightly, he could keep the little body balanced on his back without any magical aid. Draco wrapped long fingers under the boy's knees, securing his perch. “No one to pester him with questions. I know how the dormitories can get.” 

“Very good.” McGonagall seemed oddly proud as Draco took his hunch-backed leave. 

He wondered whether the woman was congratulating herself for her foresight in selecting Draco 'Death Eater' Malfoy for this unusual task. Not many would have thought to foist a sniffling, grieving student on the Prince of Slytherin; indeed, a year ago Draco couldn't have cared less about some Gryffindor firstie and his dead Mummy-dearest. This was what happened when you let people in, when you started giving a damn. Draco chastised himself: must quit this 'caring' business immediately. It could come to no good end.

He shook his head, adjusting the rousing weight on his back. The quality of sniffs and quiet sobs informed him that Gweir had, in fact, come round... and probably wouldn't care much for conversation on their way back to the Heads' suite. He bit his lip in a frown, wondering if the glowy, generally approving expression on McGonagall's face was anything like the ones Dumbledore had once given Harry in the privacy of that same study. Once upon a time. And what felt like a very long time ago. He couldn't help but feel that he was being strung along by the castle's new master as Harry had been by her predecessor. 

Draco carried the sniveling rag of a boy on his back, walking normally under the burden after all the practice he had carting heavy Chosen arse around. Kieran sobbed down his collar, the sound muffled and pitiful. Draco cast a _Muffliato_ to hush his steps and the boy's tears from prying ears. He took the passages less frequented by students or errant poltergeists, knowing Kieran wouldn't want to be seen like this. Draco understood something of lion-hearted pride.

The boy didn't protest at being brought directly to the Heads' suite. He didn't make so much as a sound upon entering the Head Boy's rooms, decked out like a professor's living quarters. A cozy fire had been set in the hearth and his bed linens changed and made up, creating quite a lovely picture with the sun streaming through the windows at the end of the room, lending some pale-veined life to the stone of the mantle, floor and ceiling. He set the child on the sofa, smoothing his hair before crossing the room to close the drapes. 

“Please,” Gweir whispered, naught but a pair of damp-rimmed, confectioner's blue eyes peering at him over the back of the tufted couch. “Leave them open? I like the sunlight.” 

Draco's mouth opened twice before sound escaped him. “Of... course.” He refastened the tie and called for Kreacher. Moments ticked by, marked by the rustling of dead-leaved trees in the wind. He wondered where the nasty thing could be—perhaps assisting Harry. When there was no response, he bit his cheek and summoned Dobby. 

“Mr. Gweir's things from the dormitory—trunk and so-forth,” Draco flipped a dismissive hand. He kept his eyes on the sofa where the boy was righting his robes, fumbling over the knot of his crimson and gold necktie as he removed it. The little golden pin Draco had made for him was fixed to his chest—directly over his heart, just as Draco wore his. “He'll be spending the weekend in my company.” 

“Yes, Master Malfoy, sir.” The elf bowed from the waist. It appeared to be wearing seven or eight pairs of hand-knit socks. 

Harry had told stories of Granger's house-elf obsession, how in her youth she had taken to leaving knitted articles about for the hapless creatures to happen upon whilst performing their duties, unwittingly releasing themselves from the ancient and magical bond they worked under. Apparently the witch saw it as an archaic form of slavery! Apparently, for all her studying, Granger understood very little of the way magic actually worked. He hoped she'd since abandoned the plot to free the Hogwarts kitchen staff one lopsided Phyrgian cap at a time, else the castle would be without its greatest protection. 

Dobby disappeared with a sharp _crack_.

“...Malfoy?” the lad's voice was small. He'd gotten to his knees on the sofa and faced Draco completely, leaning his weight on his elbows and about to topple over the back of the substantial piece of furniture. He remained perfectly balanced, suspended just before the fall in a way only magical children could. It was amazing when their young magic fields got them defying gravity without their noticing. 

“Where are my manners?” Draco chided himself. “Would you care for tea? Something to eat? I have house elves here, as you see.” 

Kieran shook his head. His eyes roved the room now, taking in the fixtures, the deep color of the walls and rich fabrics, textbooks and personal items scattered about. His eyes followed Draco as the blond poured himself a healthy glass of port, swirling the wine in his ballooned snifter before taking a swig. The blackberry finish got him craving a cigarette. 

Kieran flopped back on the sofa, sitting correctly and watching the flames. The lad drew his wand to levitate a fresh log onto the fire. 

“Will there be men from the Ministry?” he asked after a time.

“Probably,” Draco shrugged, swishing his wine again. “My guess is not for a few days yet. They have their hands full. From what I understand, they're quite understaffed and operating conditions are... less than prime. I'd expect an owl from your grandmother before we hear from the Ministry directly.”

“I...” Kieran floundered. “I really don't feel like... talking. Thank you for keeping everyone away.” 

“Of course,” was Draco's automatic reply. He left out that Gryffindors were nosy bastards by nature, as they were both technically of the house. 

It was disconcerting to see the once boisterous, talkative boy so pensive, so reserved. He still fidgeted with the pent-up vim of an overactive eleven year old but the emotions—the fear and loneliness and tears—had no where to go. 

At a loss, Draco went back to his wine.

 

He and Gweir played chess in the end. It was mostly for something to do. Draco's recalcitrant mind kept flashing on the thought of Chereshko lying in a pool of his own blood, strong features and dark hair contorting in his mind's eye until the man's face was Harry's; glasses broken and askew, dead eyes nothing but a void of empty green—vultures where phoenixes once soared. Kieran was probably thinking about his mother... or wondering what would become of himself, now she was gone. Pureblood families didn't look kindly on bastards. It was most likely the boy's mother who'd fought for him to retain the family name, attending Hogwarts like any other young witch or wizard, the age and sanctity of his surname freeing him from undesirable scrutiny. Now that Margie Gweir was gone, there was a very good chance Draco's shadow-child would be stuffed in a mansion wing much as Potter had been stuffed in that cupboard under the stairs, forgotten with the old mops and dried-out cleaning potions. No wonder Kieran allowed both his knights to be taken—no one was about to sweep in on a white horse and rescue him. By the look on his still-puffy face, the lad knew it, too.

“Tell me about Harry Potter,” Kieran said quite out-of-the-blue. “I only met him that one weekend he was in the Tower.” 

Draco considered the lay of black and white pieces as he spoke. “What's there to tell? Potter's a self-righteous prat, head-strong and stubborn to a fault, currently running about trying to get himself killed. He has an uncanny knack for surviving by the skin of his teeth—or the seat of his overzealous trousers,” Draco snorted. “Depends on how you look at it.” 

“But he's your boyfriend,” Kieran protested. “Don't you love him?” 

Draco advanced his rook, stone-faced. “Sometimes.” 

The look the child shot him—consternated and venomous, as though he had glasses at the tip of his nose and were glaring daggers over their invisible rims, the spirit of Harry Potter coming through him like a carbon and smoke face floo-ed through a fireplace—was almost comical in its sincerity and ridiculousness. Eleven-year-olds shouldn't know how to make that face. 

“More wine,” Draco declared, getting up to pour himself a second glass. He knew the lad was rolling his eyes. Even with his back turned, Draco could _feel_ it. “No cheating,” he spoke over his shoulder. “I remember where I left every last piece.” 

“You're no fun,” pouted Kieran, folding his arms in a petulant show which Draco was treated to upon his return to the chess table, alcohol in hand. 

“Why? Because I won't let you cheat?” he laughed. 

Kieran bit his lip, scrunching his dark brows to make the most adorable sulky face. It surely got him whatever he wanted from his mother and perhaps the females of Gryffindor. But it wouldn't work on Draco Malfoy. 

“Because you won't tell me the truth.” 

“The truth?” Draco repeated, sitting down opposite the boy. “When have I not told you the truth?” 

“You always dance around the facts, Malfoy,” Kieran announced loudly; bemoaned, lounging lazily in his leather armchair and surveying the board with only half his attention. His child's fingers drummed at the arm of his chair, a steady, flesh-on-dead-flesh thrum that matched the wind as it swept between the castle's spires. Yellow and gold leaves whipped against the window, caught up in the coming winter winds. “You're very good at using your words to say as little as possible. You make jokes and act tough to deflect attention away from the fact that you never really admit anything. Ever.” 

“Ever?” Draco echoed lamely. He'd forgotten just how perceptive the boy was.

“Well, maybe that Ministry press conference back in August was closer to the truth,” the boy offered, stealing the staff off his inattentive queen and whacking the dainty white piece about the head with it—as though making his pieces stand at attention would improve his game. “Still. You keep secrets.”

“Perhaps I have need of secrets,” Draco said quietly. “Secrets which aren't appropriate for the ears of babes.”

“Don't baby me,” Kieran insisted. His hands gathered to fists in his lap as he sat up straight in his chair. “My mother never stood for it and neither will I. I'll have the truth from you, Malfoy, if you consider me your friend. And you'll get the same from me. You always have.”

Blown away, all Draco could do was sit there and blink. He'd severely underestimated Gweir. The boy possessed a ready mind—he'd proved that the first day on the Hogwarts Express. But he also had an understanding of the intricacies of human emotion. He understood because he'd suffered. And he was getting to the age where all that knowledge and experience fermented itself into something which might one day be called wisdom. 

Draco twisted the ring on his finger until the large black stone rested against his palm. It was cool to the touch, meaning Harry was quite far.

“Speaking freely bears too many risks for me. The Dark Lord has ears in every shadow,” Draco said slowly, trying to get the boy to think, to reason for himself. Kieran was a thinker—and a ruddy good one, especially for a Gryffindor. There might be hope for the house yet.

“Why would he care about you and Harry Potter?” Kieran scoffed. 

“Because,” and he paused for emphasis, “if it's known how much I mean to that stupid prat, Harry's feelings could be used as leverage against him. You-Know-Who wouldn't hesitate in tearing this castle down brick by brick to get to me, to bring harm to me in order to draw Harry out. He'd use me to get to his enemy. You see?” 

“Okay,” Kieran nodded, processing the lines of power and information like a road map. Those thoughtful blue eyes seemed to travel from an upper corner of his vision to the lower opposite, connecting the dots. “But you kissed and stuff in front of people,” the child argued fairly. “Obviously you don't want to talk about him. So how do you know it won't get back to You-Know-Who? The knowledge is already out there.” 

“I think...” and here Draco choked as he realized the thought in words for the first time. “We have reason to believe the Dark Lord might already know. And I suspect Harry wants word to get out, sooner or later. I suspect he wants the Dark Lord as angry as possible—” 

“Because when people are angry, they make mistakes,” Kieran supplied readily. “My Mum always said that about the Aurors who chased down Death Eaters after the last war—that they were so upset about the war it blinded them.” 

“Sounds like your mother was a very wise woman.” 

The corners of Kieran's mouth turned up. “She said Harry Potter's really smart, too. She wrote me a letter last month. She got to work with him through the Auror Office; said he's got more natural talent than half the prats on the force. And you said he's wizard at Quidditch, too, right?” 

Draco smiled back. “Yeah. Wipes the pitch with me every year. Don't tell 'im I said tha'.” 

The lad winked, shimmering firelight crowding out the wetness in his eyes. “Secret's safe with me.” 

 

 

They lay in bed that night staring at the cracked ceiling. Draco left the curtains open as the sun slowly set; now moonlight flooded in, lighting the room like a cold blue sun. The room was so bright without heavy velvet covering the windows, silvery light reflecting off the gilded picture frames and the mirror above his dresser. It was as though the moon sat directly outside his tower window, a stage's spotlight to highlight their duet of sleeplessness.

Kieran rolled onto his side and fixed Draco with another one of those _looks_ , elbow to the mattress in order to prop up that messy head of his with a still-chubby hand. The whites of the child's eyes caught the moonlight as he blinked; a regular, sleepless rhythm of unknowing.

“Do you think he'll survive?” 

Draco kicked at the eiderdown mummifying his knees. “Who?” 

“Your boyfriend, Harry Potter.” 

“Oh.”

Kieran poked at the meat of Draco's arm, where bicep and tricep became shoulder beneath his flimsy tshirt. “Surely you have an opinion, Malfoy.” 

Draco couldn't help but snort. Kieran really should have been in Slytherin—it was a shame, a wit like this wasted on crimson and gold ninnies with their heads up Dumbledore's mauve nightcap. 

“I... don't know,” the blond admitted softly, trying 'honesty' on for size. It fit suspiciously well. “Knowing what he's up against... logically, he doesn't stand a chance, does he?”

“But you have hope?” 

When Draco didn't answer, the boy continued. “My Mum called him a phoenix—Harry Potter—that she had to push him to his limit to see him light up. Maybe he's like that because he didn't have a mum growing up. He didn't have anyone, so he thinks he's all alone in the world and won't let anybody help him... won't let you help him,” the boy tacked on at the end, raising thick brows to make the statement closer to a question. “Maybe he puts himself out there, in all that danger, because he doesn't think anyone loves him enough to chase after him. He's willing to burn up alone.”

“You'd think,” Draco mused, folding his hands behind his head as he thought. Kieran wormed into the pocket created by his raised arm, resting his black-haired head in the squashy section of scarred-up flesh just above Draco's breast. The boy wriggled the blankets up to his chin and waited. “I've always found it odd tha', fer someone who should harbor a great deal a' distrust an' abandonment issues, Harry's trust is implicit an' complete. He has a way a' drawing odd-balls an' outcasts ta himself, creatin' a network a' uncanny individuals ready to jump to his aid. I once thought the imbeciles flocked to him because of his fame....” 

“And now?” the boy spoke around a tremendous yawn. 

“It's his heart.” There was more of a tremble at that last word than Draco would have liked. Kieran's back pressed against his side, tepid heat seeping through cotton pajamas and warming him in the way only a dear, tender body at your side could. “He's a kind man. He wouldn't hurt a fly,” Draco sighed. He brought his arm down, pulling his friend closer, arm draped over the boy's thin chest and a hand wrapping his tiny side, holding him close. Kieran didn't seem to mind the Dark Mark pressed against his breast: he released a sigh of his own; worn, tumbled and weary. “Harry doesn't want anyone to get hurt. He wants to protect us, keep us safe. His capacity for love knows no bounds. And he got it from his mother.”

He told a story Harry had recounted to him what felt like eons ago, sitting together before a warm fire at Grimmauld Place—the home they'd made for themselves, together. “When the Dark Lord came for Lily Potter's child... she stood in the way. The Dark Lord offered to spare her life for Harry's but she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't sacrifice her boy. So the Dark Lord took her soul from her body. And in her death, she released a magic so ancient and so powerful that it shattered the Killing Curse itself, throwing it back in the Dark Lord's face, saving Harry's life. That's what love can do.” 

“I don't have hope. Hope is a dreaming for children and fools. I have love.” Draco squeezed the child at his side, drawing him ever-closer. “Because they can't kill my love. Hope and beliefs and the best of intentions can be crushed and cast to the winds. But love.... No matter what happens, no one can stop me loving him. Like no one could stop your mother loving you.” 

Warm trickles reached his arm; silent, salty tears escaping Kieran as he cried. 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

It was a great thump which woke Draco from a dead sleep—something like an Erumpent landing on the terrace. He started at the sound, kicking violently at the bedsheets, suddenly very much awake. Scrambling from bed, he had the good sense to pluck his wand from the night stand. 

“ _Lumos._ ” 

From the bed, Kieran rubbed child-fat fists at his eyes. Upon seeing Draco's alarming stance—one arm in his dressing gown and crouched, weapon drawn—the boy kept silent, patting around for his own wand and slippers. 

“I don't see the wards tripped,” Draco whispered, peering out the window. The night was dark but clear, an uninterrupted sky free from colored sparks shooting from the Forbidden Forest, like they'd seen the last time Hogwarts' grounds were breached. Whatever was on the terrace, it was native to the castle grounds. This gave Draco little comfort. He pulled his dressing gown over his shoulders, not bothering to fasten the sash, wanting to keep his hands at the ready should trouble come.

Kieran came and stood at his side, wand to hand. 

In his bare feet and borrowed pajamas, Draco stretched out his left palm, calling forth the web of magic which monitored the wards he'd placed on his chamber in addition to the castle's security. It had taken him the better part of two months to weave his own magic into the ancient spells without upsetting the balance. A little each day had done the trick. Checking the web proved his wards were undisturbed. 

From the foyer, there came the unmistakable sound of knocking—a fist on the glass doors. The sound echoed around the entry, mingling with the trickles of the lion fountain. Draco's heart beat in his ear like one of those stone lions' roars. He feared Kieran could hear it thundering through the quiet room.

Screwing up his courage, Draco met the boy's worried face with a watery smile. “Shall we see who's come to call?” 

Nervous, the boy nodded, following him into the hall. They held their wands ready.

A dark figure stood on the terrace, visible through the glass doors, hooded cloak pulled up, obscuring his form—by the sheer size of the shoulders, it had to be a man. Or a very small troll. Behind the safety of thousands of years of magic, Draco signaled that the stranger should lower his hood and show himself in the wandlight.

The hood dropped back. It was Dmitry.

Draco released a breath he hadn't been aware of holding.

“He's a friend,” the Head Boy reassured his small companion. “Go ahead an' unlock the door fer 'im.” After an anxious look, the boy did as he was bid. 

“ _ Dima, pryvet _ ,” Draco held out an arm, beckoning the man inside. “ _Rad tebya videt_ .” 

Dmitry did not move from the terrace. With the moon at his back, the man's face was unreadable. 

“Is your Russian that bad, Malfoy?” Kieran teased under his breath.

Draco ignored the boy, trying to catch Dima's gaze in the darkness. He looked so much like his brother it was physically painful to look on him at times. The man's amber eyes were too much in shadow to make much of his emotion. On edge, Draco stepped closer, wand raised. It was only upon catching the hardness of the man's scruffy jaw, the determined set of his shoulders and redness rimming his eyes that Draco understood. 

“Valaam,” Dima whispered, soft so that his bottomless voice wouldn't shake. There was a wavering in that single word, ominous and terrible as it settled in Draco's ears. 

The Head Boy gulped, spittle and bile mingling at the back of his throat. He couldn't summon the glib with which he'd discussed the incident with McGonagall that afternoon. He'd had distance, then; a stupid, ruddy childish hope that Dima and the boys had gotten away, that they were safe from harm. 

His own voice was ragged when he spoke. “Who?” he begged. “Chereshko...?” 

Dima shook his head to say that Chern had survived. 

They stood divided by the doorway, Dima out in the cold and Draco safe inside the castle but still shivering. The wind came up, snapping the larger man's cloak and plastering Draco's thin pajamas against his frame—they were Harry's, right down to the boxer shorts and dressing gown. 

Draco felt his heart stop. One moment there was an even beat in his chest and the next it was gone. “Not Nebojsa?”

“Dušan.” 

It took Draco a few startled blinks to remember the young man; snarky, short-tempered, dark hair and long limbs with a pretty face. He'd smoked muggle cigarettes and drank like a fish. The fellow couldn't have been more than twenty. 

Draco's eyes drifted closed. “I'm... so very sorry.” The words didn't feel like enough. Words never would. His hands balled to fists at his sides. Kieran's big blue eyes drifted between them, feeling their hushed tones and brows furrowed with sorrow.

“Ve're having a... zending off,” Dmitry gestured furtively, back towards the forest. 

Draco understood the implied invitation. Solemn, he nodded his understanding. “I'll get my broom.”

“I'm coming, too,” Kieran piped up, peeking around the door frame. 

“No yer not,” Draco growled through gritted teeth.

The child had the gall to stick his little pink tongue out before turning to Dima with wide eyes. 

“How'd you get up here?” the boy asked, shamelessly curious. “Where's your broomstick?”

The Romanian favored the youngster with a devilish smirk. The expression lent a painful likeness to his dead brother. It grew a thousand times worse when he shot the lad a sporting wink.

“I flew.” His amber eyes turned to Draco, still smiling. The expression was like a knife to the chest. “Don't bother vith zhe broom. I can carry you both.”

Draco frowned, folding his arms over his chest and locking his fingertips inside the crooks of his elbows for warmth. “I'm heavier than I look. This one, too.” He inclined his head towards Kieran, not wanting to give away the Ionescue family secret so easily. The eleven-year-old, ever-curious, hung on their every word.

Dima's brows drew together. “Just get dressed, Malfoy. Little one, too.”

“Yes!” Kieran cheered under his breath, a fist pumping the air as he took off for Draco's room at a sprint. 

Draco let out a long breath, waiting until the lad was out of earshot before speaking. He leaned conspiratorially, looking up into Dima's face. The big man blocked most of the chill wind from reaching him. The top of Draco's head barely cleared the Romanian's burly shoulders; peering up, he took in reddened eyes, cold-stung cheeks, a long nose and deeply hooded eyes, the features familiar and yet subtly different. It took a moment to get his breath.

“Thestral?” he inquired in a whisper, swallowing hard. “Like Vuk?”

“Zomezhing like zhat,” Dmitry shrugged. His meaty hand landed on Draco's shoulder, spinning him round and shoving him back into the castle. “Put zome clothes on. I freeze just looking at you,  _zmeuleț_ .”

Draco strode back to his room, leaving his Romanian friend on the terrace to transform into whatever winged creature he was. Kieran had left the door wide open; the child was digging through his trunk, scattering clothes and potion ingredients across the floor as he scavenged for his warmest winter gear.

“This is _not_ an adventure,” Draco chastised, pulling one of Harry's sweatshirts over his head in a rush. “It's a bloody funeral. Show some respect.”

Kieran buttoned a woolen jumper, his fingers racing up the buttons, fastening several askew. He ignored Draco's admonition completely. “Your friend. How's he going to carry us?” 

Draco kept silent. When the boy looked at him, Draco tapped a finger against his temple, instructing his charge to think.

“Lightening Charm?” Kieran dismissed the thought with a shake of his head. “Too generic. He's _your_ friend, after all,” the boy pondered from his rear, wiggling his feet into a pair of dragon hide boots. “He said he flew... gotta be something with style. And dangerous. An Animagus, then?” 

Draco nodded, Summoning his trainers. “The very illegal kind. Speak of this to no one.” 

“Gotcha,” Kieran agreed, bouncing to his feet. “Is he a dragon?!” 

Draco couldn't avoid rolling his eyes. He threw his cloak around his shoulders before going on a hunt for something warmer than Seekers gloves. 

“Think, boy. Do you suppose my terrace could support the weight of a full grown dragon?”

Kieran sagged in disappointment. The rebound to childish glee was almost immediate.“I reckon not. Still! I've never seen an Animagus before!”

Draco rounded on his charge. “Respect, child. A man has died.” His tone softened at the stricken look on Kieran's face. “A lot of people have died.” 

Head bowed, the dark haired boy made his way to the door without a word. He paused, glancing back. 

“Malfoy.... I know things are bad and all but,” and he swallowed, casting about for the right words. “You need to lighten up sometimes. Don't act like the whole world's on your shoulders. That's Harry Potter's job.” 

And he ducked out of the room before Draco could lay hands on something suitable to throw at him. 

Draco hurried after him, locking the door and muttering, “Boy, I may kill you yet. And feed you to the Giant Squid if I....” 

He froze beside the fountain. 

Dmitry was no Thestral. Out on the terrace, the first hazy flecks of white snow drifting around his form, stood a massive Aethonan, nearly twice as high as a Clydesdale and surely three times as heavy, beating its great blond-tipped wings against the wintry air. Surely, Draco would have to mount up as Harry had, using the terrace balustrade as a spring-board, vaulting himself into the non-existent saddle. 

Kieran swore impressively. 

“Been spendin' too much time with _me_ , you 'ave,” Draco chided. He put both hands on the boy's shoulders and squeezed. “Still wanna ride the ride?”

“Fuck yeah!” the child cursed again, wheeling around and taking up Draco's hand in his chilly ones. “Gimme a leg up?”

With a great rolling of eyes, Draco acquiesced, mumbling, “I should be taking house points.” 

“As should I,” Kieran agreed, “from you and Potter.” 

“What for?” Draco inquired, heaving the boy up onto his shoulders. Kieran clambered onto the beast's back, smiling back at Draco with white teeth and cherub cheeks. 

“Sex on school grounds,” Kieran laughed. “I told you, Malfoy. _Everyone_ knows.” 

Draco swallowed. “Just as well.” He adjusted his cloak before coming round Dima's rear, clambering up onto the balcony's railing. Dima's tail swished—two meters long, it was like a switch, barely missing him as he climbed onto the stone ledge. He put a hand to the Romanian's chestnut rump, balancing himself as he inched along the balustrade. 

“I'll have you know,” the blond mumbled, sliding his trainers along the icy stone a centimeter at a time. “Not everyone believes... Potter and I... are....” He wasn't paying attention to the words falling from his mouth. Kieran probably wasn't, either. The boy was winding his fingers through Dima's sandy mane, knees tucked over the folds of those mighty wings. The child was rearing to go, all excitement and well-concealed fear. Draco was the one teetering on a narrow ledge, one gloved hand and two borrowed-trainer-clad-feet from slipping to his demise. He took firm hold of Kieran's boot the second it was within reach, latching on and pulling himself up onto the Aethonan's back. He settled himself behind Kieran, one arm wrapped firmly around the squirming boy and the other taking up a handful of Dima's mane. He dearly hoped the fellow didn't mind, rendered uncommunicative as he was.

Kieran snapped his heels against the horse's sides. The boy was accustomed to riding. 

“Ready when you are,” Draco called over Kieran's dark head, observing some semblance of decency. Though Dima was in the guise of an animal, he was still a pureblooded wizard on the inside.

Dmitry's giant hoof struck the landing, shaking the stone beneath them. The castle gave the slightest of trembles—or was that Draco's imagination, Kieran shaking with excitement in his arms? 

The Aethonan Animagus backed away from the landing, setting himself up for a running start. Draco quickly cast Lightening Charms on himself and Kieran, wanting to be sure their extra weight wouldn't interfere with take-off. He felt Dima's ribcage expand between his thighs, pulling a mighty breath before surging forward, pummeling the terrace with hooves as big as cauldrons. 

Snowy wind buffeted their faces, stinging their eyes. The balustrade was getting close awfully fast. It occurred to Draco that Aethonans were known more for power than speed. His gloved fingers tightened involuntarily. He hoped his grip wasn't hurting Kieran—hoped Kieran's grip wasn't hurting Dima, the way the child pulled at that sandy mane. The railing was upon them and Dmitry jumped, vaulting into the air, into nothingness. 

Like a melon dropped from a tower window, they plummeted. 

Stomach wrenching, eyes closed so tight, Draco screamed.

It was three agonizing, life-shortening seconds before Dmitry's huge wings caught the air, pulling them out of a deathly nose-dive for the dirt. Kieran squealed happily. Draco's teeth chattered beyond his control. 

Each beat of Dima's wings brought them higher, propelled them across the grounds. A faint snow was falling, the earth still too warm to accept it. Flakes melted as they hit the hot skin of Draco's cheeks, wetting his lips. Beyond, past Hogsmeade village, the snow fell in earnest, like a white sheet held aloft in the distance. Soon, the winds would blow the clouds away and the snow would be gone. 

They glided towards the Forbidden Forest, the trees a flecked carpet of green and brown. It wasn't long before Dima was sweeping lower, preparing to land in a clearing not far off. Draco let out a shaky little breath, glad this magical version of a roller coaster would be done-with soon. He decided he much preferred broomsticks. It was a matter of control, precision and timing. This was just a bit too “natural” for his tastes.

Gweir pressed back against him, the thundering of Draco's heart pushing hard against the child's back with every wild thump, with every swoop and dive of the Animagus beneath them. Suddenly Kieran was twisting, his face upturned to Draco's in the moonlight. 

“Where's your mother, Malfoy?” 

The Head Boy twined his fingers tighter in the Aethonan's sandy mane. He swallowed hard, tugging Kieran closer to himself. 

“I don't know.”

They were so close to the forest now that Dima's hooves made contact with the occasional leaf, a tiny wet slapping sound each time, reminding them of their slow decent into the woods. There was a music in the trees, in the dead leaves rustling, in the night wind, in the shrill call of creatures in the damp, echoing night. Their sounds broke the silence in a regular, almost metered rhythm. 

In short order, they touched down on a sort of path, a natural parting in the trees. Hoof patterns in the mud told Draco this was a centaur trail, or perhaps frequented by Thestrals. There were more prints than could have belonged to the Ionescue brothers alone. He gestured with his elbow, pointing out the marks in the dirt to his young companion as they trotted through the wood.

Their landing was soft when compared to take off; a quick flap of wings and Dmitry was moving at a canter, hooves pounding a steady beat against the earth. Dirt and displaced leaves flew out behind them, marking the path they'd taken through the narrowing trails.

Gweir peered back at Draco as they ventured further into the wood. 

“I've never been in the Forbidden Forest before,” the lad whispered, as though the monsters in the trees might hear the worry in his voice and decide to jump out and eat him. “I thought it was... well, _forbidden_.” 

“As the name implies,” Draco nodded. “There are dangerous creatures here. But I'll tell you something I learned from Harry,” he smiled wistfully, remembering their harrowing experience out in these woods as first years, hardly bigger than Kieran. “Most of the things out here are like you and me—they just want to be left alone. So long as we don't trod on their nests, shoot a spell at them or approach their young, they're more than happy to leave us be.” 

“Are we allowed to be out here?” 

Draco put his chin to his chest to suppress a laugh. This wasn't the time for it, but yes, he and the first year were engaging in some late-night truancy.

“You leave that to me,” Draco assured him, voice smooth. “No one has ever been sanctioned for following the orders of a Prefect.”

“But... t-there are wild creatures, and... what if—” 

“If anything happens,” Draco cooed, “Dmitry and I are fully trained wizards, well versed in the Darker Arts. No harm will come to you. I promise.” He patted the boy's elbow, leaving his palm to rest on a small forearm as they rode on. “Hush now.”

Shortly, they emerged in a large clearing, boulders and several rock outcroppings having prevented the forest from overgrowing the grassy space. The sky was open above them, snow clouds off in the distance. Dmitry came to a halt. 

There were a few wizards in the clearing, most standing around a modest funeral pyre. They all had wands at the ready, simple cloaks in black, brown and deep green covering their bodies and obscuring their faces in the weak wand light. A figure approached—Draco couldn't make the fellow out until he was at the Aethonan's flank, face upturned and offering Draco a hand to dismount. 

“Nebojsa. Good to see you.”

The Serb smiled a little in reply. Pale and drawn, he looked like death warmed-over, an Inferi fresh from the grave and walking about.

Draco turned and held out his arms, inviting his tiny companion to jump down from Dmitry's back. Draco caught the boy around the waist, setting him right on his feet. 

“Nebojsa, this is Kieran Gweir, my protege.” He rested a hand on the boy's shoulder, a silent reminder to mind his manners. “Nebojsa Radic, of the Order of the Phoenix. A friend of Harry's.” 

Gweir offered his hand with a polite, “Pleasure to meet you.” 

“You as vell.” Nebojsa's ice blue eyes flickered, moving between the young boy's face and Draco's. The expression on his long features was unreadable—appropriate, given the occasion, but Draco wished he could discern at least a bit of what the quiet chap was thinking.

There was a rustling in the distance, branches pushed aside as something moved through the woods. The small shoulder beneath Draco's hand went stiff. The boy drew his wand, nervous. A moment later, Chereshko emerged, leading a small Hyppogriff. It would seem he'd coaxed the beast into parting with a few of its feathers, clutched in the man's big hand. Apparently he wasn't letting the opportunity to gather supplies go to waste. Hyppogriff feathers were rather valuable, requiring some skill with the animal to obtain. 

Draco took a step back. He and the Hyppogriffs of Hogwarts had a nasty bit of history. Kieran perked up. 

“Go on, then,” Draco chided, releasing the eleven-year-old. “That's Chereshko Toleanu, a friend of mine. Say 'hello' for me.” Gweir nodded eagerly and trundled off. 

“I'm sorry,” Draco mouthed to Nebojsa, waiting until Gweir was out of earshot before saying any more. “I tried to leave him at the castle but.... The boy lost his mother at Valaam. I thought... perhaps, some closure....”

“Of course,” the Serbian shrugged understandingly, clapping Draco on the upper arm. Nebojsa was unfairly tall. He had to tilt his head down to hold Draco's gaze. “Iz not a problem.”

With a sound like a mighty cauldron of half-settled glue being stirred, Dmitry shifted back into his human form. Draco stepped aside when he heard robes being adjusted. He watched as Dima pulled a pair of insulated dragon hide gloves from his pocket, offering them first to Nebojsa before slipping them on his own hands. Their glances tended uneasily toward the stack of wood bearing the lifeless body of their friend and comrade. It was clear that no one knew quite how to address it, the reason they were gathered together in the snow. 

“How bad was it, really?” Draco inquired at last of the battle at Valaam. “I know the Aurors were there—Kieran's mother was with the Hit Wizards. I can only imagine.” 

Dmitry took a long breath, closing his eyes. 

“Zhey came in zhe morning. Just before dawn, vithout varning. Zhe muggle side of zhe city vos destroyed. Few escaped alive. Zhe Merpeople are gone—viped out. Much of zhe forest vent up in flames....” 

“Ve stood no chance,” Nebojsa added. 

“A retreat,” Draco confirmed. 

“A final stand, for many,” Dmitry countered, looking at the pyre. 

The young man's corpse had been covered with a black cloak. Snow settled in the folds of the fabric, the body gone cold. It wouldn't be long before they set fire to the freshly-hewn wood beneath, sending him off in traditional wizarding style—a funeral for a hero. 

“I think I ought to pay my respects,” Draco murmured. He stepped away from the couple, leaving them to huddle together as he approached the pyre. 

Yura stood to one side of the hastily constructed platform, a hand outstretched, resting on the corpse's feet. The big bearded man's eyes were glazed over, seeming to stare out at nothing, the line of his dark eyes fixed on nothing but snow. 

Draco reached to pull back the cloth covering Dušan's face. 

“I vouldn't,” Yuri cautioned. “Not vith little one around.” 

Draco nodded slowly, checking that Kieran was engaged with the baby Hyppogriff across the way before lifting the fabric. 

Draco barely held back a gasp. Yura had been right—the sight was nothing he'd want young Gweir to behold. He'd half expected, but expectation hadn't begun to prepare him for the reality of the thing. It made him dizzy, sick. The fellow's head had been cut off. Clean. Violent. Brutal. But someone, likely one of the older men, Yuri or Chern, had reattached it with some thread and a steely hand. Steady, even stitching marched along the gash, holding neck and shoulders together in this last moment,  returning more than the young wizard's head—restoring his dignity in death. They were returning his honor. 

Draco held his breath, looking at the young warrior's face; frozen silent, all color gone from his lips and cheeks—so different from when they'd met, flushed with liquor, smoking, joking and dancing.

The smoke would be the same, at least. 

Draco replaced the black cloth, backing away, his gloved hands shoved in his pockets and murmuring his condolences. There was nothing he could do but feel sorry. Head bowed, Draco inched backward, stopping when he sensed others gathering around him. Kieran bumped against his hip, showing off a long white Hyppogriff feather, the tips just barely gray, which Chern had given him. 

“Very nice of him,” Draco muttered. “Why don't you put it away for now?” 

The boy did as he was bid, looking around curiously. The forest was oddly silent.

Looking down the line of wizards, Draco caught Chereshko's gaze. The Moldovan's lips were pressed tight in an almost-smile—closer to a grimace, the skin of his face pink from the cold. He covered his mouth with his hands, blowing into them, concealing the shape of his lips. Draco suspected the action was little more than an excuse not to speak, not to acknowledge all of this death and sorrow unraveling both their lives. Gone were the days of their youth, shagging unfettered and not caring for the consequences. Chern was a soldier now, like Harry. And Draco minded the home-front, the children. He stretched an arm around Kieran's shoulders, bringing the boy flush against his side. 

Their lives were so very different now. Silently, Draco wondered how long any of them could hope to last.

Draco gave a single inclination of the head—acknowledging what had once been between them. Now wasn't the time to examine one's bed-hopping: but neither would he deny their history outright. A nod was all he could offer. In reply, Chern's big hand fell to his heart, holding Draco eyes. _No hard feelings_ , his gaze said. _I'd pick Harry Potter over myself, too._

Words were spoken over the young man's corpse, many of them in Russian, likely to spare Gweir the particulars. Draco caught bits and pieces, his knowledge of the language quite limited. Tears were shed and wiped at with the hems of wooly cloaks, Warming Charms cast at their feet so they wouldn't feel the need to stomp them for warmth against the snow. Draco charmed a few Sickles in his pockets to give off heat, handing two to Gweir to warm the child's pockets. 

Nebojsa stepped forward, Dmitry at his side, supporting him; at times appearing to hold the gaunt fellow upright. Draco wondered if he was sick, or perhaps still wounded from battle. 

The Serb spoke in Latin—verses of muggle text committed to memory, things about God and not mourning those who had moved on to be with their fathers and forefathers in some eternal banquet kingdom. Puzzled, Kieran glanced up at Draco. 

“Muggle religion,” Draco advised. “Shh.”

Nebojsa had to stop, his leaning against his partner slowly becoming a collapsing. The tall man covered his mouth as a wracking cough took hold of his lungs, bringing up what sounded like blood. Mikhail rushed forward, a potion ampule in hand. The service fell apart as the men moved to support their leader, their shoulders under his arms, hands banishing the blood from his robes, checking his pulse, feeling his cheeks and forehead with the backs of big, hairy-knuckled hands. Annoyance in his light eyes, Nebojsa did his best to shoo his mates away. 

“What's wrong with him?” Gweir whispered. 

“Probably injured in the battle.” 

“It must be bad, then,” the boy mused, looking at his boots and the surrounding snow. “If they couldn't heal him with magic.” 

“Must be,” Draco agreed. 

Kieran pondered, pushing at the snow with the toe of his boot until he uncovered the withered brown grass beneath. 

“Shouldn't he go to Madam Pomphrey?” 

Draco quirked a brow in the Serb's direction—the skinny fellow actually slapped a hand as it went to feel his forehead's temperature for a fourth time. 

“Do you think anyone could make him?” 

“My Mum always said there are times for stubbornness. But I don't think this is one of them. I mean, he _looks_ sick.” The eleven-year-old shook his head. “I thought he was a vampire at first.” 

Draco simpered playfully. “Did you, now?” 

Gweir was silent a beat too long. His head remained ducked, hair black and wild as ever, toeing his way through the dirt, having pushed all of the snow aside and uprooted the grass in a petulant show. 

“It's alright...” Draco said slowly, at a loss for words. 

“Don't patronize me,” the child snapped, whirling on him. A few of the adult wizards looked up at the sound. “Nothing is alright—absolutely nothing! My life is fucking shite now! Mum's gone and they're gonna make me stay with my Gran! She doesn't even like me! This isn't—” 

“Come 'ere, you prat,” Draco growled, seizing the child and bringing him in for a hug. “Ya miss yer mother.” He smoothed the boy's hair, over and over; useless of course, but it was something. He carded his fingers through that familiar mop. 

“They just... they fucking killed her!” Kieran wailed, clutching at Draco's robes. “She was trying to protect people and they killed her. She didn't do anything wrong.”

“I know.”

“Like that guy. Dušan,” he pointed a little finger at the waiting pyre. “I bet you he didn't do anything wrong, either.”

A deep voice replied—Chereshko, come over to see what the ruckus was about. “He didn't,  _ malysh _ . He vos guarding a chapel. Zhere vere muggles inside, saying zheir dawn prayers.”

Gweir glanced up with large wet eyes. He released his hold on Draco's cloak long enough to wipe at the wetness clinging to his lashes. 

“And was he a pureblood?” 

Chern's thick brows knit as he considered the question. He blinked twice before answering, “ _Da_. Unless you count a dhampir zeveral generations back.”

“Silly, isn't it?” Draco commented idly. “What's considered pure and what's tainted. None of the great wizards of our time can be considered purebloods—not Harry Potter, not Albus Dumbledore, not even the Dark Lord.” That won him a few startled glances. Draco hitched his shoulders in a small shrug. He swallowed and continued, “Muggle father. Potter's closer to pure than that monster. It would seem that if one wishes to remain pure these days—pure in the old sense of the word—you're likely to wed a cousin. Next generation we'll be back to sibling marriages.” 

“It used to be about power,” he said forcefully. Several of the men nodded. Gweir burrowed closer, burying his face against Draco's stomach. “Real power, true magical aptitude. But its devolved, become this... this scraping for political advantage, for control and an opportune position for backstabbing. I don't think this is what the old ones had in mind when they spoke about keeping magic strong.”

Gweir muttered something. Dmitry reached out, putting a hand on the boy's shoulder and urging him to repeat himself, louder. 

“Granger,” the Welsh boy said. “Head Girl Hermione Granger.” 

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “As much as she annoys me, there aren't many who know more about magic than that muggle-born girl. She's strong, with many talents. She's the type of witch we need breeding the next generations if we're to avoid extinction. Yet the Dark Lord would kill her, rather than see her potential.”

Several of the men shook their heads. 

“A zhame,” Nebojsa wheezed.

“I don't understand it,” Kieran announced boldly, hands balled into tiny fists in Draco's robes. “Being pureblood or muggle born really isn't that big a deal—it's only what you make of yourself that matters. Why do they have to kill everyone who disagrees with them, everyone who gets in their way?” 

Draco shushed him, pressing the boy's black head to the center of his stomach. The child barely cleared the divot where Draco's ribs met, just below his heart.

“It's not fair!”

Dmitry came in on Kieran's other side, putting his chin to the top of Draco's head, hugging the boy between them. 

“Truer vords ver never spoken,” the handsome man muttered. 

Draco looked up, catching the Romanian's honey-colored gaze. He waggled his brows at the man. “From the mouths of babes.”

“Mal-foy!” Kieran shoved his way out, annoyed. There were still tears on his cheek. The boy swiped at them with his sleeve, face ever-reddening. 

“I'm sorry,” Draco offered swiftly, holding out his arm. “You know I didn't mean it that way.” 

Dmitry took a knee, gesturing the child close. With a wary expression, Gweir shuffled back, stopping at the big brunet's side. 

“Malfoy has a funny vay of speaking, _da_?” He cuffed the boy on the shoulder gently. “I'll tell you a secret: Malfoys don't know how to be nice.” 

Draco's mouth fell open. “I most certainly—” he spluttered. 

Mikhail gave a tremendous snort. Chern laughed outright.

Dmitry held up a big hand, shushing them all. “Zhey zhink emotion makes zhem veak. Zo Draco here iz zhort vith people. He doesn't want to zeem attached to anyone. But zhere's a vay you can zee through him, boy.” Kieran leaned in, eager to hear of Draco's Achilles heel. “He only teazes zhose he admires. He vouldn't vaste zhe time to vhittle barbs if he did not zhink you vere vorth zhe effort.”

A coy smile snaked across Gweir's round face. 

“So, when he's a condescending git...” there were laughs all around, “it's because he's fond of me?”

Draco rolled his eyes, rolling with it. “Of course. I thought this was understood, child.”

Dmitry rose from his knee, brushing dirt and snow from his trousers. He looked glad to have set things to rights between Draco and his pint-sized protege. Draco still shook a playful fist at the big man as he righted himself. 

There was a howl from beyond the tree line—not far enough away. It could have been a wolf... or worse. Draco swallowed. He caught Yura's eyes, then Chereshko's. Both Moldovans seemed to agree that it was time to get this service over with and get the hell out of the dark forest. 

The little Hyppogriff, which had been hanging back away from the wizards, gave a nervous squawk before dancing closer and closer to the woods. With a last darting glance at the humans, it took off into the darkness.

A gust of wind bit at the snow, sending tufts into the air, swirling around them. Draco and the men pulled their cloaks tighter.

Nebojsa cleared his throat. “Enough has been zaid. I zhink....” 

He didn't have to finish that sentence. Every last man and boy agreed with a nod. It was time to perform the deed and be on their way. The men formed a loose half circle around the pyre, leaving a gap where the wind carried snow off into the forest. Soon there would be smoke tending in that same direction. Wands were readied. 

Draco crouched, bringing his face closer to Gweir's chubby red cheeks. 

“Why don't you say the spell with us?” he offered. “The Inflamarae Scale is only second year stuff, you can manage it. The incantation for funerals is _Rogō Inflamarae_.” Draco nudged the boy's wand hand. “Go on, try it.”

The wizards leveled their wands as one, as though the pyre were a beast about to charge them. Every arm was steady and true, each wand pointed straight at the wooden structure. Not a one of them trembled; not a one of them shook. 

Nebojsa gave the signal. 

“ _Rogō Inflamarae,_ ” they incanted as one. 

Blue flame erupted from each of their wands—some streams thick and heavy, dripping flames, like arms of fire, while others were feeble, hardly more than lighted blue thread hanging in the wind. The pyre lit instantly, taking their magic into the spells at its core and burning, burning into nothingness so brightly, so fiercely, that Draco almost had to look away. Flames lept out in every direction, skyward and out, palling back at them, melting the snow. Beside him, Kieran took a step back, seizing Draco's arm and drawing it across himself like a shield. 

Draco ended his spell to offer the boy both his arms, gathering the young thing to himself in a heap. He didn't care for the snow soaking through his robes, or the heat of flames on the side of his face, so different from the cold which nipped at his hands, and the warm, snow-flaked hair pressing against his other cheek. He hardly noticed when the other wizards began to chant. 

He realized it was a song only when new notes were introduced—which was sparsely. The wizards kept themselves together through eye contact, knowing when to begin and when to fall off perhaps by memory or old habit. There were three parts—the deep thrum of Dmitry and Yura, keeping to only two or three notes, minding the bottom-most reaches of the melody. Nebojsa minded the top, adding almost contrasting notes which rang in Draco's ears; a man's a death mourning. 

“What are they singing about?” Kieran whispered against Draco's ear. “More muggle faith?” 

“I'm not quite sure,” Draco replied. “I don't understand much of the language.” He turned his ear a moment, listening. The only words he could pick out with confidence were “ _ne_ ” and “ _mati_.” He swallowed. “I think... they're singing to their mothers. Asking them not to weep.” 

“Where are their mothers?” Kieran asked, looking around at the men's faces as they sang. “Were they all captured by the Death Eaters?” 

Draco thought on the fate of Lady Ionescue, murdered by her Death Eater husband before her children could know her as men—of Chereshko's mother, Professor Toleanu of Durmstrang, murdered in her Dark Arts classroom when the school was overrun. He dreaded to think of the misfortune delivered upon Yura's parents after he defected from the Dark Lord's ranks. And Nebojsa's mother, who's life was taken in the last war; struck down by the hand of the Dark Lord himself, just like Lily Potter. 

And what of his own mother? Was she safe at Malfoy Manor? Surely not, after his escape. Perhaps the Dark Lord had killed her, too. Or Aunt Bellatrix, out of some twisted sense of family pride, or perhaps mercy, sparing beautiful Cissy Black the pain and torture of death at the Dark Lord's hands. Maybe Aunt Bella didn't find mother a worthy target for her Dark Master's ire. 

It was likely that Draco, too, no longer had a mother. None of them did. 

He pulled Kieran closer—to fight off the chill creeping in. 

“Their mothers are gone. Like yours. Like mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

_Malfoy_. If he wasn't so important to Harry—and increasingly good for Gryffindor House morale—she'd kill him with her own bare hands. 

She'd thought the pureblooded ponce had had some semblance of manners, that day he invited her into his room at Grimmauld Place for a sherry. Or when he'd danced with her and Ginny at The Blue Iguana, all politeness and gentlemanly, keeping his hands to himself and showing each partner a good time despite his own reservations. Apparently he only sought to charm her when there was information to be had about Harry, their one and only mutual affection. As she was now useless to the conniving blond, she'd apparently been cut off from his good graces. 

He'd changed the password of their joined suites to... to.... She couldn't even say the word in her _mind!_ How was she to get into her rooms, to her half-finished Potions essay and the countless books which were too much to carry with her at all times? How was she to live, a prisoner in her own house tower? 

Malfoy was an evil git; he always had been and he always would be. 

_Cunt._ That's what he'd changed the password to. She glimpsed the word on his lips even now as he strolled through the Common Room; his shadow, Gweir, ever at his side. The little Welsh boy was as a slave to the Ignoble House of Malfoy, following his master about, all but begging for scraps. If the boy didn't love it so much, she'd have put a stop to it a long time ago. As it was, Gweir ate from the palm of Malfoy's hand. And—Hermione suspected— _vice versa_. That was something she thought to leave well enough alone. Let Malfoy have a weakness for sweet-faced young boys and see if she lifted a finger to stop him!

Her brows drew together as she watched the pair of them take to the hidden staircase leading up to the Heads' Suite. Malfoy was laughing, the twittering chirp of a sound echoing in the stairway, joined by a burbling giggle. Malfoy had said _that word_ in front of Kieran Gweir—most likely telling the lad the harrowing tale of how he'd snuck such a lewd thing under Headmistress McGonagall's nose—the incorrigible first year laughing at the story as the hems of their robes disappeared from view. 

They were the Slytherins in exile, as Hermione thought of them; Malfoy's quarters effectively their clubhouse into which they climbed to exchange secrets. They behaved as children—motherless children. The Wild and Lost Boys. And Hermione feared for them, feared that Harry was becoming too much like them, too headstrong and unwilling to accept help even when it was readily offered; too willing to ostracize himself, to tuck himself away, beyond help, beyond saving. The situation was precarious at best. 

The only bright spot on an otherwise bleak horizon was a missive from the Headmistress, informing of Harry's expected return. Apparently he'd owled, requesting a meeting of the Hogwarts prefects. No one asked questions anymore. As Gweir to Malfoy, they simply did as they were bade. 

It would be good to see Harry again. It had been too long. She hoped it wasn't too late for Malfoy, that the irascible beast was not yet too far gone to hear reason from the head dragon tamer's lips. If there was a chance at controlling Malfoy—calming him even the slightest bit—Hermione would see it done. He was Harry's to deal with. But let Harry come soon and tend him, before Malfoy turned on himself like a cornered animal in chains. 

She could see the shifting of madness in his gaze, eye contact or not. It was the first year boy and thoughts of Harry keeping Malfoy in this world, keeping him sane when there was nothing else, prefects rounds seen to and firewhisky all drunk up. She heard him at the piano sometimes, bleeding his heart out over the ivories, playing for Harry, serenading him each night though he never came through the door.

It would be good to see her friend again. He had been missed, perhaps most keenly by their mooning, moping, cankerous Head Boy.

Malfoy needed Harry as much as Harry would need the comfort of his waspish, snippy bedfellow. It was only a matter of time. She stood her ground—sneers, nasty passwords, giggles and all—awaiting Harry's return.

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

Neville tapped his quill against his cheek, waiting for the Prefects Meeting to start. He was always early to these sorts of gatherings. He liked to get a seat off to one side and watch the others file in, chatting and taking seats near their friends. Rigid punctuality provided him a moment to collect himself, to think of soothing nothingness before having his unwilling head crammed with schedules and security concerns, rounds and disciplinary measures and the constant revision and bickering which had come to dominate these meetings since Hermione Granger took over as Head Girl. The only bright spot—and Neville wasn't the only one ashamed to admit this—was sodding Draco Malfoy. As much as the man had been a right-fucking ponce of a Slytherin git over the years, his snide remarks and witty come-backs—the way he brushed Hermione aside like little more than a worrying mother—was a welcome relief. Sometimes you wondered whether the bravado was for show, if Malfoy was truly shaking in his boots under the bombast show he put on outside his quarters... and presumably in them, too. It was hard to imagine Malfoy in his rooms at night, clutching a snifter of brandy, sniffling into it. That pureblood pride probably wouldn't allow it. He'd spontaneously combust. Either Malfoy was very good at lying to himself... or he was truly just that confident. 

It wasn't unusual to see their Head Boy strolling into Prefects and D.A. meetings a few minutes ahead of schedule, book bag slung over his shoulder and a pretty red rose fixed at a jaunty angle to the lapel of his jumper, shocking-white hair in artful disarray. The unusual sight stood behind him—Harry Potter sauntering in Malfoy's wake, all lean muggle denims and a solid leather jacket, looking harried but victorious. 

Neville observed the two as they took their seats at the front of the classroom, facing the rows of desks where Hogwarts' measly population of Prefects would soon gather.

There was something about them... together. The boyishly charming Harry Potter and prickly-yet-saucy Draco Malfoy, a unit, the meeting of opposite spectrums in this seamless alignment. They brought out colors previously unseen in the other. To Neville, Malfoy had always been a sneering bully, hiding behind his family's fame and his father's enormous clout. Malfoy was sharp but ultimately ineffectual. You knew he'd do as his daddy-dearest told him, keep his nose clean and be cowed at the end of the day. As much as Malfoy teased, threatened and snipped, you knew nothing more than an uncomfortable hex or perhaps a beating from his goons would come of it. Draco Malfoy had always been several wagon-loads of show. Now there was something more to him; charisma, an elan and poise which in a woman might be called “grace.” Realization sat heavy in his pale, pointed features—and with it, a kind of serenity. He appeared in the halls as a man lead to the gallows—as though he could see his death nigh approaching and had resigned himself, gathering to red-rosed breast the ragged shreds of his dignity to have one last go, one final stand against a world he so despised. Having betrayed the Death Eaters so publicly in that _Prophet_ article in August, there was surely a price on Malfoy's carefully coiffed head. Perhaps he thought sinking claws into The Great Harry Potter might keep him afloat. 

Then again, the whole wizarding world thought much the same thing. Malfoy couldn't be blamed for jumping on the 'Chosen One' bandwagon.

There was change in Harry, too, and not just his appearance. He'd gotten stronger over the summer, more focused, and it showed in the cast of his unshaven jaw, the brick set of his shoulders and spine, the way he sat in his chair as though ready to spring up and defend himself at any moment. And probably defend Malfoy, too. Harry looked weary, hardened. His eyes moved like Professor Not-Moody's of fourth year; ever on guard—vigilant. Unlike the old Harry, this one was fully aware of his power, the nimbus of magic which hung around him and the respect he and it commanded. Old Harry was your friend, a bloke you could count on to listen to your problems and offer a kind word of advice. And though that aura, that gentleness and warmth of his youth hadn't faded entirely, there was a keen sense that this version of Harry, The Boy Who Lived All-Grown-Up, had much more on his shoulders than your rubbish feelings. You really didn't want to bother him.

Harry and Malfoy sat beside one another, only the brush of a polished school shoe and dirty high-top trainer connecting them. But their gazes tended toward one another's forms, the ease of trust and affection clear in their casual, waiting silence.

A moment passed between them—the briefest flash of knowing when their eyes met, a clandestine and private understanding. Power crackled between them; charisma and pluck, flip, intelligence and pure bloody nerve. 

Neville slid down in his seat. Those two had center stage—might as well hang back and watch the show. 

He began to wonder what was going on when his seventh-year dorm-mates arrived. Dean and Seamus took seats well apart from one another—must've had another tiff while he was down in the greenhouses. If someone wasn't around to keep an eye on those two, usually Neville or Ron, things could go unpleasant in a Snidget's wingbeat. 

There were a few too many chairs at the front of the classroom. Whispers bounced about the room as it filled, wondering who else might be joining them. There were no disciplinary hearings on the docket. 

Harry's presence was a catalyst. Rumors had traveled the castle. First he'd been seen leaving the Headmistress's office early in the morning, looking determined. By lunch, word in the halls was that You Know Who would be dead by dusk... after all, this was _Harry Potter_ on the job. That Harry was here, intact, probably meant You-Know-Who remained similarly alive and well. Neither of them would go down without a brutal fight. The world would have heard of it, _Daily_ _Prophet_ or not. 

Ron came in with his girlfriend, taking a chair beside her at the front of the classroom. Merlin knew what Ron was doing at a prefect gathering—he always avoided them like the plague. Sometimes Malfoy would even schedule Gryffindor Quidditch practice at the same time, excusing both himself and Ron. Hermione hated that. The fact that Harry, Ron, Malfoy and nearly the entire Gryffindor Quidditch squad was here didn't bode well.

Trying to get the meeting underway, Hermione raised her hand for silence. It came immediately when a second Harry Potter entered the room, taking a seat beside Draco Malfoy. The newcomer—who could only be a Time-Turner version of Harry, as similar as they appeared in manners and mien—wore a Gryffindor uniform and Harry's trademark half-bored, half-day-dreaming expression. Stunned, Hannah Abbot closed the gaping mouth of a lesser Hufflepuff prefect at her side. The Slytherins were silent, arms folded across their chests.

“Well then,” the first Harry—the _real_ Harry, Neville thought—spoke before the Prefects could recover and begin lobbing questions like Bludgers for him to dodge. “This is my double. You can just call him Harry. Actually, you should probably pretend he's me.” 

Granger rolled her eyes in a grand huff. “What Harry means to say is that, in aid of the war, he, Ron and I will be leaving the castle for a little while. In order not to arouse suspicion, we have three people standing in for us.” 

“It'll be easier for us and safer for you lot if no one knows we've gone,” Ron added. 

With a little wave, real-Harry invited two more people into the classroom; they were spot-on likenesses of Ron Weasley and Head Girl Hermione Granger. The fake version of Hermione even had a quill behind her ear, her fake Ronald slumping dutifully behind her.

“But,” Vivienne Huber from Ravenclaw protested loudly, “Who are these people?” 

Michael Corner piped up a moment later, agitated. “Does Professor McGonagall know about this?” 

“No,” fake-Hermione spoke up, rolling her eyes in perfect know-it-all fashion as she took a seat beside the real Ron Weasley, fake-Ron at her side. Whoever she was, she apparently didn't mind being sandwiched by ginger. “Harry has full run of the castle and he's planted us here behind the Headmistress' back.” 

“Honestly.” Fake-Harry and Malfoy intoned as one, in the same bored tone of voice. Several people laughed. Fake-Hermione was apparently sarcastic by nature.

“McGonagall knows about this,” the true Harry reassured the crowd, smoothing his hand through the air as he soothed nerves and frazzled looks. “These three need to be at Hogwarts. Ron, Hermione and I need to be off for a little bit and we'd rather no one know we've gone. It works itself out rather well.” 

Hermione picked up where Harry left off, standing to address the crowd of prefects. “And we're going to need help from each of you to be sure that none of the other students have a clue about the switch. You may have to help our doubles with course work and general information. Speak to them privately about any concerns, in the dormitories or empty classrooms, no where you might be overheard. In public, you'll want to talk to them as though they really are us so as not to arouse suspicion.” 

“Most of the school staff doesn't know,” Malfoy added from his seat. He had an ankle crossed over the top of his knee, slouched in his chair as he watched the faces of his subordinates absorbing this huge piece of information. He quirked a meaningful blond brow. “See that it stays that way.” 

“Right,” both Harrys nodded but only the real one spoke. Twin fringes of black hair shifted over twin lightning bolt scars, giving the impression there was a mirror reflection sitting on Malfoy's other side rather than an entirely different person. Whoever was in Harry Potter's skin, he had The Boy Who Lived's mannerisms down perfectly. Neville began to wonder if it wasn't a Time-Turner version of Malfoy himself walking around in a Harry suit. Everyone knew Malfoy did a spot-on impression of Harry. It wouldn't be too far off.

“This shouldn't be for too long,” Harry said evenly. “Our goal is for no one to notice the difference.” 

Both Rons nodded. It was hard to tell the difference when fake-Ron spoke before the real one could open his mouth. “Just act natural. We'll be outta here before you know it.”

There was a flurry of questions to follow but Neville no longer attended them. 

Seamus and Dean were making eyes at each other from across the room, an unspoken truce dropping between them with this sudden news. Seamus was insatiable—he'd want to get to the bottom of this immediately, know where Harry, Ron and Hermione were going and who was standing in their place. Dean would want to restrain Seamus—bodily, if necessary. Eventually it would drive them both to madness and they'd be right back where they started; none-the-wiser, not speaking, and making Neville's life nothing more than a daily walk on egg shells. And now there would be no Ron to share in his misery. Not the real Ron, anyway. 

This was going to be interesting. 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

The fakes went off without a hitch. It was difficult to say when the real Harry, Hermione and Ron left and the doubles took over. Ron and Hermione had been perfectly normal over breakfast the following morning, the red head shoveling food into his gob as fast as he could chew, Hermione devouring the meager post with equal enthusiasm, scanning for news. Occasionally she would smack Ron's arm, making him look at _this_ section from a foreign magazine or _that_ snippet of an owl post making it in from the outside. Ron—whether fake or still himself—did his part to look more interested in his buttered toast. 

The only indication that something was off-kilter occurred in the Gryffindor Common Room several days later, late in the evening. Malfoy let fake-Harry win at chess. That was when Neville knew the switch had taken place. Because Malfoy would never let the real Harry Potter win at anything. Ever. Even if the ex-Slytherin had to cheat to see it so. If he had to beg, borrow or steal—Draco Malfoy would sell his own mother as a house elf to ensure his victory over The Boy Who Lived. Some things never changed. 

Neville was at least comforted by the fact that real-Harry had come to his senses and summoned the Golden Trio. It always took the three of them working together to bail him out of a jam—he should know better by now. Those three could always pull through when they got over their stubbornness and put their bloody heads together. 

Except for eliciting game-throwing from Malfoy, fake-Harry was putting on as stunning a performance as his counterparts. Possibly better. He sat and brooded appropriately, staring into the fire late at night and ruffling his misbehaving hair with great troubled sighs. There were even a few intense yet unreadable glances shot Malfoy's way, always at visible times such as meals and in the corridors. He spent time in the library with his fake trio cohorts and flew well at Quidditch practice if the team's lack of reaction was anything to go by. 

A shock came during dueling practice at the Thursday night D.A. meeting, when Malfoy took it upon himself to cast the same spell from the infamous Dueling Club Incident of second year—the same great black snake dropped from Malfoy's wand, slithering its way across the floor, making straight for fake-Harry with a tell-tale hiss. A few students who weren't old enough to have been there the first time let out screams; they were quieted by the sixth and seventh years, waiting to see how Harry would react this time around. 

Neville had held his breath, wondering what in the hell Malfoy was up to. 

The grin on fake-Harry's face was unforgettable. With that sly-arse look behind his glasses, he'd hissed in Parseltongue, wand flicking just-so, the syllables falling from his lips like leaves from the Whomping Willow in a snit. The snake had paused a moment, its scaled head cocked, listening with rapt attention to its new directive. A moment later, it began to eat itself, tail-first. The room erupted in applause. Inside, Neville cringed. Parselmouths were bad news at Hogwarts. Rumor had it You-Know-Who was one. 

Neville found himself hoping that whatever spell had been used to make this man—because something buried deep in his gut told him this imposter person was a man—into fake-Harry-Potter was also responsible for the doppelganger having Harry's unique, forked-tongued ability. Because another Parselmouth in the world was bad business. Hogwarts was already up to the third floor windows in trouble. He wondered that Harry felt the need to place an undercover Parselmouth, or if it was just coincidence. He concluded that nothing was coincidence where Harry Potter was concerned. He also kept his conclusions to himself.

Neville idled after the defense lesson adjourned, watching Malfoy speak with Luna Lovegood while Harry chatted up a group of Durmstrang-transfer Ravenclaws. Neville was careful not to make his true point of interest known, exiting the Room of Requirement behind Lavender Brown and the rest of the Gryffindor girls. He trailed fake-Hermione on her way back to Gryffindor Tower, hoping he might hear something magical.

Sure enough, the witch turned toward the bust of Paracelsus a little ways down the hall, the bust guarding the now less-than-secret passageway to the Head Boy and Girl's quarters. He strained his ears, tip-toeing on the very balls of his feet, silent, hoping he might hear the word fall from Hermione Granger's lips. Sure it wasn't _really_ Hermione. That didn't matter: it was the principle of the thing. A puppet saying silly words was still far more entertaining than a silent reality. 

As he opened the portrait hole... there it was: Hermione's voice, echoing faintly down the corridor.

“ _Cunt_.” 

And fake-Hermione was smiling.

 

 

The next morning, Draco Malfoy sat down beside him in the Great Hall, reaching casually for the coffee pot while munching a piece of toast stolen from his first year friend down the row. Neville assumed Malfoy had only sat so close because Neville was near the coffee. So he was shocked utterly senseless when the blond leaned closer, muttering into Neville's shoulder. 

“Finally,” the man mock-sighed, “I can experience an attraction to Granger without the simultaneous and overwhelming urge to slit my wrists. Ay?” And then a hearty, “Pass the cream, would ya?”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Seamus tossed his pillow in the air—aimless, over and over again, catching it between his palms with a gentle _thwash_ ing noise as the fabric rushed past his palms. It was the loudest sound in the room, cutting over the wind whistling in the window panes and the swaying clink of Quidditch gear as Dean got ready for practice. 

Dean caught the pillow mid-flight with a well-aimed Summoning Charm. It flew through the air, a crimson blur, landing smartly in Dean's outstretched fist. “Stop it,” the boy muttered before tossing the pillow onto his own bed, pulling on his Quidditch jersey. 

“I can't 'ave been the only one ta notice,” Seamus pouted, shooting up in bed. He leaned back against his palms a moment later, settling as he eyed Neville for support from across the room. Neville kept his thoughts to himself. 

“Sure,” Dean sighed his agreement. Almost begrudging, he added “Doesn't make them a couple.” 

They were arguing about Ron and Hermione—or, to be more precise, the people walking around in Ron and Hermione's skins courtesy of a steady supply of potion. They'd seen enough of fake-Ron sipping at it the last few days to put the pieces together. 

“When have you _ever_ seen Not-Our-Ron sleep in the dormitory?” Seamus gestured grandly, both hands sweeping the room before he fell back to his pillow-less bed. True, fake-Ron was not in the dormitory much. And they never saw him at nights. He always drifted up the hidden passageway to the Heads' Quarters when he thought no one was looking—well, Neville supposed the person in Ron's likeness was a man, anyway. He could be wrong. Nobody knew for sure; hence all the gossip and speculation. There really was bugger-all to do besides Quidditch and schoolwork these days. 

“Maybe they have secret meetings with McGonagall at night,” Dean teased, fastening his cloak. “Or maybe they're off _doing it_. You should sneak after him and find out.” 

Neville turned a page in his N.E.W.T. Herbology text, muttering, “Or you could, you know, ask him.”

“Don't be thick!” Seamus bellowed, looking as though if he had another pillow he'd have aimed it at Neville. 

“I'm just saying,” Neville shrugged from behind his book, his eyes never straying from the page. “It would be a great deal more polite than everyone talking behind the fellow's back. Assuming he's a fellow, anyway.” 

Seamus slapped his thigh. “I know who he is!” he announced. But no one was paying him any attention at this point. Sometimes Seamus would talk only to hear his own voice. Neville tried to block the chap out. “Remus Lupin! And 'Hermione' is Nymphadora Tonks—that's why they sneak off, right? 'Cause they're together!” 

“That makes no sense, Seamus.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Just drop it.” 

“Makes perfect sense.” Seamus was petulant, sulking with his arms folded across his chest. “Watch them at the next D.A. meeting and you'll see.” 

Neville had to give Seamus that. Whoever was in Ron's skin, the man (or woman) was a defensive powerhouse, throwing out non-verbal spells like a battle-hardened Auror. And Hermione was just as good—maybe better. Every last one of the woman's spells—well, the woman presumably concealed within—was spot-on, non-verbal and quick as a cat. The people masquerading as Ron and Hermione, whoever they were, were seasoned professionals when it came to defensive and improvisational magic. Nothing could get past them. Not even Malfoy The Death Eater Reformed. If a crisis ever came to Hogwarts, those three dangerous fiends were precisely the defenders Neville would want in Gryffindor Tower. They appeared to be the best anyone could ask for: it made sense that Harry and Professor McGonagall would have sequestered them within Hogwarts at a time like this. 

“Fine,” Dean gave in with a huff, cautioning, “Just... Seamus? Leave him alone, okay?” 

The door to the boys dormitory had opened silently. Everybody jumped when a voice questioned from the doorway, “Leave who alone?”

Ron's body strode into the room. It was Ron's body because, while the fellow inside had obviously studied Ron's mannerisms, family tree and class schedule, there was just something... off. There was a shift in energy; a tranquil passivity, an ease and utter lack of nerves which was simply _not_ Ronald Bilius Weasley. The true Ron panicked over every little thing and never had his coursework done on time; he was also a bit of a slob and always out to prove himself. Neville guessed that came from having so many brothers ahead of him at Hogwarts, so many Prefects and Head Boys and now bloody _entrepreneurs_ in the family. Ron probably felt he had a lot to live up to. This man wasn't Ron because—and no offense to Ron—he was bloody confident. It oozed out of him, a certitude and quiet knowing that this man lived for himself and didn't give a damn what anybody thought of him. It was the kind of serene strength Neville wished he had—like Harry Potter in a crisis, like this man. You could see it in the set of his shoulders, hear it in the slow cadence of his voice. This fellow was used to getting what he wanted, 'Auror' or not. And he got his way with honesty and candor, never taking “no” for an answer and not once backing down. He was a true soldier, a warrior from beyond sacred Hogwarts walls.

Neville prayed his dorm mates weren't about to antagonize the fellow. It could get ugly. For them.

“Harry,” Dean lied quickly. “He's... it's nothing anyone but us would notice....” 

“What is it?” fake-Ronald asked, going to Ron's trunk and siphoning Quidditch gear from the mess. “If there's something we're doing wrong, I'll pass it on, rest assured.” 

The man in Ron's skin wasn't even bothering to speak like Ron, now, amongst company who knew of his disguise. Somehow that made it worse—the fact that they were speaking to another made plain by the practiced, Patrician fall of his words. A statesman? A pureblood? Someone famous? Because frolicking _fuck_ did he know how to speak. 

“Really,” Dean gave Seamus a stern look that he should keep his ruddy gob shut. “It's nothing.”

“But you, mate!” Seamus piped up, snagging the imposter's keen gaze. 

Neville washed his face with his hand, concealing the gesture behind his hefty school book. 

Seamus continued. “The dead give-away is your spell-work. Ron's not nearly so proficient.” 

Fake-Ron smiled casually over his shoulder. The lop-sidedness was about right, but this fellow made it suave, charming. He was a rogue, sure, by that unguarded look, a fellow quite popular with the ladies. 

“Thanks,” the imposter kept smiling. “I'll be sure to tone it down.” 

“Hermione's about right, skill-wise,” Seamus added. “You're both really good. Did Harry—I mean _real_ Harry—he didn't—” 

“I'm going to stop you right there,” the fellow interjected, still getting dressed for Quidditch and keeping his eyes to the buttons and fastenings as he went. “I can't talk about Harry or why I'm here. I apologize for the secrecy. I know it's rude to come into your lives and pretend to be your mate but... this is what's best for everyone. Including myself and my family. I hope you understand.” 

Seamus took off his shoe and chucked it at Dean. The trainer got the dark-skinned boy square in the back of the knee, making his leg buckle. He wobbled a moment before whipping around to glare at Seamus. 

The Irishman cackled. Gleeful as Peeves with a new verse of _The Dragon Song_ , he teased, “Blows yer theory outta the water, doesn't it, Dean?” 

“What theory?” Neville piped up. 

Seamus answered for Dean, who had apparently been harboring some secret musing about the identity of their mysterious faux-mate. “That 'Ron' here was actually Professor Snape. But you'd sooner die than hear that greasy git apologize!” 

Fake-Ron laughed, squirming into his Quidditch bracers. “I can say with confidence that I am _not_ the Potions Master Severus Snape.” He was taking this very well—not like an Auror, all seriousness and stone-facedness about his mission. Maybe he was a civilian, then. He'd called the people with him family, after all.

“And you're not Remus Lupin, either, are you?” Dean put in. 

A shake of the head from Fake-Ron dispelled that notion. 

“But are you someone we know?” Seamus pressed, swinging his legs off the side of his bed and sitting up, elbows braced on his knees and a pensive hand to the scruff at his chin. 

Fake-Ron turned to face them, every bit Not-Ronald-Weasley. They were seeing the man behind the mask as much as they could, that much was certain. His voice was impregnable and calm, but warning, as he spoke. 

“You're better off not knowing. Truly. We are not anyone you would be acquainted with. We're not Aurors, or former professors, or ex-Death Eaters on the lam. We are here for our safety and well-being as much as Granger, Weasley and Harry are called away to secure yours.” And his gaze traveled the room, taking in trunks overflowing with mess, school supplies and Quidditch gear scattered around the room. He seemed sad as his thoughts continued, his speech softer but no less sure. “We are like these three we pretend to be—young people pulled into the war by circumstance and perhaps by fate. For the time being, Hogwarts is the best place for us... and that comes from your Headmistress herself.”

“No way...” Dean breathed. 

“Blimey,” Seamus muttered. 

“So you're students?” Neville asked. “Or you were?”

“Neither here nor there,” the man shrugged, giving nothing away. In that moment, he looked nothing like Ron—world-weary and pensive, staring at nothing. “Please. The more I tell you, the more I put you and your families in danger. And that's the last thing we want. We've lost our family—the three of us are all that's left. We fight so that what happened to us won't happen to the students here. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Neville nodded. Dean did the same, sitting heavily on the trunk at the foot of his bed.

Seamus wasn't giving up so easily. “So you're related, the three of you?” 

Fake-Ron practically tisked at Seamus, shaking his head in a tired to-and-frow which set Ron's shaggy hair billowing away from his head like a ginger halo. 

“Malfoy was right,” the imposter said with a knowing simper. And Ron never smirked like that in his entire bloody life, that was for damn sure. It was like the devil himself breaking through Weasley's freckled skin. “One thing I can say for Gryffindors: you certainly don't know when to stop.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco Malfoy's fingers stilled over his piano's keys, the paleness of his graceful digits shaming the ivories, hands hovering like birds frozen in the sky. He did not speak. The last of his playing rang out from the grand instrument, the room slowly given over to silence. 

“You miss him,” Nebojsa said softly. 

Beside him, Malfoy nodded. “Yes.” 

“It can't be easy,” Nebojsa continued. They sat side by side on the piano bench. The Serbian wizard rested a hand on the blond's narrow shoulder. His hands were Harry Potter's hands—the knobbly fingers, sun-tanned skin and Quidditch callouses of The Boy Who Lived. He was becoming accustomed to these hands, spectacles, unruly locks, health. When he spoke, it was the heavy cadence of Harry Potter's voice, English accent and lovely syllables issued in comfort. “My looking like him, sounding like him... but not him. I'm sure its been a nightmare come to life for you. The Polyjuice should wear off in a mo'.” 

“I know.” Malfoy nodded again, forlorn. The blond bit at the very center of his lip, bit hard, so that the pink flesh went near white with pressure. A vein fluttered at the side of his neck. The powerful wizard looked but a man, small and scared, frightened and in love. 

Malfoy's fingers eased an unfamiliar tune from the instrument. It wasn't from the music pages set before him. Malfoy appeared to play by ear, stopping every few bars to hum under his breath as though recalling the melody as he went along. 

“I don't know this one.” 

Malfoy smiled just a bit, still biting his lip. “Wonderwall.” His elbow brushed Nebojsa's stomach as his hand plied the lower keys, speaking a section of the lyrics. “ _All the roads we have to walk are windin'. An' all the lights tha' lead the way are blindin'._ It's muggle. One a' Harry's favorites.” 

Nebojsa listened a few bars, feeling where the vocals might fall within the lilting melody. “It's enchanting. I can see why he likes it.” He made to get up from the bench but Malfoy stopped him, a frail hand to his knee keeping him down with conviction more-so than strength. Malfoy came at him, until their faces were close, foreheads near to touching. 

“I know yer not Harry,” the blond spoke, eyes drifting shut. His emotional pain was clear, written across his face in thin lines and purple-blue shadows. The gaunt line of his cheek drew inward as he swallowed, giving him the appearance of a shell of a man, adrift. “I know it. But you're enough like him. You smile like Harry. You even fucking _smell_ like Harry.” He came closer still, all but nosing along Nebojsa's cheek, drinking in his lover's scent. 

Nebojsa let loose a low growl, dropping his chin to his chest. “I don't know why he does this to you. He thinks it's alright? Baiting you with his likeness—torture of the heart—for what?” he spat the words, teeth clenched. “To fool spies who may or may not exist? To keep from the Dark Lord that which he already knows?” 

Malfoy's skinny hand tightened over his knee. 

“I think he wanted you to heal, Radić,” said Malfoy. “He does this—a rather fucked up way a' sayin' he cares. He'll try ta keep yeh from the front line, lie to you an' keep you at arms length in a besotted effort ter protect you. Be glad he's not in love with you—you'd never see or hear from him again, he'd keep you so far away.” 

Nebojsa snorted. “What a cad.”

Malfoy smiled—a real smile this time. Brightness came through his eyes as though from a great emotional distance. There was spirit in him, stubbornness and verve. The apples of his cheeks pinkened, giving life to his features as the expression spread. 

Nebojsa could not resist leaning forward to plant a brief kiss to the man's forehead. Malfoy allowed the gesture with good grace, holding his breath a moment as the face of his beloved came so close, familiar lips brushing his genteel skin. Malfoy was supple, tasting of autumn and wild-grown apples, almost sweet, a compote of lemon, sage and salt. 

Nebojsa released him when he felt a twinge in his spine. Hastily, he spelled his shirt and trousers several sizes larger, divesting himself of belt and trainers before the shift could take hold. He gasped as the transformation racked his body like fire in his veins. 

Malfoy sat at the piano bench, pale fingers clenched to tight fists, watching in silence. 

Nebojsa closed his eyes against the pain. From the darkness, he would swear he heard the blond wizard speak—a saddened “goodbye” to the image of his love.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco wrapped his cloak tighter around himself against the castle's chill. The old structure got draftier the higher you went. His nose had been cold when he left Moaning Myrtle's bathroom on the second floor. By the time he crested the staircase leading to the seventh floor, his fingers were numb. He cast a Warming Charm before tucking his hands and wand back inside his wooly cloak. 

His room would be empty when he returned, devoid of the merriment made mere hours before. The Polyjuiced trio had joined him for a nightcap by the fire, allowing their disguises to wear off for a few hours. They seemed eager to stretch their true legs, free from guises. Dmitry and his brother had had their fill of Draco's brandy, shifting into their Animagus forms out on the terrace, flexing their mighty wings before alighting into the night. Draco presumed they were still hunting in the Forbidden Forest; not to return until dawn, when the alcohol had run its course through their beast bodies, their appetites sated by raw game and the hunt which delivered it. Nebojsa, less than enthused about remaining in Harry Potter's likeness, had cried off joining Draco for his prefects rounds, instead taking to the Chamber of Secrets for a bit of what he called “dumpster diving.” Apparently young muggles made sport of going through rubbish bins, looking for useable items amongst the cast-offs. The Serb had the idea he might find some artifacts or unusual potion ingredients hidden in the rubble which had once been Salazar Slytherin's lair. 

_A man had to be possessed of a very morbid curiosity, indeed, to descend into that pit of darkness,_ Draco thought, staring into the abyss once the chamber had been opened with a hiss of Parseltongue and a groan from the ancient stones. Myrtle had fixed them both with a very funny look, pervert Malfoy and the eerie, tattooed stranger. He wondered if ghosts could wank, because this had to be a fantasy of Myrtle's long overdue. Draco sent the man down with Harry's Firebolt and a hearty wave. Nebojsa had promised to share any bits or bobs he found, after all. 

The trek back to Gryffindor Tower was quiet, ghosts and fellow prefects nodding solemn and tired to one another as they passed.

Draco paused, startled in the doorway to his bedroom. There was a lump on Harry's side of the bed—too small to be Wonder Boy himself but with dark, unyielding hair and knobbly knees drawn close to his chest. Draco spotted a familiar velvet cloak draped over the piano, deposited by its sleepy owner on his way to the Head Boy's bed. 

Kieran. 

The little shit had snuck up to his chambers—had said “cunt” to Sir Cadogan and crawled, barefooted, into Draco Malfoy's bed, for there were no slippers or shoes in sight. 

Draco shook his head. 

This couldn't go on forever. What about when Harry came back? Kieran understood fluid sexuality—he was pureblood, after all. Draco wondered how much the boy's mother had explained of the mechanics of intercourse, if he understood that two men could make love the same as a man and woman. That he would be... interrupting. Surely Margaret Gweir had had suitors of some sort. As Kieran's mother, she had to have been quite attractive. Maybe Kieran would understand, would bugger off when the time came... when Harry returned. 

But that was a while off. 

Draco kicked his shoes from his stone feet, Summoning his pajamas with a flick of his wand. It was cold. He was cold.

 

 

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations**  
>  _Pryvet. Rad tebya videt._ – Russian, “Hello. It's nice to see you.”  
>  _zmeuleț_ – in Romanian, this is a really cute nickname for Draco, meaning “little dragon”  
>  _malysh_ – Russian, kind of a “kiddo” or “little man” endearment
> 
>  **A Note on Latin:**  
>  _Rogō Inflamarae_ is derived from the spell _Lacarnum Inflamarae_ , used by Hermione Granger to light Professor Snape's robes on fire in the _Philosopher's Stone_ film adaptation. _Lacarnum_ , the Latin for robe or vestment, gave me the idea that Inflamarae could be a series of spells used for setting specific objects ablaze.   
> _Rogō_ comes from the Latin _rogus_ , a noun of the second declension meaning funeral pyre, grave, or place of burial. _Rogō_ is _rogus_ in it's dative form, to suggest that the fire is not so much conjured as it is given, a final gift to the deceased, donating magic to the flames.   
>  I'm such a dusty old codger.


	49. Beretta: The Monument Valley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and the trio begin to make up. The war, and the race to destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes, continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Ron being a bigot, suggested violence and some adult humor

 

 

_And when the dust all settles and the story's told_

_History is made by the side of the road_

_By the men and women that can persevere_

_And rage through the storm, no matter how severe_

_And whether it’s a horse or a car or a train_

_There’s gonna be some fine times and there’s gonna be some pain_

_In the end it’s a silhouette framed by the sun_

_Just The Monument Valley when the evening comes_

 

_It’s a strong wind blowing on the open range_

_It’s gonna be beautiful and it’s gonna be strange_

_It’s where to plant the camera and when to say action_

_When to print the legend and when to leave the facts in_

_When to turn your back on the comforts of home_

_And wander 'round The Monument Valley alone_

 

 

"The Monument Valley"

Drive By Truckers

 

 

 

“I want you to come with me.” 

Hermione's brows rose. Ron fumbled his tea cup in surprise. 

“Seriously, mate?” the redhead gawped, using his robe to wipe at the tea spilled on his woolen school trousers. Hermione banished the wetness with a silent flick of her wand. They were taking tea in the little library tower of her quarters, Ron and Hermione in their uniforms and shiny prefect badges and Harry in his old muggle street clothes. It ached not to be in his robes with them, attending classes and being seventeen. 

“Yeah,” Harry nodded slowly. “I reckon it's time I take a crack at destroying the Horcrux in Slytherin's locket. And I want you both there....” Harry trailed off, eyes fixed on a point just past Hermione's shoulder. He hadn't touched his tea. His face was wan, reserved. 

Hermione pursed her lips. “You want us there,” she inferred. “But you don't trust us.” 

“Not completely, no,” he confirmed. 

Ron let out an agitated grunt. “You trust those guys from Durmstrang but not your best mates? That's ruddy messed up, tha' is.”

Harry sighed as he blew over his tea. It was surely cool enough to drink by now but he had no interest in food. This conversation was hard enough without tea stuck in his throat. The vague taste of bile hung in his cheeks. He hated saying this to Ron and Hermione but it was the truth. 

“I trust them because of our shared experience, what they've been through, what we've accomplished together and, most importantly, what they believe in now—they may have had parents and siblings who were Death Eaters but I don't hold that against them. You can't blame someone for the way they grew up. But you can respect them for making the right choices when the chips were down.” 

“But—” Ron cut in. 

“Yeah, you guys have helped me loads over the years. I recognize that. But when I needed you the most—this summer, the stuff with Draco and then Didier and those bugged roses—you two basically said 'fuck you' and walked away. Draco was about the only person who stuck with me. I know you floo-ed a few times, Hermione,” he added before she could interrupt. He could see the protests banging against her teeth, begging to get out. “But that's not nearly enough. You stopped believing in me. You pulled the rug out from under me. So I've learned to rely on some other people for what used to be our thing—I don't like it any more than you but... how can I trust you guys not to walk out on me again?” 

Hermione's mouth fell open. Not a single word escaped her. Ron looked as though he'd just taken a berating from his mother—head bowed, face lit up with a flaming blush, hands folded in his lap and a sheepish slump to his lanky shoulders.

“I'm sorry, mate,” Ron said at last. “I never looked at it that way.” 

Hermione's voice was timid when she spoke. “Why didn't you say how much it hurt? That you wanted us there with you?” 

A rueful smile twitched Harry's lips. He wrapped his fingers more tightly around his tea cup. “You know I'm rubbish when it comes to feelings, talking about them. Draco's helped, though. At first I blocked out how upset I was, ignored everything I didn't want to think about or feel. I just spent time with Draco and turned a blind eye to the rest of what was going on. It took me a while to deal with everything, to figure myself out. I guess you two needed some time, too.” 

Ron chewed his bottom lip, nodding to his lap. 

Harry took a deep breath, until his tshirt pulled tight over his expanding chest. “It's gonna take a while to rebuild the trust we lost. But I'm willing to try if you are.” 

Hermione reached across the coffee table, putting one hand over Ron's gathered fingers and the other on Harry's knee. Gently, she nodded. 

“Whatever it takes,” Ron mumbled. “We'll do it. We're in this together.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispered. “It means a lot to have my mates back.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, connected, letting the winding steam of tea wash over them. The first of the true winter winds howled outside the tower, fluffy bits of snow mingling with the last of falling leaves. Patches of sun shone through the heavy clouds, sending shafts of yellow light to dapple the dying brown grass of the grounds. Snow would be piling up soon, blanketing the grounds. Nothing moved outside save the leaves and trees in the wind.

Hermione squeezed Harry's knee. “When do you leave?” 

“Soon, maybe a day or two. I've got an idea I need to run by McGonagall and then I'll be on my way.” 

“ _We'll_ be on our way,” Ron corrected, smirking. 

“No. I have to make some arrangements first. I'll go on ahead and have you guys follow me in a few days.” 

Hermione's bushy head cocked to the side. She could always tell when Harry had a plan up his sleeve. He spilled the beans before she could ask. 

“I think I have a way to make it so that no one will know we've gone.” 

“You don't think Hogwarts is safe?” Ron asked quickly, leaning forward in his chair. “Like, You Know Who has spies or something?” 

“I'm going to err on the side of caution,” was Harry's non-committal reply. “You can never be too careful.” 

“You're right,” Hermione squeezed his knee again, the fingers of her other hand curling with Ron's. “Let us know what the Headmistress says. We'll be ready to leave when you need us.” 

Harry sat back and took a mouthful of tea. 

It was a fairly brilliant plan. It had been done before at Hogwarts, so no one would suspect it again—Polyjuice Potion. 

Dmitry had enough of the stuff to keep his entire crew hidden for a fortnight or longer. And they could always acquire more. Considering Harry would only ask Dima, Misha and Nebojsa to hide at Hogwarts, they could probably last a few months, at least. He wouldn't ask them to stay that long... but a week or two Polyjuiced into a healthy body would probably help Nebojsa's healing process and put Dmitry's mind at ease.  With the entire castle believing the foreign fellows were really Gryffindor’s Golden Trio,Harrycould bring Hermione and Ron to meet with Leon's team in America. And if word traveled back to Voldemort—well, Harry could use it as an opportunity to observe his enemy’s reactions and gauge future movements. He'd have to clear it with McGonagall and bring a few prefects in on the plan, perhaps the seventh year Gryffindor boys for good measure, but that was better than tacking up a bloody notice that the Golden Trio had left the building. It was worth a shot.

 

 

Harry took it up with Draco that evening before dinner. 

“It's a good plan,” the blonde nodded, warming his hands at the fire in his Head Boy's quarters. Draco turned to warm his backside, regarding his boyfriend seated on the beige sofa. “An' you said McGonagall agreed?” 

Harry nodded. 

Draco bit the side of his lip in thought, canting the fattest bit of pink lip to one side in a very pretty picture. Harry stood up, taking Draco's waist with both hands and pulling the lanky chap closer. 

“Do you think they'll go along with it?” Harry inquired quietly. “The Ionescues and Nebojsa?”

“Ya know them betta than I do, love,” Draco shrugged. A slender hand slid down Harry's side, lingering at the top of his arse, a pale thumb hooking under his belt to drag him nearer. 

Harry considered, thinking out loud as he rested his cheek against Draco's. 

“Nebojsa won't like it. He'll see it as charity. And he won't fancy being away from Yuri, Vadik and Chereshko. But I think Dima can bully him, and Misha can guilt him. I don't think he could deny the three of us if we gang up on him. Plus, I reckon being under Polyjuice would help his injuries heal.” 

“Both internal and external wounds would disappear completely,” Draco clarified in an almost lecturing tone. “You said he lost a kidney? Taking Polyjuice to walk around as you would give him _two_ good kidneys. He'd be fine—better than fine. It's more than any Healer or MediWitch could do.” 

“Why do you say he'd be me?” Harry mused, inching closer, until they were pressed flush together from noses to toes. Draco was warm from the fire, dressed in his heavier school cloak and a full-sleeved jumper. “I figured Nebojsa would make a good Hermione. He's... very mothering.” 

“Parseltongue,” Draco spoke slowly, drawling, as though it should have been obvious. “If a situation arises where yer double would need ta speak it... well,” Draco gestured idly. “They'd be found out, wouldn't they?” 

“Fair point,” Harry conceded. “So who should be Hermione, then?” 

“Dmitry,” Draco said without pause. “Mikhail is a fifteen-year-old heterosexual male. Do we really want to give him access to every female-occupied dormitory in the castle?” And the blonde raised a pointed, delicate brow, delivering a swat to Harry's rump. 

Harry laughed, recalling how sex-crazed Misha had been that drunken night at MSI's concert. Putting Misha in with half-dressed women was a very bad idea, indeed. Piss poor.

“Not so much, no,” he replied.

“So Dima should be in Granger's skin,” Draco decided. “A gay wizard is no threat to the girls dormitories, sparsely populated as they are. And Dmitry's intelligent enough to pass for Granger. Leave him in a room with her for a few hours an' he'll get a sense 'a how bossy an' unbearable she is.” 

Slowly, Harry nodded. He hated to admit it but Hermione had become rather controlling over their summer holiday at Grimmauld Place. Only recently had she begun to act like herself again, devious and devilishly bright. He wished he could say the same of Ginny: he and his ex hadn't had words in months.

Harry shook the thought from his mind, replacing it with the far more pleasant image of Dima and Misha Polyjuiced as Hermione and Ron, running around Hogwarts holding hands and mooning at each other, pretending to be a happy couple. The cuddly brothers could pull it off with a wink and a smile. They'd probably think it was hilarious. The thought of Nebojsa-made-into-Harry-Potter making simpering eyes at Draco over the breakfast table was no less amusing. The image probably should have made Harry exceedingly jealous but, since it was Nebojsa—the man who loved Dmitry with every fiber of his mortal being—Harry couldn't bring himself to worry. 

Under Polyjuice, Nebojsa would see Harry's todger, too. Long enough to have a decent wank or two. He wasn't sure what to make of that—so he binned the subject, unwilling to deal with it at present. He had bigger things on his plate than a sexually flexible Serb minding his prick for a few days.

Another thought occurred to him. A magical one. 

“What about Ron's wand? I don't think Misha could use it,” He took a breath, realizing how deep the problem ran. “And I doubt Hermione would hand her wand over to Dmitry, either. I get the impression she doesn't like him. Then there's my wand: if Nebojsa catches wind of its brother, I doubt he would touch it. Voldemort killed his parents, same as me.” 

Draco ran his nose through the hair at Harry's temple, inhaling him. “Think,” the pureblood murmured. “I'm sure it'll come to ya.” 

 

 

It was only in the middle of the night that a solution hit him like a bolt of lightning. He shot up in bed as though a fire had been lit under the mattress, throwing Draco off him in his scramble to divest himself of sheets. The blonde grumbled, still half asleep and not happy about being jostled around at such an hour. 

“Wot?” Draco mumbled irritably, rolling over onto his stomach and punching his pillow into a more comfortable state of squashiness. “Scar twinging, Scarhead?” 

“No, that's not it,” Harry panted. “I've got it! The wands, I mean. An idea. And it just might work. I need to owl Yura.” 

And he sprang from bed, lighting a candle with his wand and bringing it over to the coffee table where Draco kept his writing supplies. 

“Ugh,” the blonde groaned. He flipped a hand over his eyes to block out the light.

Quill in hand, Harry peeked over the sofa at Draco lying sprawled in bed, the covers kicked away and his naked, coral-scared bum on display. He wanted to pen this note quickly so he could crawl back into bed with that gorgeous piece of arse.

“If Yuri made Ron's wand,” Harry explained in a rush, scribbling, “then he can probably make one that looks like it but will work okay for Misha. If there's enough time, I'll see if he can't make replicas of my wand and Hermione's, too. 'Cause, I mean, Dima's gonna have to do magic as Hermione. And Nebojsa would need something functional if he's gonna be living in the castle. Everyone knows what my wand looks like, so he can't be seen wandering around with his own. People will talk.” 

Harry bent his head over the parchment, writing quite sloppily as he spoke. It only took a minute to finish the hasty letter. He hoped it made sense. Stomping starkers across the chamber, he woke Hedwig, fastening the parchment to her leg and tossing her out the window with an owl treat before she could nip at him any worse.

“Good thinkin', _ poilu _ ,” Draco slurred. “ _ Laisse-moi tranquille. Je dors. _ ” 

Draco practically pulled the pillow over his head in an effort to retreat into darkness. In the firelight, the black tattoo on his arm seemed to move of its own accord. 

Harry knew it was an optical illusion, though. He'd observed Draco's nude form enough to know that when the muscles of his forearm flexed, it often made the serpent on his arm jump and squirm as though it were alive. For some reason, the Mark of his enemy made him smile. 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Minerva stopped dead in her tracks, causing Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger to grind to a halt a meter behind. The three of them stood at the edge of the Hogwarts grounds, wards vibrating around them. The two teenagers bore a Portkey between them—one of Argus Filch's rustier old buckets commandeered for the occasion—that would take them to the front lines of battle. These children were leaving to fight the next chapter of a war thought over and done with back when they were in nappies. It twisted her stomach to send students into battle; yet she had little choice in the matter. Potter chose to fight and these two followed him with a blind faith both mystifying and vaguely inspiring. 

Minerva shook her head morosely. 

“Out with it, please, Miss Granger. The Portkey is timed.” 

“What do you mean?” the girl asked, all innocence. Neither Minerva nor Mr. Weasley were much fooled. 

“Oh, come on, Mione,” Weasley chided. 

The girl heaved a mighty, put-upon sigh, adjusting her grip on the bucket. Flakes of rust drifted from her hand as she beat it nervously against her winter robe.

“Alright,” she admitted. “It's Malfoy. And Kieran Gweir. There's something... not right about their relationship. I mean, a twelve year old boy sleeping in Draco Malfoy's bed half the week and no one's saying it but—” 

“Saying what, dear?” Minerva asked sweetly. 

“Well,” and now the Head Girl looked duly nervous, as though she'd assessed the validity of her own fears and found them lacking in sound logos. “Malfoy's gay... or bisexual—I'm not entirely certain, there. But it's not right. I know that much. Someone would surely comment if first year boys slept in _my_ rooms every night.” 

“But it's _Malfoy_ ,” Mr. Weasley groaned, brown eyes searching the heavens. It was clear the couple had had this conversation before. Apparently it was Granger's duty to take up the torch, spinning fantastic tales of Malfoy's shame and guilt while Potter was away. Some things never really changed. “Pureblood Malfoy, exiled Prince of Slytherin. How do you even begin to say something to a ponce like that?” 

“Am I correct in the assumption,” Minerva inquired evenly, “that you object to his mentoring the boy because Mr. Malfoy has had homosexual attractions in the past?”

“Ugh!” the girl threw her hands in the air, upending the bucket. Weasley scrambled to retrieve it, mindful of their imminent departure. He stuffed a rusty handle back into his girlfriend's grip. “It's not because he's a homosexual per-say, just... just,” and here she floundered, slipping to a practiced, school-girl tone as though she were reading from a stenotype rather than forging her own argument, “that I feel more attention ought to be paid in regards to the unusual nature of their relationship.” 

Minerva cocked her head to the side. “Miss Granger, when _exactly_ do you believe that Draco Malfoy, in the brief course of his lifetime, has experienced human contact that was not in some way strange or unusual?” Minerva pursed her lips, arranging her face into a pleasant mask of 'merely wondering aloud.' “I don't believe either he or young Gweir grasp the concept of a normal relationship, given the manner in which they were raised.” 

She'd set Malfoy and Gweir together for just that reason—that they, of all people, might understand one another. She suspected Malfoy needed to grieve as much as the first year. Yes, Malfoy was an unorthodox choice to lend comfort to a motherless child; yet for Gweir, he was the perfect choice.

“She's got a point, Mione,” Mr. Weasley chimed in. He closed a large, freckled hand over Miss Granger's, dwarfing her fingers with the size and weight of his own.

“To each his or her own,” Minerva concluded. “ _Judge not lest ye be judged._ ” 

Weasley snapped his fingers in recognition, nearly losing his grip on the Portkey in his bout of enthusiasm. 

“Saint Matthew!” he identified the quotation with a pointed finger. Miss Granger let out a startled sound. Weasley shot her a wide grin. “See? I pay attention when you try to teach me things. And sometimes it even sinks in.” 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Harry asked a thousand times over if she was sure, if she was really and truly comfortable with this. Hermione just bucked up her chin, tucked her frizzy hair behind her ear and muttered, “I have to be, Harry. Lives are at stake. You know that. It's the only reason you would ask me to do this.” And then she smiled weakly, returning to the mechanics of converting a muggle detonation cable for magical use. 

Jedidiah had given them enough Ash4 to level Hogsmeade Village several times over. Hermione experimented for two days, assisted by Pavel Gregorovitch, his wife and occasionally Leon Harper—when the graying Irishman could tear himself away from the demands of Arty Lachlan and various contracts from the American Government. Everyone was worked up and worried after what had happened at Valaam. The magical community was hunkering down on a global level, preparing for the worst—an all-out war. Which meant Leon's time was in high demand; still, he helped Harry, Ron and Hermione run a few small-scale tests at his outdoor shooting range after-hours. 

Things began to pick up after Fred and George arrived. Ron had called it sacrilege, blowing up a piece of Hogwarts history without the twins there. Harry agreed. He reasoned that—between the stunning fireworks display during his fifth year OWL's, the events at Ravenwood, and the rapidity with which Filch had to replace Hogwarts toilet seats—the twins knew a thing or two about explosives. They had a natural talent for blowing shit up. Detonating various bits and bobs of Hogwarts was a mere scratch on their very long and destructive resume. It was nothing short of nerve-wracking when Leon introduced the pair of them to muggle firearms one blustery and thoroughly unforgettable afternoon.

There were questions, of course. What was it which the Golden Trio planned to blow up? Why exactly did it need destroying? Couldn't everyone just see it first, to know what they were dealing with? Days passed, the trio tight-lipped and Harry always shaking his head, ever silent, before the subject was dropped.

With Fred and George's help, it didn't take long to cobble together a rig for Slytherin's locket. While they couldn't be certain, Harry had a good feeling this would work. 

Ron volunteered to spend a few days with Leon's team and the twins—eager to catch Harry up where fighting techniques were concerned. So Harry and Hermione took the destruction of the Horcrux locket upon themselves while Ron was away, being chased by mutated, gargantuan mosquitoes in the Everglades... a job which Harry was happy to say no to when he saw the quantity of magically-engineered bug repellant involved. Hermione felt similarly, and had no calling to handle muggle weapons. Apparently wands, Horcruxes and Ash4 were more than enough to satisfy her newly rekindled thirst for danger.

The pair of them packed up Leon's ratty blue truck and drove the three hours to a police academy bomb range in Madison Township, Jed and Rikka meeting up with them there after a gig in nearby Dayton. Hermione jumped down from the pick up's runners wearing a bulky SWAT vest over Ron's Chudley Cannons sweatshirt, sunglasses on, all business, her hair in a high ponytail cascading past her shoulders. The bushy brown fall of it swayed in the sun as she maneuvered around the truck bed, searching for something jumbled during the drive. Harry flashed his credentials around. A couple of academy trainees helped unload the crates, calling Harry “sir” with every sentence. Hermione was “ma'am” and received a stiff salute in parting.

The pair from Leon's team hung back in the observation booth, Rikka on her cell phone and Jedidiah presumably with his fingers in his ears. Harry made a joke about Seamus' bad luck in causing explosions, that it was probably a good thing their Seamus and the American potioneer would never cross paths. He and Hermione crouched behind a partition made of stacked sandbags. Chuckling, their eyes met over the detonator's looming black handle.

Hermione chewed her cheek, her eyes obscured by the fashion sunglasses she wore. Harry's own glasses were tinted against the glare. There was just a dusting of snow on the ground and the sun glinted off it something fierce, making the day painfully bright. Harry wiggled his frozen toes in his trainers.

“Ready?”

“As I'll ever be,” Hermione shrugged. Together, they pressed the lever.

The sheer size of the explosion was frightening. It boomed, rattling buildings, making the ground shiver, clumps of dirt dancing as the reverberations and then the wind caught them up. The blast took him clear off his feet even as he ran at a full sprint. He felt his left trainer, ill-tied, slip from his foot as he fell—as he flew through the air, really, the way the hard-packed ground came up to meet his flailing form. A strong winter wind carried his sneaker off into the scraggly bushes a few meters away. He hit the dirt with a thump, driving the air from his lungs. He wheezed, listening to his own sickening breath in his ears and the last of the explosion's deafening thrum as it echoed off rocky hills in the distance.

Hermione lay sprawled a little ways back, not being as quick on her feet as Harry. Supposedly their post was sufficient distance away from the locket when it went. That was the last time he let Ron do his calculations—Maths had never been his strong point.

“Harry!” Hermione shouted, a hand shielding her eyes. She was laid-out on her stomach, a fine, snow-and-dust mist still raining down around her, tinkling against the dense polyethylene plates inside her flak vest. Breathing a lungful of dust, she coughed. “Are you alright?!” 

“I think so,” he called out, voice shaky, attempting to sit up and have a look at himself. A sharp pain in his diaphragm told him he needed to lie in the dirt and catch his breath. He rolled onto his side, curling into a shameless little ball.

Hermione was looking at him, sunglasses knocked off to reveal her very wide, panic-filled eyes. Harry spotted the remnants of her glasses—a few pieces of mangled black plastic scattered around her feet. She squinted in the brightness, one hand over her eyes and the other fisted in dry dirt. Her gaze raked over his body, taking him in and assessing damages: two arms, two legs, one head, ten fingers and presumably ten toes.

She laughed quietly, brushing dirt and snowflakes from her hair. “Where are your socks?” 

Harry stretched his leg gingerly, peering down at his left foot. After his ripped-up old trainer flew off, the familiar, exposed foot was sockless. He wiggled his other foot inside his trainer, confirming—yup, no sock there, either.

“Draco's got most of 'em,” he said once he could breathe properly. “Suppose I ran out.” 

“Doesn't he have his own socks?” Hermione snorted, pushing herself up onto her elbows. Like him, she wasn't ready to get up and dust herself off quite yet. She didn't have the energy to be peeved by the mention of Draco. Neither of them were ready to stand and so they carried on with meaningless banter to distract themselves until the jitters of fright had passed. He could hear doors opening back at the base, muggles on walkie-talkies discussing the commotion. Rikka or Jed would show up eventually; more than likely Rikka, waving her willowy arms and shouting at them for frightening the muggles.

“Sure he has socks,” Harry sighed. “It's just... that's his way of missing me, you know?” 

“He hordes your socks?” 

“My clothes in general,” Harry swiped his hair out of his eyes. “Why do you think I'm wearing these rubbish old trainers? They're Dudley's, for fuck's sake!” Hermione flinched when he swore. He gave a hollow laugh. “Draco has my good ones.”

Wiped out and not getting it, Hermione dropped herself down to her side, resting her head on her arm. She regarded him across the snowy earth with tired eyes. “Couldn't he just tell you he misses you and leave your things be?” 

“Hermione,” Harry replied, equally exasperated. “It's Draco. And me. We don't talk about stuff like that.”

“You don't communicate?” 

“Er....” Harry watched the clearing smoke swirl overhead. It was white and fluffy, like clouds, drifting away. “We don't talk about my... being away. It's still upsetting for him. I'm sure he's angry because, somewhere, he feels like I'm abandoning him,” Harry gulped. “But at the same time, he respects my reasons for doing what I have to. He knows I'm doing this to protect him. So he nicks my stuff to feel closer to me. Small price to pay to keep him comforted.” 

Hermione sighed knowingly. “So you _do_ talk.”

“'Course. About other stuff.” Harry cleared his throat. “I'll just buy more underthings.” 

“Malfoy borrows your knickers, too?” she teased, incredulous.

Harry smiled to himself, still watching the sky a tad dreamily. The light was beautiful this time of day, all pale blue sky and scuttling white clouds. “Those are his favorite. Apparently, they keep my scent longer than anything else.”

“And he gets off to that, does he?” Hermione's tone went slightly bitter. Though he couldn't hear the motion, he knew when she was shaking her head.

“Hermione,” Harry sighed deeply, Summoning his missing trainer from the nearby underbrush. “He's my boyfriend. I love him and he loves me. Plus,” and he lifted his shirt to show the waistband of his pants, “I'm wearing his.” He snapped the Armani-emblazoned elastic. Little plumes of dust wafted off his clothes—they'd both need a shower. 

Hermione had no choice but to roll her eyes and accept—Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were quite attached. The ramifications would have to wait.

“Let's go have a look,” Harry pushed himself up. “I think we got it.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

There was a rocky hill overlooking Malfoy Manor, great boulders protruding out of the earth at the crest of it, separating the manicured lawns from the wild tangle of forest beyond. Harry had seen the place in Draco's head, heard about it when the blonde recounted dreams of flying over the Manor before his Nimbus turned to dust and he plummeted down and down and down, waking in a cold sweat, grappling with heavy blankets and reaching out across the bed. Draco had described the place, how he'd been warned as a child not to fly over that section of the grounds lest he fall and crack his head open on the rocks. Having been ordered not to, Draco always flew low over that hill, skimming the tree-tops with his fingers as he rocketed past, just to spite his overbearing parents. 

The place looked just as it had in Draco's memories, if perhaps a bit overgrown. The lawn was long and wild all down the hillside, as though the house elves had better things to do than maintain the grass on their hands and knees with scissors. Harry pictured Lucius Malfoy as the sort to enforce such a cruel edict as daily routine. 

Now Harry wondered what grisly labor the Death Eaters encamped at the manor had the poor house elves slaving over. Whatever gruesome task it was, the elves would surely prefer trimming the lawn one blade at a time with dulled fingernail clippers. He knew what went on in the catacombs, what terrible acts were planned around the elegant Malfoy dining table. And while there wasn't anything he could do to stop it, to stop the war, he wouldn't stand idly by. 

So he and Ron made their little post up on the hill, crouched behind a rock of generous girth, sucking on dry biscuits and scanning the countryside... watching, waiting for something—anything which might give them a clue what the Death Eaters were up to.

Thus far they had ascertained two irrefutable points: that the Death Eaters stayed up rather late, holed up in their bedrooms on the second floor, judging by the wavering yellow lights in the distance, and that winters in Wiltshire were fiendishly cold. Ron ducked back to the cover of the woods to cast a Warming Charm under his jumper. He wasn't back five minutes before getting up again. 

“It's not that cold,” Harry joked, rolling his eyes. “You get used to it.” 

Ron shook his head. He was barely visible in the darkness, the moon hiding behind dense clouds which threatened to dump icy cold snow on them at any moment. 

“It's not that.” Ron waggled his eyebrows. “Nature calls.” 

Harry nodded glumly. “Alright. I'll try not to get ambushed while you're off taking a slash.” 

Ron paled, freckles standing out against his white skin. “Um....” 

“Great,” Harry grunted. “How long are you gonna be? We really shouldn't separate for too long. Solo makes us easier targets.” 

Ron chewed his lip, eyes evasive and awkward, muttering a quiet but no less tart, “Merlin's balls, Harry.” 

“Sorry.” He allowed the word to fall from his lips like always, though he didn't mean it. “If we're discovered, I need you ready, wand in hand, not wiping your arse.”

Ron's chin jutted forward, jaw tight as he shot back, “You saying I can't take a shit?” 

Harry met his mate's glare head on. “Yeah, that's about right.” 

Before Ron could protest, Harry raised his wand and flipped it at him, practically hitting him on his freckled nose, they were huddled so close. A strange expression graced Ron's features, brows drawing together and his eyes vaguely crossed as a sensation like Mrs. Scower's Endlessly Foaming Blend traversed his intestines. 

“I...” Ron protested feebly, his mind working at what the sensations in his body—specifically his bum—could possibly mean. “I have to go to the loo.” 

Harry tried not to smile, not to sound cheeky when he said, “Now you don't.”

Ron's mouth opened and closed several times before he arrived at an emotion—anger. “Did you just use the Dark Arts on me?” he hissed, drawing his own wand.

“Worse,” Harry clapped him once on the shoulder before dropping back on his heels. “Sex Magic.” 

It wasn't surprising when Ron's gob fell open like a gravity-assisted trap door, gloved fingers going limp around his very dangerous wand. “Bugger,” he whispered, the irony of the statement lost on him. 

“Pretty much,” Harry shrugged. 

Shoulder slumping against their boulder, Ron regarded him with mixed confusion and disgust. “Gross,” he said simply. 

That syllable hung in the air like a crow's call, haunting Harry, echoing around his subconscious the same as the wind groaning through the trees at their backs. 

“Gross,” Ron repeated beneath his breath, shivering.

“It's not,” Harry insisted, soft but fierce.

“Yeah, whatever,” Ron folded lanky arms over his chest, wand still held loosely in his fist. 

“Honestly,” Harry went on. “It's not much different than with a girl. I mean, the angle's a bit lower but other than that—” 

Ron cut him off loudly, slapping a hand against the stone. “It's _Malfoy,_ damn it!” He bared his teeth. They glowed white in the moonlight.

“People change,” Harry countered. “If you give them a chance.” 

“That implies Malfoy's human.” 

Harry gaped. “What else would he be? A Jarvey? Snidget, maybe?” 

Some of the wind went out of Ron's sails when he realized how ridiculous he was being. Still, he stuck to his guns, muttering, “Malfoy's probably a Veela—makes sense, with the hair. Or a Succubus.” 

“Succubi are women,” Harry amended, rubbing his glove-encased hands together and then stuffing them in his armpits disagreeably. He'd found the succubus section of _Fantastic Beasts And Where to Find Them_ to be a particularly interesting read at thirteen. Anything involving women was fascinating at thirteen. He peeked over their rock, scanning the empty grounds, scowling. “So Draco would be an Incubus.”

“Still,” Ron muttered, adopting the same pose. “Malfoy's a git.”

“I think he's making an effort at Hogwarts,” Harry shrugged. “ He's really taken to Gryffindor. The younger years seem to like him, and he's a better Quidditch Captain than I ever was. Can't you see that?” 

“Sure, he's fitting in alright,” Ron begrudged him. The man's voice was a nasal whine, wheezing through nose and teeth as he spoke. “But he's such an asshole about it!” 

“What the fuck, Ron?” Harry hissed through his teeth, trying with all his might to keep the volume of their conversation at a minimum without losing his vehemence. “He's always been a prick. You know that. It's a relationship, not a lobotomy!”

Ron spluttered, his cheeks going red, the color visible in the darkness. “And he's turning you into an asshole, too!” 

“Fuck, keep your voice down,” Harry reminded him. His best mate ignored him in favor of whinging.

“You never used to curse like you do now—and you call him 'sweetheart' and 'baby' and stuff! And kissing him in front of the whole house?” Ron puled a childish face. “It's gross. You need to stop it, Harry.”

“I don't call him 'baby,'” Harry corrected evenly. It wouldn't do any good to yell, no matter how much of a prat Ron was being—and he deserved a solid punch in the face. Instead, Harry tried to reason with him. “Do I tell you when to kiss Hermione?” 

“Well, no.” 

“Do I complain when you do?” 

“No.” 

“That's right, Ron,” Harry spoke slowly and with absolute calm. This had to sink in, _had_ to get through eventually. “When you snog 'Mione, I'm happy for you. Because you're my best mate and that's what best mates do. Draco is happy for you and Hermione—he even helped get you two together, though I doubt he'd admit to it under pain of death,” Harry shrugged, Ron looking mortified. “I'm just asking you to give Draco a chance. That's all. He's making an effort.” 

Ron chewed his cheek a moment, mulling it over. “I'll think about it.” 

A few minutes went by in silence, just the chirping of nocturnal animals and the rustling of leaves in the woods behind them. The moon emerged from behind cloud cover, casting an eerie blue light across the grounds of Malfoy Manor. There were only a few lights on in the great house itself, only the faint orange flickering of a few candles left burning through the night.

Harry moved his wand against his palm, digging his trainers into the thin film of snow beneath their feet. He raised his wand up near his face in order to blow on his gloved fingers.

Suddenly, Ron whispered quite loudly. “Look! Harry, I think I've got something!” 

He pointed out into the distance, fist shaking with adrenaline.

That _something_ quickly pinpointed their location by the echo of Ron's voice. And attacked.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMERS:** “The Monument Valley” is from the album _Brighter Than Creation's Dark,_ written by Patterson Hood of Drive By Truckers and released under New West Records, 2008.
> 
>  **For The Curious: Translation of Draco's French**  
>  _Laisse-moi tranquille. Je dors._ \- Leave me alone. I'm sleeping.


	50. When The Lion & The Lamb Lie Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One small step for Draco Malfoy; one giant leap for homosexualists and reformed Death Eaters everywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** multiple instances of bathroom sex, perving/questionable-motive-related voyeurism, and Colin Creevey (because that boy should always come with a warning label)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Large portions of this have existed since December of 2010.  
>  Everyone thank my cheerleaders for urging and urging, until this ball of shit was polished to a mirror shine: hollibelle, andinocara, shantismurf & nikolation.

**CONSCIENCE:**

**WHEN THE LION & THE LAMB LIE TOGETHER**

 

 

Hogwarts morale went subterranean when it was announced that the upcoming November Hogsmeade visit would be limited to seventh years and prefects only. Everyone understood the need, of course, but it did nothing to lighten spirits around the already dreary castle. Seventh years were legal adults: there was little the Hogwarts staff could do to prevent them from leaving the grounds on designated days. Prefects were given additional privileges in order to run errands for their housemates, purchasing sweets and quills in Hogsmeade and sending letters abroad, as owl traffic inside the castle was unreliable at best due to the wards. Draco had nearly been sucked into a massive sweets run before a message from Harry reached him by way of the Order of the Phoenix members guarding the castle—he was to meet Harry at the edge of Hogsmeade Village, out by the Shrieking Shack, and bring the Firebolt.

Musing on what Harry could have planned was a pleasant waste of thought. Hogsmeade weekend became a bright spot at the end of a very long tunnel—and the only thing seeing Draco through his miserable Friday afternoon of double NEWT Defence Against the Dark Arts with that mousy git of a man, Professor Percy Weasley. Draco wasn't the only one holding back a groan as the seventh year Defence students marched into the classroom, slamming their books onto their desks and gazing with mixed horror and incredulity at the message on the chalkboard.

Apparently Professor Weasley had gotten it into his head that Shielding Charms would be an ideal waste of their afternoon. Draco couldn't imagine anything more boring than three hours of the Protego Scale with this idiot-excuse of an educator.

Professor Weasley swept into the room. Instead of his regular black robe and tie, the ginger man wore a sleeveless leather vest, a type often used by Aurors and Hit Wizards in their training drills. Draco had come across one in Harry's pack once, heavy duty leather and quite plain, a bit scuffed, spelled to reduce the impact of most common dueling spells. The design of Weasley's vest was far more ornamental than Harry's. Weasley's leather was spotless down to the polished brass buckles, leaving Draco to wonder if the wizard had ever had reason to use it before today.

“Alright, everyone,” Professor Weasley announced, waving an arm over his head to bring his students' attention. “Settle down, and textbooks away. This lesson will be of a practical nature.” He said it as though it were a great treat. Several students bit at their lips to hold back groans—Draco among them.

The seventh years took their seats, casting glances at one another behind their instructor's back. Weasley swiveled at the front of the room, vanishing his desk and chair. He folded his hands over his chest. From a larger man, it might have been an imposing stance. With Percy Weasley, it only emphasized the physical strength he lacked. His sister Ginevra could wallop the spectacled ponce in a fist fight. Draco would put Galleons on it.

“Today I wish to discuss dueling—specifically defending one's self against dangerous and undesirable spells. Many of these can be blocked with a standard Shielding Charm. Can anyone give me the incantation?”

Predictably, Granger's hand shot into the air. Draco had to remind himself that it was not Granger herself, but Dmitry Ionescue playing the part of Hermione Granger, Head Girl and Insufferable Know-It-All. Dmitry was a good actor, delivering his lines exactly as Draco would expect from Granger herself.

“It's _Protego_ , sir. There are also several variations, forming the Protego Scale: _Protegam Horribilis_ , for example, and _Protegit Totalem_.”

“Excellent,” Professor Weasley nodded. “Five points to Gryffindor. Can anyone name the other two steps on the scale?”

Draco wasn’t surprised when Justin Finch-Fletchley raised his hand, brown hair in his eyes and looking vaguely annoyed. Finch-Fletchley was one of the few the muggle-born chaps who could conjugate his Latin worth a damn, and was called on immediately.

“ _Protego Corpus_ and _Protegis Minus_. But professor, we know the Protego Scale. Everyone who's been going to Malfoy's Defense Association, I mean. He covered Shielding first lesson.” Finch-Fletchley's eyes flittered between Dmitry in Granger’s skin and Draco, as though confirming he was in the clear to mention that detail of Draco's clandestine lessons. When nothing gruesome happened to Finch-Fletchley's bollocks, he relaxed back against his seat, still looking warily at Draco—wary but pleased. Proud, maybe.

Percy Weasley gestured with his wand. “Then perhaps Mr. Malfoy would care to assist me with a little demonstration? This is a practical, after all.”

Draco rose from his seat, trying with all his might to hold back the simpering smile that begged to take over his face—any chance to throw a curse at a Weasley was a welcome opportunity for mischief and mayhem. He eased his wand from his robe's breast pocket. “My pleasure, Professor.”

They took the front of the classroom as their dueling space, Professor Weasley in his Auror gear and Draco not so much as loosening his tie.

“Do your best, Mr. Malfoy,” the Minister's man told him curtly.

Draco quirked a brow. “Not my worst?” he chided. “Afraid you can't take me, sir?”

No Hogwarts instructor worth his salt would be frightened of the abilities of a seventeen year old—even one who came from a family steeped in the Dark Arts tradition, such as Draco. But Professor Weasley wasn't a regular Hogwarts professor—just a Ministry robe stationed here because no one else would take the job—and Draco was perhaps a tad more than a schoolboy with a penchant for the Darker Arts. He bore the Mark, after all. Weasley's eyes strayed to Draco's covered forearm, giving his thoughts away.

“Let's keep this educational, shall we?” the professor advised, bowing.

“Agreed,” Draco made his bow, holding the man's gaze. “But I won't go easy on you.”

“Of course,” Weasley said loudly, backing away the standard ten paces. Draco also walked backwards, keeping an eye on his opponent. They practically had their backs to opposite walls by the time twenty paces had been marked out between them. Weasley raised his wand to chest height, Draco's slim hawthorn poised over his head in the old style.

Draco cast without warning, a silent _Expelliarmus_. An attempt to disarm had always been Harry’s opening move in their practice duels, and was rather a Hogwarts staple. Weasley deflected it easily, firing back with a verbal “ _Stupefy_.” Draco was forced to use a variant of the Protego Charm; _Protegit Totalem_ , the only spell effective against a Stunner save for Light Shields. He swung his arm down in an arc, strengthening his shield enough to cause the Stunning Spell to ricochet back at the unwitting professor. The ginger man was caught off guard. He scrambled to erect his own shield, using a verbal “ _Protego Corpus_.” Draco recognized an opening when he saw one—and he took it with ease.

“ _D_ _iscerpis!_ ” he called, weakening his opponent's Shield Charm enough that it had to be recast. “ _Impedimenta_ ,” The professor dodged, teetering on one leg. Draco had him, now. He jabbed his wand in a quick forward jerk, like stabbing a knife through a man's gut, just as he'd been taught as a boy.“ _Atrōx._ ”

Professor Weasley collapsed in a bony-limbed heap, dropping his wand the moment he hit the floor. The implement skittered away across the stone, useless, as its owner curled into a ball, clutching his head, eyes screwed shut and shivering violently. His whole body shook as he let out a high, blood-curdling scream.

Disguised as the instructor's brother, Misha Ionescue jumped from his desk, rushing to his faux relative’s aid.

From the ground, Professor Weasley got a hand up to give two fingers—a signal of yielding. Draco released his spell with a flick of his wand. Misha used Ron Weasley’s muscles to peel Percy off the floor, still convulsing, clutching at his ginger hair and wheezing, short of breath. He'd screeched like a bloody muggle girl having caught sight of a mountain troll.

Misha played his part well, glaring back at Draco with Weasley King's eyes, not-brother gathered up in his arms. “Wot the hell, Malfoy?” he said loudly. “You trying to kill my brother?”

Draco wondered whether the real Ronald Weasley would have rushed to his elder brother’s aid as Misha had—without thinking, the bonds of family and loyalty kicking in, spurring him to action. Perhaps that instinct made Mikhail a better man. Or perhaps the younger fellow was merely lucky, to have never experienced the kind of tension and mixed loyalties which existed between members of the Weasley clan.

“My apologies,” Draco snipped, stowing his wand. “I was under the assumption that this was a Defence Against The Dark Arts lesson, not Defence Against Nargles and Pygmy Puffs. I'll take my Dark Arts down the hall, then, shall I?”

“Mal _-foy_...” Dima cautioned him through Granger's wide brown eyes, shaking his disguised head the slightest bit. Draco thought he could see the Romanian wizard poking through a bit more than he should. Perhaps it was time to swallow more Polyjuice? Granger's eyes looked more honeyed than usual.

“It's quite alright,” Professor Weasley insisted, helped to his feet by Misha in Ron Weasley's skin. The professor adjusted his dueling vest as an excuse to duck his head, hiding the blush of embarrassment overtaking his face. Several of the vest's buckles had come loose in his thrashings. He patted his brother on the shoulder before stepping away, standing under his own power. “An excellent display, Mr. Malfoy. You caught me off guard, there.”

The instructor turned back toward the class at large. His face was still splotchy with color as he wiped visible perspiration from his brow. “There are many spells against which there is no defence—The Unforgiveables and many other Dark Curses, such as the Dread Hex demonstrated by Mr. Malfoy.”

Draco cleared his throat loudly. Professor Weasley looked at him over the thick rims of his glasses, clearly annoyed.

Susan Bones raised a hand, waggling her fingers for attention. “Professor, a Light Shield would block torture curses like _Atrōx_. Malfoy taught us. I've seen Galina Vïtols in Ravenclaw do it in practice duels, and she's only a fifth year.”

A fifth year from Durmstrang, of course, where the Neutral and Darker Arts were as large a portion of the curriculum as Hogwarts' Muggle Studies, Herbology and Divination combined. That was the difference, of course. A single Durmstrang student, with the element of surprise, could best ten Hogwarts kids of the same year. Draco knew it—he wondered how much Percy Weasley knew of the curriculum at Durmstrang or the other DarkArts-friendly schools, the professor being a Hogwarts man himself, only recently graduated.

The young professor's face pinched irritably. He balled his hands, looking from Miss Bones to Draco as though he thought the Head Boy were behind some sort of conspiracy to undermine his teaching skills. Draco thought the bespectacled Weasley brother made a fool of himself all on his own, no help needed. But he kept that thought to himself.

Draco closed his eyes briefly, unable to bite back his smirk any longer. “It's best we understand,” he advised the class, “that some spells are unblockable—especially certain hexes of the Darker variety, including The Unforgiveable Curses... with a single _notable exception_ ,” he paused, letting his quiet reference to Harry sink in. “Yet there are some spells, some outside the current curriculum, with which we might defend ourselves should the Darker element be cast our way. Just because we don't know a spell doesn't mean it doesn't exist. That's what we're here to learn, after all—magic which is new to us. Occasionally it will be necessary for us to expand our minds if we wish to survive.”

“Well said,” chimed a familiar voice.

It was Blaise Zabini who had spoken. Blaise—who for many weeks had been utterly and atypically silent in his far corner of the classroom—was looking at Draco with something like admiration in his countenance. The expression quickly faded as eyes turned Blaise's way. The dark-skinned fellow looked away, fixing his attention on the wand in his hand. Draco recognized it as new, not the hemlock and dragon heart string he'd had since coming to Hogwarts, a wand which had once belonged to his dearly departed father. Draco wondered what had happened to that heirloom wand, and why Blaise now appeared to be carrying a utilitarian Kiddell, likely purchased as a back up or borrowed from a family member. Blaise's old wand had been a stunning Gregorovitch. Damage or loss would be the only logical reasons behind Blaise's apparent downgrade.

Several other students voiced their agreement with the Slytherin boy. “Hear, hear!” Ernie Macmillan said loudly, nodding in Draco's direction.

Misha leaned in toward Percy Weasley. “Malfoy's right,” the young man said in Weasley King's baritone. “It's good that he's teaching us.”

Draco knew he was right. Damn right. Even Granger—the real Granger—agreed with him on that. It had been one of the reasons she’d pushed so hard for him to captain the new Defence Association in the first place. Percy Weasley couldn't help but see that Draco was correct in this. Draco was correct in a great many things, of course, but one step at a time as far as the Weasley horde was concerned. He considered it a great victory when Professor Weasley offered him a handshake, keeping him at the head of the classroom as dueling between the other students commenced.

 

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

 

Dmitry could not comprehend, for the life of him, how Harry and Draco tolerated this.

Hogwarts was oppressive. The students were obtuse and rude. Much of the staff wore blinders when it came to the magical community at large. And the security, the pervasive aura of fear and dread which hung over the place.... Durmstrang hadn't been this bad, not even the day before the Death Eater invasion. He had no idea how young people could live this way. Barely two weeks and he could feel himself slowly going mad in this pretty witch's skin.

He tried to imagine that the castle hadn't always been like this—that once there had been laughter and jokes, Draco and Harry bewitching suits of armor to chase one another down the halls, brandishing maces and swords. It seemed like a place full of life... but much of that light was hidden. Gone, perhaps because Harry was.

Now there was only the roaring of the hearth in Gryffindor tower, the scratching of quills on parchment and pages turning as students studied. A few of the younger years fought for the attention of Demelza Robins, a prefect about to depart for Hogsmeade village. Each wanted to be sure the girl got their sweet order right. She left with a sack full of galleons, tossing a harried look Hermione's way. Dmitry offered her a knowing half-smile and shrug before she disappeared through the portrait hole.

He caught Misha's gaze—Ronald Weasley had very pleasant, clear eyes.

They'd been told that Ron, Hermione and Harry often studied together. So, to keep up appearances, Dima, his boyfriend and Misha observed the practice whenever possible. Nebojsa was off with Madame Pomfrey, having his wounds examined, leaving Dmitry and Misha to study in Gryffindor Commons until he returned.

Mishenka scrawled his way through a Charms assignment, twiddling his writing instrument as he considered his next sentence. Dima caught his brother’s leg under the table with Hermione's small foot, tracing up the line of the ginger's trouser leg. Behind the mask of Ron's face, Misha smiled.

His brother licked his lips before muttering, “Trouble brewing.” He turned his chin.

Dmitry turned his attention to one of the Gryffindor girls who had been arguing with her friends at increasing volume. He couldn't recall her name, but guessed her at fourth or fifth year. He recognized her companions as Samantha Young and Natalie McDonald, both members of Draco The Dragon's house Quidditch team. The unknown girl had caught sight of Draco, just emerged from the boy's dormitory and carrying the Firebolt he'd loaned to Misha a few nights ago. Apparently Draco planned to go flying—whether for Quidditch practice or simply to Hogsmeade and back was unclear. He wore a heavy flying cloak,  fastened at one shoulder and left to drape over his nondescript muggle clothing.

The girl flipped her fall of hair over her shoulder, bucking up her courage. She had a loud-printed blouse in her hand, which she shook at her friends, declaring, “I'll show you!” before taking off across the Common Room to intercept Draco.

“Sweet Merlin,” Dmitry mouthed. The girl was either incredibly stupid or harbored some sort of death wish. If there was anyone in this dreary castle who would not welcome silliness, it was Draco Malfoy. Who was apparently in quite a hurry. He saw the girl coming and attempted to avoid her. She caught him anyway.

“Malfoy?” she began breathily, stopping perhaps a foot from him. “Tell me this top goes with these trousers,” and she gestured, indicating the lower half of her outfit.

“What?” the Head Boy snapped, one brow icily raised. He adjusted his grip on Harry's Firebolt, clearly on his way out and less-than-thrilled at being detained with this ridiculousness.

“Sam says no,” off by the windows, Samantha Young cringed, not wanting to be drawn into this. A nervous breath filled her ample chest as she watched for Malfoy's reaction. The stupid girl with the blouse prattled on. “But I think, with my hair up like this, it really works!” She appeared unconscious of the growing expression of distaste on Malfoy's pointed face.

“I wonder that you would ask _me_ , then,” he muttered, rolling his eyes and moving to step past her. She sidestepped with him, blocking his escape.

“But do you think—”

Draco cut her off with a deadly sharp glare, knuckles standing white against his borrowed broomstick.

“Not once in six years has a Slytherin female sought my opinion in matters regarding feminine dress, grooming, or any similar nonsense. Do you know why tha' is?” She shook her head slowly, retreating a step. Through Granger's eyes, Dmitry could see trouble about to flood the peaceful Common Room like Mandrake screams; he suspected this unbelievably stupid girl could feel it coming, too.

“This is gonna be so good,” Mishenka whispered, leaning close.

Nothing could have prepared them.

“Because I have a cock,” Malfoy enunciated, low but clear, his face betraying not a trace of emotion. He leaned close to the girl's shocked face, almost simpering. “And if you buy me half a bottle a' Firewhisky, I might just show it to you.”

There were quite a few affronted gasps heard round the room. Students began to whisper, the younger years perking up at the smell of trouble, blood in the water, straining their ears to pick up things they shouldn't hear. Their paragon of a Head Boy was talking about getting arseholed and flashing his bits—Heaven forbid! Mishenka looked to be holding back a cackle.

“But....” A very confused expression took over the girl's face. She tipped her head to the side and mouthed wordlessly at Malfoy. The blond's face drained of what little color it had as he became stone serious.

“I understand,” he said slowly and at a regular if-not-carrying volume, knowing that the eyes and ears of the room were upon him now. “You falsely assume that, because I suck chosen cock, I must be a poof. A faggot. That's just unimaginative stereotyping, tha' is. Has it ever occurred in your pretty little head that perhaps your Precious Prince Potter is the batty boy? That I bend _him_ over every night?” Dmitry felt himself blush _for_ Draco. But the blond ploughed right on, unashamed. “Hmm? That I ride him like a beast of bloody burden? Because we could never have a relationship as equals, neither of us manipulating or controlling the other,” Malfoy waggled his perfect eyebrows, milking the attention to make a point. And it was a very good point, too—one these Hogwarts-types needed to hear. “Who or how one shags does not change who one is. I am still Draco Malfoy. And he is Harry Potter. You would do well not to forget it.”

The girl cowered, blinking profusely. Nat McDonald swooped in, taking her silly friend by both elbows and physically drawing her away, clearing Draco's path.

Draco gave a curt nod to the ladies' retreating backs, as though that was the precise reaction he'd sought to elicit. His gaze made a powerful sweep of the Common Room, noting the frank stares he was attracting as a result of his rather explicit candor.

“If you will excuse me,” he said to no one in particular, striding confidently toward the portrait hole. “I have a date.”

Upon reaching the exit Draco turned, giving the girl and then the room at large a jaunty little wave of his fingers, plastering on a false-friendly smile. The expression said he knew he was standing in a room of vipers and was too ballsy, too brazen to care. The effect was nothing short of enchanting. He brought his feet together to tap his toe, popping a hip in an exaggeratedly and decidedly feminine gesture that was lost to no one—a sarcastic display of the type of gay male effeminacy he was being accused of. Dozens of eyes snapped to his sassy hip, some lingering on his toned rear showcased in tight woolen trousers. He tossed his hair out of his eyes with a practiced, graceful twitch of the neck.

And then he was gone—out of the portrait hole and on his fabulous, arse-buggering way.

“A date?” Misha repeated. Then, far more quietly, “You think he's meeting up with Harry?”

Dima shrugged. Hermione Granger's Ancient Runes coursework suddenly seemed far more dull than usual. Draco had a way of brightening up your life like that. It was little wonder Harry and his dragon were all but glued together, their attraction was so strong.

“Good for him,” Dmitry said softly.

“Both of them,” Misha smiled back.

 

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

 

Draco steered the Firebolt away from Hogsmeade Village. He had little desire to set foot in town. He might run into someone from the outside world, someone with a problem and difficulty directing their rage at the proper target. There were plenty of people who might not have believed his statements in _The Prophet_ to be sincere—especially his sentiments regarding Harry Potter, their friendship, and Draco’s role as a turncoat in the war against the Death Eaters. There were plenty of people who just plain didn't like him—people like Madame Rosemerta. But she, unlike many others, had good reason.

Draco ducked his head against a flurry of snow kicked up in the breeze, keeping an eye on his landmark—the Shrieking Shack. That was where Harry said they should meet.

He landed on the winding little path leading up to the structure, brushing snow from his hair. A moment later, Harry appeared from beneath his Invisibility Cloak.

Dignity left back at the castle, Draco jumped him. The Firebolt went flying as they landed in a bank of snow. Harry's head connected with the dirt beneath, his back cracking. Draco's fingers were crushed: he didn't give a damn.

“Miss me?” Harry chuckled.

“Oh, _fuck you_ , Wonder Boy,” Draco snarled before kissing him. Harry's mouth opened under his, as hot as the snow was cold. Their lips made quick work of destroying one another's better judgment, hands soon emerging to push and grope. Draco pulled back for air. “You made time in yer... busy bloody schedule ta... pop over an' shag me—”

Harry shoved Draco's shoulder, gaining the advantage and wrestling the pureblood onto his back.

“It's not like that, git,” Harry hissed, pummeling his mouth with a quick, harsh kiss. “It's not like I don't think of you every fucking minute of every fucking day. And I'm here now,” he kissed Draco's jaw, working his way until he was back behind Draco's ear, tepid breath everywhere, flushing Draco's skin. “Isn't that enough? I'm sluffing off from my _very busy schedule_ ,” he teased, “to spend time with you. Saving the world be damned.”

Draco released the breath he'd been holding. Harry's weight sunk through his chest, pinning him to the ground.

“Tha’s more like it,” he muttered.

He knew he'd been spoiled, having an entire summer with Harry—a summer all to themselves, really. Granger and the Weasleys had been there, even Viktor, but in the end it had really been just the two of them. Draco had played the piano, Harry stretched out on that ancient, dusty blue sofa, his eyes closed and enjoying the music, sated and happy in Draco's company. That had become their reality. All of this—Hogwarts, the war, their imminent demise—it was all a horrible dream. Just a nightmare to wake up from. That's what it felt like whenever Harry was around: the lights would turn on and Draco's world was right again.

He wound his arms around Harry's neck, pulling him close and strangling him a bit at the same time.

“Ya twat. I missed you terribly.” He pronounced the words against Harry's dark hair, glad the man couldn't see his face. It took him a moment to right himself, to regain his tenacious hold on normality. He'd almost become... emotional. “Na gerr'off me.”

Harry obliged, springing to his feet and offering Draco his hand. He held out his other, speaking the word “up.” His Firebolt rose from the snow as Draco did, flapping his cloak to knock off the snow. Harry tapped his boot against his broom tail, ridding it of snow as well.

Draco regarded Harry. He looked tired—there were shadows under his eyes, like he wasn't sleeping well.

“Ya sure they can spare ya fer a day?”

Harry nodded absently. “Hermione's listening to Gregorovitch and Mr. Harper debate wand theory—probably taking notes. It's her idea of heaven. And Ron is, uh,” Harry scratched the back of his neck, as though he didn't want to say... which only served to make Draco want to know more.

Draco took the Firebolt from Harry's other hand, snorting. “What's Weasley gone and done?”

“Well, we were on a stake out when he... got attacked by a Yeti. He's okay. Fred and George are with him. So the long and short of it is, nothing's going to explode if I take the afternoon off.”

Draco eyed him carefully. “Do things regularly explode in yer absence, then?”

“Only sometimes.” He winked. “Come on, let's go.”

Harry took Draco's hand, attempting to drag him around the corner. Draco dug his feet into the snow, pursing his lips.

“Weasley got mauled by a Yeti, you say?”

Draco’s curiosity was piqued. He arched a single brow, his pointed face turned to a lovely but rather severe angle. He wet his lips, impatient.

“Yeti, yeah,” Harry nodded.

Draco rooted himself to the spot, declaring, “The International Code of Wizarding Secrecy states that any Yeti transported outside of their native Tibet requires a permit carried by a licensed handler—mostly to prevent muggle sightings, but also to make sure the creature doesn't attack anyone. So where on Earth were you? And where was the beast's handler? I'd like to buy them a very large present.” Draco paused, considering. “The handler and the Yeti both.”

Harry chuckled. “I won't tell you where we were. And how do you know so much about creature regulations, anyway? Did you want a Yeti when you were little or something?” He squeezed Draco's hand, trying to get him to move further down the path so they could escape the Anti-Apparition Jinx placed over the village by its Order of the Phoenix guards.

“I started paying attention in Care of Magical Creatures once that Grubbly-woman started teaching.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You would. Now come on.” And he snuck an arm around Draco's waist, hauling him away.

 

 

 

 

 

An icy wind slapped Draco in the face, knocking his breath from his lungs. He coughed, doubling over. A whirlwind of snow kicked up around them, the air so cold it stung his teeth. Squinting, he noticed both he and Harry were up to their knees in snow.

“The fuck are we, Antarctica?”

“Close,” Harry chuckled. A gust of wind caught him and he stumbled, bumping into Draco. “Manitoba.”

The blond caught him. “It's bloody freezing.”

“Noted.”

Draco got Harry right on his feet, but kept an arm around his waist. It was indescribably nice, being this close. He knew it wouldn't last. But it woke some tingly, womanish part of his guts, to have Harry close and laughing, a brawny arm slung around his shoulders, holding on with the same secret desperation.

“So wha's the plan? Freeze ta death?” He prattled, mostly for warmth, “The Dark Lord’ll be chuffed to bits. He’s been trying to do you in for years, and here we are, freezing to death.”

Harry urged him forward, pointing ahead with the Firebolt's handle. “Just over that rise, there. You'll see.”

They trudged up the snow-covered hill, stubborn and refusing to let each other go. They moved half as fast, and at one point Harry nearly tripped and fell on his face, but they made the crest.

Draco said the first thing which came to mind.

“It looks like a prison.”

True enough, the walls were a very dull sort of stone-grey, jutting up from the snow in a cold, imposing manner. The compound was ringed by a high, thick wall which wouldn't have looked unusual with barbed wire and muggles with guns walking its length. The buildings inside were plain, almost military in their square structure and utter lack of character. The primary construction materials were metal and concrete. It very much resembled a prison, or a fort; designed to keep its inhabitants in and everyone else out.

“That's kinda what I thought, too. But they've made it pretty homey inside. Trust me.”

Harry seemed to know that Draco would be doubtful, tacking on that little bit at the end. Draco grumbled something under his breath, holding Harry tighter as they sludged down the slope toward the compound.

They encountered the first ward within seconds. Draco felt it prickle over his skin like warm ants. Harry waved his wand in a practiced motion, tracing a rune through the air which would allow them past the magic barrier. He cleared their way through a second and third ward before his arm tightened around Draco’s shoulder.

“I’m not sure about this one,” he said quietly, handing over the Firebolt and casting a Warming Charm over their fingers before he turned to his task. “I may have to drag you through, so hold tight.”

Draco considered what type of magic they were dealing with—knowing Pavel Gregorovitch was alive and well, it had to be some pretty nasty stuff. “Blood ward?”

Harry nodded.

Draco tightened his hand at Harry’s waist, gripping their racing broomstick with the other. They walked through without a problem. Draco turned to Harry, one eyebrow rising.

“They’d better have a look at this thing,” Draco warned. “It’s defective. I have the Dark Mark and we waltzed right through. Imagine who else could.”

Harry looked worried. “Yeah, that should have been a lot harder. You don’t have any half-siblings or cousins I don’t know about, right?” Draco shook his head. “Then your closest relation cued to the wards is Leon—he and your dad are third cousins,” Harry explained. His features fell, expression darkening as he considered every possible angle. It made no sense. “This is weird.”

“Agreed. I shouldn’t a’ been able to….”

He got a little lost, watching Harry in thought. His hair was just a shade darker than the leather of his jacket, his lashes just as black, blinking as his eyes went in and out of focus behind thick lenses. His eyes snapped up to Draco. Lips pursed to a thin line, he said nothing.

They were caught looking at one another by a rather startled perimeter guard. Harry released his hold on Draco in order to flash a set of credentials. Only then did the guard lower his wand, leading them to the main gate.

 

 

 

 

Once inside—their identities checked and double checked, bodies scanned for hexes and charms—Draco began to pick out familiar faces. First was Chereshko Toleanu, who came jogging over to say hello despite the large sacks of food stuffs slung over his shoulders, half-way on his journey from a supply Apparition to the kitchens. Oliver Wood found Harry and became The Boy Who Lived's shadow. Soon Viktor Krum joined them, walking on Draco's right. The further in they went, the more attention their little group began to garner.

Harry appeared to know where they were headed: a full regulation Quidditch pitch had been erected in what was once a muggle footie park, the rooftop of a nearby building commandeered as spectator seating, complete with an enchanted board to display the score and possession of the Quaffle.

Draco twisted under Harry's arm, taking a second look at the smiling faces trailing behind them. Professional Quidditchers, every last one of them. All together, they were just shy of two regulation teams if they used only first string players. With Harry, Draco, and the second string fellows in the mix, they had closer to six teams. And more witches and wizards were gathering—the players' family members, rusticating themselves under the leaking roofs of this facility, parts of which were still under construction. Draco waved to Yuri Batushansky and Pavel Gregorovitch, smearing some sticky substance on the walls in ancient patterns, waving their wands. Perhaps they’d already realized the problem with their wards, and were patching the breach in security. They looked busy, and Harry didn’t want to disturb them, pulling Draco along toward the pitch.

So this was the Sanctuary.

It was a cold place. And the concrete didn’t help much. They couldn’t turn a corner without spotting a pinched, worried-looking face among the passers-by. Draco imagined that the rest of the magical world couldn’t be much better off, if witches and wizards were lining up to get in here.

It reminded him of Hogwarts—the way people would quietly stare, keeping their distance but too curious to mind out. And just like at the castle, he couldn’t make out whether they were staring at him specifically, or whether they were merely curious due to his present company.

People always stared at Harry Potter. It was rather difficult not to; especially now, with that confident swagger of his, eyes straight forward, as though he knows exactly where he’s going and you’d best clear his way. People liked that about Harry—flocked to him, thanks to that aura of strength and control. They gawped and gossiped whenever he passed. Draco had nearly gotten used to it, walking around Hogwarts with Harry’s double, Radić. Draco preferred the company of the Ionescue brothers, both of whom wore their heart on their sleeves, played an excellent game of chess and could hold their liquor like champions. Radić made him nervous in the same way Harry did—both were secretive, marked, dangerous. They kept too much below the surface, and that was frightening. But at least Radić had taken to holding Draco’s hand in the hall; one of his few comforts during Harry’s increasing absence.

Draco chanced a sideways glance at Harry as they walked, wishing the real Harry would reach out and take his hand.

That would _really_ give them something to stare at.

It wasn’t long before they were through the locker rooms—attached to what had once been a muggle gymnasium—and out on the pitch. The professionals drew straws to see who would get the chance to play the first skirmish against Harry Potter. As luck would have it, Viktor Krum drew the position of Seeker. Immediately, Harry volunteered to play another position so that Draco could fly against Krum. Harry insisted long and loud that he was quite out of practice, and Viktor would find Draco a more fitting challenge. Krum smiled wickedly at them both, looking down his beak-like nose at the two shortest wizards on the pitch.

“ _Da, da, da_ ,” he’d waved a hand, brushing away any complaints from lesser players. He was clearly the King of the Quidditchers. “Anyzhing to get on zhe pitch!”

Harry ended up playing Beater alongside Connolly from Ireland National. The pair were small, fast and sneaky; Harry especially made a habit of sneaking up on unsuspecting players and clocking them with the practice Bludger. Though the ball was rubberized and padded with charms, it still hurt like hell when Harry caught half of Viktor’s team in the kidneys or upside the head. In one spectacular play, Harry and Draco together outwitted Viktor, Harry spotting the Snitch and driving Viktor away with a hail of Bludgers, allowing Draco to swoop in and grab the fluttering golden ball, earning their team’s one and only victory. Connolly and Oliver Wood, who played as their Keeper, waved Harry to the ground as they packed away the practice gear. Draco drifted overhead, listening to their conversation with half an ear, watching Viktor take his last laps high above the pitch.

“Malfoy’s favoring his left these days,” Wood observed. “Always thought he was right-handed.”

Harry shook his head. “Nope. He had a run-in with a Hyppogriff when we were thirteen. He played righty the rest of that year, then switched back.”

“Aye. Tha’s it.”

“Incident with a Hyppogriff, yea say?” Connelly chimed in, reaching for Harry’s attention. “Me brother ‘bout lost an eye, Hyppogriff-baitin’ when we were lads!”

Draco could only see the very top of Harry’s head, but he heard the man’s expression in his voice—licking his lips, eyes going large, probably adjusting his glasses with one hand, sweat still coursing down his temples, plastering bits of his hair to his face. “Hyppogriff baiting? People do that?”

Draco chuckled quietly, letting the wind carry him higher.

Viktor slowed, approaching him head-on. He waved to gain Draco’s attention.

“ _P_ _riiatelyu_ ,” he called out. “Fly vith me?”

There wasn’t an easy way to say no to Viktor Krum. Draco still felt a little nervous around the older fellow—not much older, really. And Viktor had declared them friends, so there was no logical reason for the tightness in his throat as he rose to meet his international Quidditch star mate, falling into a slightly tighter loop, their knees never more than a meter apart as they flew. By their second corner, Viktor had reduced his speed, keeping back around Draco’s knees, so that all the blond could see was a pair of hairy-knuckled hands holding a broom handle.

“I vanted to ask yoo zomezhing,” the Bulgarian began. His tone, combined with the lack of eye contact, did nothing for Draco’s nerves. He focused his attention on keeping his broomstick level, missing the first half of Viktor’s speech. “…eh, zingle. Unattached. _You know_.” Draco’s head whipped around—fuck where he was going. “Eet could be interesting. Zo… do I ztand a chance?”

Viktor had been stealing glances the last few hours. Sometimes a Seeker could feel another Seeker’s gaze. Draco had sensed it—eyes on his back which weren’t Harry’s, watching him. More than once, he’d felt a gaze travel the length of him. Draco hadn’t been the only one looked at, though. Harry was quite a sight in his jeans and borrowed jersey, hair a sweat-matted mess and sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. Draco’s style hadn’t faired much better; at least his hair remained relatively in place, while his clothes were a tad sweaty. Perhaps Viktor favored an active sort of wizard: other pairs of eyes had enjoyed the vigor of their match, witches and wizards alike.

Draco cleared his throat, a part of him surprised that he’d managed to catch Viktor’s eye with Harry’s more conventionally masculine figure on display.

“I’m f-flattered!” Draco choked out. He might’ve swallowed a bug or two, cold as it was. It certainly felt like it as he scrounged the backs of his teeth for words. “And you’re my type, certainly.” That wasn’t a lie. Viktor had a muscled frame, with an active mind perched atop his broad shoulders. He was cunning _and_ loyal. Draco could see the value in both traits now. “I’m quite flattered Viktor, and if I wasn’t seeing someone….”

They were barely gliding—the breeze pushed them along. Color came to Viktor’s cheeks beneath the pink stain of the wind. He scratched at his beard, looking away.

“Yoo are zo far out of my league, Draco,” he laughed nervously. “Eet embarrasses me to zay, but I vos speaking of Harry.”

Draco choked on his breath. His voice came out as a thin, reedy squeak. “…Harry?!”

“ _Da_. Zhe Ztraightest Man Who Leeved.” Viktor rolled his eyes at the apparent hopelessness of his situation. “Do yoo zhink I have a chance vith him? Or iz eet hopeless?”

Draco bit his bottom lip, speaking through his front teeth. “Er, not exactly. I’m seeing Harry. Fucking his chosen brains out, actually.”

Viktor’s eyes went very wide. The expression took years off his face, bringing him back to boyhood beneath several days worth of scratchy black beard. It took him a moment to regain his composure, his jaw working before sound at last issued.

“Vell, fuck. Vhy am I only interested in people who are completely unavailable?” His breath puffed out in a long white cloud, sliding away in the wind. After a painfully exposing moment, he glanced back to Draco. Some of the mirth had gone out of the man, but he managed to crack the smallest grin under his prickly mustache. “Congratulations, by zhe vay. Yoo and Harry... zhat's amazing. I vould pay to vatch.” Draco blushed, stammering his thanks. “No, really. If yoo're ever up for a visitor, I vould be honored.”

Draco laughed nervously. “I don’t think ‘honored’ is the right word… but, I mean….” He was stammering; stammering and making a fool of himself in front of one of the few mates he still had. A new mate, but an important one. He struggled to put words to the swell of thoughts taking over his mind. “Harry’s rather shy.”

That was a complete lie. Harry let him do as he pleased in a dirty London alley surrounded by relative strangers. Harry was the opposite of shy. Sometimes, Draco thought that if the ghost of Albus Dumbledore himself walked in on them _in flagrante delecto_ , Harry would just wave and keep right on fucking. The boy had no shame. He was beautiful that way. He made no apologies for his desires, his urges. Everything was natural with Harry, heartfelt in his violence as much as in his easy touches. And that, Draco did not wish to share. That part of Harry, he thought jealously, was for himself and himself alone. He and Harry had discovered it together. To share that magic with anyone else would be… wrong.

So this was jealousy? The thought of Viktor’s big hands on himself was disturbingly lovely. But the thought of those same thick fingers against Harry’s skin made his blood boil—turned his fists to stone bells waiting to ring themselves with the striker of Viktor Krum’s face. His nostrils flared fire. Apparently that’s what love felt like—raging, uncontrollable jealousy, and the desire to smash one’s mates’ faces in at the drop of a Quaffle.

Draco pointed to the outline of the athletic facility below. He chewed his words well before he spoke them, making his best effort to sound friendly. He didn’t want to lose Viktor’s affection over this.

“I’ll be in the locker room—could use a shower,” he pulled at the neck of his shirt—the front of which stuck to his chest in places. He didn’t feel the cold, though he might later.

“I vill let Harry know vere yoo are,” Viktor nodded readily. He wore that same smile—sad around the eyes. “Please… don’t tell Harry? I vouldn’t vant him to be uncomfortable vith me because of zhis.”

“Of course.” Draco attempted to smile back. He couldn’t say whether or not he was entirely successful; he took off for the locker rooms before Viktor could get a good look at him, so eager to be away from his friend that it hurt.

 

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

 

Harry was sweaty and panting slightly when he burst into the locker room. Draco stood before a row of white porcelain sinks, splashing water on his face—trying to wash the look of disbelief off his face before Harry got all curious and started asking questions. Gryffindor. He certainly was The Boy Who Lived To Stick His Nose In Things.

And for some niggling, uncomfortable reason, Draco didn't want Harry to know of Viktor's attraction... to either of them, but toward Harry especially. It was nice, having Harry's fire and passion to himself. He couldn't imagine sharing—not this. It was too special.

Harry was striding across the room; dark hair plastered to the back of his neck, sticking to his forehead and cheeks in places, the smallest of smudges darkening his jaw where he'd taken a landing in the dirt. There was something about him... Draco could smell it in the air, past the dust and the mildew of nearby communal showers. It was uniquely Harry—the man's magic, his sweat, the exertion and bloody blessed lack of deodorant. It hung around him like a cloak, an aura of calm and raging power, contained in the little jar that was his hard caramel skin.

Harry smiled, taking him by the shoulder and planting a hard kiss to his lips.

Something in Draco roared to life. He pressed Harry back, into a nearby stall, slamming the door shut with his foot. It was better when he had Harry up against the partition, dry paint flaking off into the man's hair, little green flecks of it littering his shoulders like snow. Draco pushed until the metal gave a whine, blending with Harry's quick breaths drawn against the skin of Draco's cheek.

He bit Harry's lip—hard. The wizard gasped against him, chest expanding, pushing him back by frustrated millimeters. Draco Punched the partition, inches from Harry's head. The metal rattled and Harry groaned. Draco's teeth had to be painful, digging into Harry's fat bottom lip, near to drawing blood. And he didn't care. He welcomed the taste of Harry's blood—wanted it to flood his mouth, like he could absorb Harry's magic through the blood and carry him around forever.

Draco groaned too.

“Want you...” he told Harry. “Here, now.”

Harry smiled, rubbing at his lip with three fingers once Draco released it. Harry checked his fingers for blood. Finding none, his eyes flickered to the yawning stall door, and the door to the outside beyond.

“And what happens,” the Chosen One mused, “when half the Slavic Pro Quidditch League walks in on us with our pants down?”

Draco ground the knuckles of his fist against the wall. More paint flaked down, making green flecks in Harry's hair. Draco pressed until the ridges of their ribs interlocked—up on his toes to gain the advantage over Harry's stockier frame. The heat of him was fantastic, all of it radiating out from the considerable bulge in his trousers. Draco couldn't resist.

“Fuck 'em. Right?” Harry was always saying it—not to care what people thought. He could do with a little more of that in his life. “The first show's free.”

Harry's fingers worked to get between them—to get at belts and the fastenings of trousers. His fingers were thick. He had to wedge them in between the perfect fit of their bodies. Draco's vision went wonky when the backs of Harry's fingers wiggled against the head of his prick.

The smile on Harry's face said it all—cocky, big doe eyes flashing—right down to the fullness of his lips, a knowing tease which made Draco ache down to his toes.

He _needed_ this. Not the cheap toss in a dirty loo part, but the contact. The nearness. He wanted Harry's weight on him, spitting Parseltongue, writhing with that strange virgin wildness which blew his fucking mind to shreds. Every time.

Harry slid to his knees. Draco found his fingers in Harry's hair, rubbing his crotch in the man's face as his belt was pulled away, zip lowered, every tab bringing Draco that much closer to undone. Harry's breath was hot on him through cotton and clenched teeth. Draco threw his head back, thrusting his hips—demanding it now, now, _now, damn it—_ pinning Harry's head between his prick and the bathroom stall divider. Its creaking couldn't cover up the impatient sounds he was making, cock so close to the warm wet of Harry's mouth. The want of it was driving him mad.

His fingers tightened, yanking Harry's hair, guiding his mouth to where it needed to be. He pressed in.

Harry choked.

 _Glorious_ , Draco thought. Fuck it.

 

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

Gryffindor's first Quidditch match was fast approaching. Before he knew it, Draco was taking stock of his crimson ninnies, putting a few of the more competent names to parchment and sending it off to Headmistress McGonagall with his weekly Prefecture reports. Snogging in the hallways was down, as were uniform infractions. Filch still complained of too many fanged frisbees. Draco didn't mind the toys so much. They helped pass the time.

Dean Thomas caught him in the corridor on his way to NEWT Potions one morning. Ron Weasley was with him, newly returned to his body after that Yeti had munched on his a bit. There was only a small scar on his nose to show for it, hidden behind a Glamor Spell so as not to attracted unwanted questions.

Both Thomas and Weasley jogged to catch up with him.

“Oi, Malfoy,” Thomas said, falling into step with the Head Boy, Weasley on his other side. “What's going on with the Quidditch roster?”

Draco allowed a single brow to rise. “Is there a problem, Thomas?” The man was starting as a Chaser, so Draco saw no reason for him to be concerned. Perhaps he was approaching Draco on Weasley's behalf, as third year Angelika Whipple would be starting as Keeper, rather than the big ginger who hadn't made the last four practices due to his Potter-like absentee-ism.

Thomas backed down immediately. “No, no problem....”

Weasley opened his gob. “Why's it posted Slytherin-style?”

Draco pushed open the door to Professor Slughorn's classroom, gesturing Thomas and Weasley in ahead of him. The room was empty, and they proceeded to the student tables nearest the front.

“Sorry?” Draco set his bag down on a stool. “Slytherin-style?”

Thomas shrugged.“You know. Surnames. Everyone else uses full names for the postings.”

“Ah. So you noticed,” Draco stroked two fingertips through the stubble at his chin. He still had plenty of time to shave before Harry showed his face again. He had the tendency to let himself go between the Chosen One's visits.

“It's a scare tactic. It's no secret I spent six years in Slytherin House. I want that fact to be fresh in Ravenclaw's mind as they prepare for the pitch.”

He was an ex-Slytherin—a rare situation of which he was reminded often, what with the uncomfortable stares and the diminishing but ever-present whispers. They never escaped his notice, no matter how he tried to ignore them. He'd been a Slytherin once. But he'd been a number of things in his young life, many of them far less pleasant than the stigmas of Salazar Slytherin's House. Many of those badges had been worn proudly, nose in the air.

The talk of the masses meant little. His place as Slytherin royalty was a part of his past—and it did no good to dwell on days gone by. That's what he wanted the Quidditchers of Ravenclaw to occupy themselves with: with their heads turned toward yesterday, they would be easier to fool tomorrow.

“Brilliant tactic,” Weasley begrudged him. The scrunch of his freckled face announced his misgivings over paying lip service to Draco Malfoy, of all people. Weasley wouldn't quite meet his eyes, but Draco felt the compliment was sincere.

Thomas nodded. “It's got everyone talking... about the match, I mean. We could all use the distraction.”

The entire conversation put Draco in want of a drink. And it was only half eight. He pulled out his Potions textbook, sighing at the prospect of another overly long day.

 

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

“Oh my God! I _love_ this song!”

Angelika Whipple, third year Gryffindor, watched with widening eyes as her best friend and only dorm mate tossed her textbook aside, leapt from her bed and began to dance. Amy shimmied. She plugged her nose and did a little move like she was diving into the ocean, spinning around so her pajama top lifted away from her body, pearly buttons flashing.

The music was coming from the other side of their dormitory wall—the wall they shared with Draco Malfoy, Head Boy and Quidditch captain. This wasn’t the type of music Angie expected Malfoy would be listening to the night before their first Quidditch match; they played Ravenclaw, but still. Angelika was a worrier. She worried about her studies. She worried about the war, her Auror brother, and her parents back home in South Africa. And she worried about her boyfriend—sweet, curly-haired Jimmy Peakes—over in the boy's dormitory. He was only one castle-spire away; but still, she worried.

The music was a bit loud, but she couldn't begrudge Malfoy for it. This tune was far preferable to his usual tastes—which alternated violently between wizarding classics played on his piano, and angry screaming muggle death metal, usually in German. This was soft for Malfoy—cute, even.

Malfoy had new music every couple days. Once she opened her eyes to it, Angie began to notice the packages delivered to Malfoy, sometimes by owl at breakfast, or passed off from one of the castle guards in the halls. Other times his presents were delivered by Dumbledore's golden-tailed phoenix, coming through Malfoy's window in the evenings, letters and flat packages dangling from its neck.

If she had only a single galleon to her name, she would bet it all that the music came from Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived was so sweet on Malfoy, it sometimes hurt to watch. The music always said something—like Harry was sending albums instead of love letters. Sometimes the message was angry or sad, which she imagined the two boys felt, spending so much of their time apart. It was good to hear happy music coming from Malfoy's quarters for a change. It meant things might be looking up between him and Harry.

The singer talked about waiting—waiting for her perfect man, it sounded like. She talked about his tender arms, holding her tight. Her mother had told her she couldn't hurry love, and had to have faith, letting love—true love—take its time.

“Who sings this?” Angie asked, putting her own work aside.

“The Supremes! They're a muggle group,” Amy clarified. She did her swimming move again. “My gran listens to them all the time.”

Amy's family was muggle on her mother's side. That explained it.

Angelika nodded along to the beat. The song was cute. The lyrics about boys and romance made her smile despite her nerves; their Quidditch match was tomorrow, and it weighed on her like it weighed on Malfoy. She tried to imagine the blond Head Boy on the other side of the wall, dancing around like Amy. Try as she might, she just couldn't picture it. Malfoy was just too serious. A groomed pureblood heir like Malfoy probably hadn’t jumped around for joy since he was in nappies.

The song warbled through the stone walls. Malfoy had to have the volume at a deafening pitch on the other side of the wall—either that or Amy had accidently amplified the sound, wand in hand while waving her arms like a kite in the breeze.

“Catchy, isn't it?” Amy grinned. She tossed her wand aside and held out her arms. “Dance with me, Angie!”

She laughed, dropping her hands in Amy's, letting the other girl pull her to her feet and twirl her around.

The two girls shuffled and shimmied around the room. The lyrics were simple, and Angie picked up the refrain, singing along and moving her hips to the beat. On the other side of the wall, a cork popped. Angie strained her ears, thinking she might catch the noises of Malfoy pouring himself a celebratory glass of champers.

“Sounds like Malfoy's happy,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. She wasn't sure—it might have just been the album—but she thought she heard a little falsetto in there. Malfoy had to be drunk as hell if he was singing about love to his bedroom walls. Maybe Harry Potter was coming back soon.

Amy laughed. “Think he's dancing, too?”

Angie rolled her eyes. She didn't think Malfoy danced much. “Somehow I doubt it.”

“You never know,” Amy grinned, twirling. “I did the same thing, the first time Nigel asked me for a date—well, minus the bottle of wine!”

They collapsed on Amy's bed when the song was over, catching their breath, faces pink.

“So, Potter and Malfoy,” Amy posed, her head propped up against her hand. “You think they're in love?”

Angie's mouth moved, but nothing came out at first. “How would I know?” she managed awkwardly.

Amy flopped onto her back, looking up at the canopy of her four poster. Her long brown hair flowed out over the duvet. She sighed. “You see Malfoy for Quidditch practice, right? And Potter's there sometimes. Doesn't Malfoy ever say anything? You know, give himself away?”

Angie shook her head. “Not really, no.” She thought about it a moment—really thought, about Malfoy and his whole situation. “I think Malfoy views love as a weakness. And he wants the team to think he's fearless. He wants the whole castle to think it. The world, maybe. Most people end up thinking he's crazy.”

Amy shrugged. “Malfoy might be a little crazy,” she acknowledged with a grin, “ but I think Malfoy’s in love, deep down. And Harry loves Malfoy.” She looked over and smiled. “Just you wait and see.”

 

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

 

Gryffindor cleaned the pitch with Ravenclaw—mostly due to Draco's leadership. His tactics were downright calculated, using each of his players to his best advantage. Draco and his team had a lot in common: fast and quick, able to shift gears on a second's notice, well-practiced and perfectly in sync. Their smaller stature and lack of older-year players was not to be underestimated. Draco played on the weaknesses of his opponent while guarding his own team's shortcomings—going right when the Ravenclaws were banking on an ex-Slytherin going left, playing it by the book but with just enough cheek to still be considered a Malfoy game—and generally instilling in his team that same cocky bravado which had lit Draco's face the moment the match began. Ravenclaw didn't stand a chance.

Harry sat in the stands with Hermione, Ron and Kieran Gweir, cheering louder than anyone else each time Gryffindor scored a goal, and booing whenever Ravenclaw ran a foul. Draco's Keeper, a third year girl from South Africa called Angelika Whipple, performed fantastically. Harry would put money on the little blonde girl taking over as captain next year—she was talented, but level-headed; shrewd yet likeable. Along with Draco and his usual antics, Whipple quickly became a crowd favorite.  
Harry hung back as the students began to filter down from the stands. He climbed up the rows of seats, boots heavy on the worn, wobbly boards, making his way to Colin Creevey, who had been snapping shots of the game from the uppermost row, the telltale clicking of his camera lens covered by the cheering and boos of the crowd. Harry greeted the sixth year boy with a discreet half-nod.  
“Wotcher, Colin.”  
“Harry,” Colin nodded back. Both glanced around, almost nervously. This was a first for them both.  
After deciding that the coast was clear, Harry held out his hand, palm up. “What'cha got for me?”  
Colin dug around in his school satchel, pushing aside folders of photographs and sheaves of parchment until he found a plain, unmarked folio. He placed it in Harry's outstretched hand, leaning close to whisper, “Malfoy's getting suspicious—what with me following him around and all. Thinks I'm sweet on him.”  
“I'll bet he hexed you silly,” Harry mumbled, searching through his jacket pockets until he found a small pouch of wizard coins, pulling an extra three galleons from his pocket and adding them to the purse before handing it all to Colin.  
“For your trouble.” He smiled. “And continued discretion.”  
Colin winked back. “'Course, Harry.”  
He was about to turn away, prize in hand, when Colin stopped him with an outstretched hand, not quite tapping his shoulder. Harry turned.  
“It's... sweet, what you're doing,” Colin shrugged, gesturing toward the photographs he's just given up. “Keeping up on his life an' all, trying to be there. I'd help, even if you hadn't offered the money. But my grandpa—he's sick, so....”  
Harry swished his hand, looking down at his boots. “Don't worry about it, mate. Money's not an issue. And I'm glad I can help with your grandfather. Will he be alright?”  
Colin looked at the ground, too, tucking his camera and lens in his bag. “Hard to say. Heart trouble,” he murmured.  
“Sorry to hear that.”  
It was perhaps the most serious and human conversation Harry and Colin had ever shared. He'd always thought of Colin as that annoying little first year who followed him around with the camera, clicking away. But that boy had become a very good sort of young man—decent, and not afraid to explore his talents, giving it his all. A very Gryffindor-like trait.

Colin was a gifted photographer. The shots he took of Draco in secret, of the blonde hunched over his piano, plying the ivories, or gazing out past the castle ramparts, winter sun in his white hair... they were beautiful. Even Draco in the photographs seemed to have a sense of the composition, keeping still even when he had the freedom to move about as he pleased. Wind would sweep through his hair, rustle his robes, or his fingers would traipse along the piano keys. Harry sometimes thought he could hear music in the pictures, the images were that strong. He felt as though he were watching a scene from a film over and over again, everything frozen in time. He never wanted to look away.

Colin was right. About the whole thing, really. It made Harry feel a part of Draco's life—like he wasn't such a selfish, juvenile asshole for leaving the man at Hogwarts in order to get his own shit together. He wished he could be inside Colin's lens sometime; watching Draco, patient, lining up the perfect shot. Draco was pretty much the perfect subject. Colin was lucky. They all were.  
“Anyway, enough about me!” Colin brightened, stepping down beside Harry and brushing snow from his hair. A dash of it fell on Harry's shoulder in a fine powder, the rest blowing off in the breeze. “I'm sure you'll want to get to the victory party. And I've got loads of film to develop.” He patted his bag happily.  
“Good luck, then.” Harry offered. They both ducked into the stairway, soon parting ways with a wave, each going his own way in the crowd—Colin back to the castle, and Harry to catch the Gryffindor team before they left the locker rooms.  
  
  


 

\- - -  
  
  
  


  
Together, Harry and Draco leaned against the sunny side of Madame Hooch's broom shed, accepting the arm-waving and cheers aimed their way by the last few straggling students as they made the snowy trek back to the castle. Draco smiled at them all—that devilish, Malfoy smirk painting his lips—while Harry waved back, observing the passersby.  
“Good turn out,” Draco muttered.  
“Seems like,” Harry agreed.  
“More than the last match—Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw,” he shrugged offhandedly. Peakes and Coote, two of Draco's Beaters, wandered by, both offering their captain a firm salute, grins taking over their boyish faces. Draco stuck his tongue out at them and they laughed all the way back to the castle. He shooed their retreat with the back of his hand, the way he used to dismiss Kreacher back at Grimmauld Place—that little flick of his fingers and wrist was familiar, a reminder of home and their stolen life together.  
Harry spoke, trying to bring his mind back to the here-and-now. It didn’t do him any good to dwell on things. “Gryffindor always puts on a good show. People come out for that.”  
“You think?” Draco's voice was a little sharp. He was looking at the ground as he spoke, ignoring his fans. “Some of them still want to point and whisper—Malfoy-the-Gryffindor, what a ninny, _haha_.” He snorted. “Wonder Boy's Bitch.”  
Harry winced. “I thought all press was good press, right?” He bumped his shoulder against Draco's, trying to catch his gaze. No such luck. “There might be people who think that about you— _fuck 'em_. I can see there are a fair few more who think well of you.”  
“You trying to make me feel better?” Draco accused thinly.  
Harry bit the inside of his cheek. “Only if it's working.”  
Draco slapped Harry across the tops of his thighs with their shared Firebolt. “Git.”  
That was Draco's way of saying “yes, it's working.” And “thank you for making me feel better.” And possibly “I'm randy, let's fuck.” Harry licked his lips.  
“We waiting for something?” Draco pushed snow around with the toe of his trainer—Harry's trainers, of course, but they wore the same shoe size, so what did it matter? Their things had become interchangeable a while back. Calling anything “his” or “mine” was a joke at this point.

Draco's gaze slid up to Gryffindor Tower, lights glowing inside the Common Room. “I'm sure the victory celebration is well underway by now.” There was a hint of a sneer in his voice—like he was trying to keep from laughing at the absurdity of it: Gryffindors celebrating the actions of Draco Malfoy. It was all a little silly when you thought about it, though. The house rivalries, the petty fights, all of it. Harry sighed.  
“We're waiting for the locker room to empty out,” he said, very quietly. A gust of wind pulled at the snow piled on top of the shed, making a waterfall of tiny white flakes between the pair of them and the waning crowd. Harry bumped his shoulder against Draco's. “I think the coast is clear.”  
Draco turned, quirking an ash-blonde brow. “And what might we be doing in an empty locker room?” And then he seemed to realize. His eyes brightened perceptibly, lighting up his face. “You mean...?”  
Harry nodded, offering his arm. “Fantasy number twenty four. Shall we?”  
  


  
  
  


\- - -

 

 

 

  
Ron slung his arm over his girlfriend's shoulders, pulling her close enough to plant a dry kiss to the top of her head. She was still wearing her red knit cap; he got a mouth full of scratchy fibers and the smell of her school trunk but he didn't care. He breathed in her scent, squeezing the top of her arm until she rested her head against his chest, content.  
“We did it, 'Mione,” he whispered into her hat.  
“I know, dear,” she smiled, patting his hand absently. “You had it in you all along—just had to put your mind to it was all. Still, I'm proud of you.”

He had a feeling they weren't just talking about Quidditch.  
Not knowing what to say—and probably incapable of any sort of speech beyond an unintelligible squeak—Ron swallowed the lump in his throat and kept his mouth shut. He leaned his head against Hermione's, holding her close as his teammates and fellow Gryffindors celebrated all around them.  
Hermione turned in his arms, surveying the room with his hands on her curvy hips.  
“Have you seen Ginny?” she asked, peering at the window bench behind them as though his sister might be lurking there.  
Ron shook his head. “Not in the last half hour, no. You don't think...?” he let that thought trail off, seeing the idea taking form behind Hermione's dark brown eyes as she peered back over her shoulder at him. She chewed her cheek.  
“Harry and Malfoy never made it back after the game,” she said slowly—as though, if the words were far enough apart, the idea might never come to fruition.  
Ron found the courage to say it out loud. “Gin's off looking for them. Barmy,” he rolled his eyes. “She knows she's gonna find them snogging somewhere... or worse. Why does she bother?”  
Hermione sighed in his arms, leaning back against him for strength.  
“Harry used to stalk Malfoy like this,” Ron mused, resting his chin on top of Hermione's hat-covered head once more and folding his lanky arms across her midsection. Her smell helped him think—books and ink, feathered quills and flower-petal face cream. She was familiar, homey, after all this time. “It's not healthy behavior. I mean, she knows what he and Malfoy are up to. _We all know_ , since they don't hide it much these days. There's nothing sinister, no reason to be sneaking around.”  
“Maybe,” Hermione mused quietly, “she never really got over Harry. She got fed up with him,” Hermione voiced before Ron could interrupt. She knew him too well. It made him smile despite himself. “But I don't think she's moved on, emotionally. She's had strong feelings for Harry for a very long time—and those kinds of feelings don't dissipate overnight. Maybe this is her process.”  
Ron let out a puff of air, the stray hairs at his girlfriend's brow dancing in the warm breeze of his breath. He let his chest deflate until he was hunched, giving his weight over to the familiar body beneath his own. She curled her arms over his, folding them together.  
“Why?” he pleaded under his breath. “Why are all the people I love bloody deranged stalkers?”  
Hermione gave his arm a gentle pat. “We can't all be perfect. Be glad she's not off in the Forbidden Forest, fighting with centaurs or raising giant half-relations.”  
Ron smiled. “You've never met my Aunt Mildred. Giants would be an improvement.”

 

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

 

Her feet were on a mission, the rest of her dragged along.

Ginny barely registered the corridors as they flew by. The castle felt empty, with everyone back in their Common Rooms—Gryffindor celebrating their victory and the Ravenclaws analyzing their defeat, that by knowing its construction they might outwit it next time ‘round.

It was a wasted effort: you couldn't analyze Malfoy. As soon as you thought you understood him, something new would pop up, catching you off-guard. It was truly fucked up, that she knew this much about Draco Malfoy. She watched him all over Hogwarts, as she'd done to Harry her first few years in the castle. At first she'd been following him out of... what was it, exactly? Curiosity? A sick curiosity at best. It had festered, and now she couldn't shake it. Harry or Draco. She wasn’t sure anymore.

They weren’t in the castle. That much she knew. She made her way out to the grounds, scarf hanging limp around her neck despite the cold.

Not milling around by the pitch. Not snogging in the broom shed, either—though a pair of rather surprised Hufflepuffs were.

 _Keep looking._ She had to find them. The ‘why’ of it had ceased to matter a while back.

Masochism. Yes, that had to be it. She was a masochist. With that decided, she made for the Quidditch pitch. She hadn’t checked there yet.

Empty pitch. Empty stands.

The locker room, maybe?

This was pointless, of course. She knew what she would find. Eventually, it would find _her_. She might as well find the pair of them and get the whole thing over with. At least it was warmer in the enclosure under the stands, away from the wind and the snow starting to fall in earnest. She rubbed her hands together, not actually feeling the cold. But some part of her mind warned her it was there.

Pushing open the door, she immediately heard voices echoing off the tiles.

“No.”

“Come on.” A heavy huff.

“I said no.” Firm.

The first voice—the one refusing—was Harry. She was sure of it. The other had to be Malfoy; yet he didn't sound like himself. The voice was tighter, strained. Like there was a weight on his chest, and he couldn't catch his breath.

“Please.”

Malfoy. Begging.

She closed the door behind her as quietly as possible. It sounded as though they were on the other side of the lockers, either near or in the men's loo.

There were grunts, and what sounded like shoving. A spell was muttered. Someone groaned.

_Closer._

Ginny tip-toed, peeking around the corner.

“Yeh like tha'?”

The both had their pants down 'round their ankles, Harry's hands braced at the sides of one of the communal sinks. His stance was wide, back straight as a board. Muscles in his shoulders flexed as he moved, like snakes coiling around each other under a bed sheet, waiting to get out, to strike. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror above the sink, Malfoy's silver-blond head reflected above his own.

Malfoy had his prick up Harry. He held Harry at hip and shoulder, shoving into him so hard they ricocheted off one another, bouncing back a second later, little tremors sent through Malfoy's pale thighs and the meat of Harry's haunches. He leveraged himself against the sink, pushing back with equal force, slamming into Malfoy just as hard. It looked rather brutal.

She'd never seen Harry's face look that way. There was something in his expression like rage and hunger all mashed together, his eyes lit like the Killing Curse lived inside him—a bright green that made you forget everything else. It was powerful. And frightening.

Harry met Malfoy's eyes in their reflection, staring him down. The Chosen One laughed. She’d never heard his voice that low. If her eyes hadn’t been fixed to his mouth….

“Of course I like it. _Fuck_....” he bit his lip with the next thrust. His head rolled. His eyes came back to Malfoy's in the mirror, stronger than ever. There was light around his hands, like pale blue fireflies zooming in streaks, leaving lines like lightning in their wake. It might have crackled—she couldn't tell over the echo of skin slapping skin, over Malfoy grunting with the effort of doing as Harry wanted.

They stared one another down in the mirror—eyes boring as though they were on opposite sides of the room. It made her skin itch.

She took a step back. That’s when Malfoy’s gaze snapped to her in the mirror. He froze.

“Love? We have company.”

 

 

 

 

He saw her—saw her face, mouth slack and open, her eyes shocked and wide. It only took her a second to turn tail and run, the door swinging shut behind her.

Apparently all Weasleys blushed that ugly shade of red. It clashed quite horribly with their ginger hair.

Draco’s eyes fell to Harry’s back. He watched a drop of sweat trace the man’s spine, disappearing where their bodies met.

Harry peeked back over his shoulder. He had that look in his eyes—the challenge. “I’ll try to finish if you can.”

Draco bucked up his courage. He really had to beat Harry Potter in everything—or spend the rest of his life trying.

“Baby, yer probably a little sick,” Draco offered, a smile tugging at his lips. He slid forward to the hilt, until Harry was pinned against the cold porcelain sink. He bet it hurt. “But I love you.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Viktor’s Bulgarian Slang**  
>  Vitya Krum calls Draco “ _priiatelyu_ ,” a casual endearment akin to “dude,” “buddy,” “mate,” or the American “bro.” Viktor’s being friendly, and a little bit cute. He’s trying to butter Draco up.


	51. Beretta: Make Love To Me Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter being a regular teenager.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** coming out, which is squicky to some, but done in our usual tasteful manner

_ It took half the time _

_ I am still afraid _

_ So stay by my side _

_ And hold on to my hand _

_ Try to teach me that _

_ I'm alright, I guess _

  
  


“Make Love To Me Forever”

Snow Patrol

 

  
  
  
Harry covered his nose as he entered the kitchen.   
  
“No offence, Mrs. Harper,” he said from behind his hand. “But it smells awful in here.” The stench was a combination of wet hay and manure. He wondered what could have come through Mrs. Harper’s kitchen—she normally kept the place spotless.   
  
She was using a Bubble Head Charm to keep the smell away from her face. Her entire head was covered by a thin membrane as she  _ Scourgify _ -ed the countertops and floor over and over again, her wand waving and bubbles foaming along almost every surface.   
  
“Leo’s ‘ad an owl from zee Minister of Magic,” she explained. Her voice was only a little garbled by the bubble around her blonde head.   
  
Harry stepped back as a trail of bubbles neared his bare feet. He kept backing up until his feet were on the hard wood of the hallway. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”   
  
Charlene shrugged. Then her face brightened, twin patches of pink blooming on her cheeks. “I ‘ave an idea! Let’s get oot of ‘ere.”   
  
Harry nodded, Summoning his trainers. “Sure.”   
  
Anything to get away from the smell.   
  
  


  
  
  
  


\- - -

 

 

 

 

Charlene was treating him differently. Harry couldn't quite put his finger on it, of course, but he could feel it, like a temperature drop—like accidentally walking through Nearly Headless Nick. He licked at the backs of his teeth, trying to figure it out.   
  
She'd gotten him out of work again, which was always nice. He liked their afternoons spent casting household charms and watching muggle movies on tele. It gave him time to decompress, to let the crazy things he saw settle at the back of his head, to ferment into inspiration.    
  
But today Charlene had them driving through a Trans-Location Barrier, headed for an upscale shopping mall somewhere outside Chicago. She said she had Christmas shopping to do and wanted Harry's opinion. Harry followed her through the glitzy shopping center, biting the inside of his cheek.   
  
Mrs. Harper fluttered from one store to the next, picking up this and that, humming along to the many holiday carols playing over each store’s speakers. He left her to it, making his way through the happy muggles and their mounds of red and green shopping bags. He stopped at a coffee stall, mostly for something to do, picking up a latte and sipping at it as he walked. He wandered through a muggle book shop, picking up a book of chess strategies for Ron. He found a shop which sold nothing but socks and bought several odd pairs for Dobby. One pair would reach up past the elf’s knobbly knees; they bore the crest of Superman, and even had miniature red capes sewn into the elastic band. Harry figured he could charm the little capes to flap in a nonexistent breeze. Dobby would love them.   
  
He thought about getting something awful for Kreacher—a bent-up coat hanger, perhaps, or a dirty sock with which to set him free. He chuckled to himself a moment before his face fell. The Dursleys had given him much of the same over the years. He knew how awful it was not to look forward to Christmas—to have nothing in your stocking, no love or compassion from your family. He couldn’t bring himself to knowingly inflict that kind of pain on another being—even if it was Kreacher, the nasty piece of work at least partially responsible for Sirius’ death. It wasn’t about love for Kreacher: it was a matter of honor. He wouldn’t do to Kreacher what had been done to him.   
  
So he located a pet shop and purchased a fluffy, medium-sized dog bed. The woman in the shop said it was the nicest they had. Now Kreacher would have something better to sleep on than a pile of old motorcycle parts and rags. Harry felt better about himself as he set out to rejoin Charlene.   
  
He half-heartedly tried to find something for Draco. But nothing seemed quite right. It was all muggle and trite. Draco needed something special, one-of-a-kind, like him. Harry would have to go somewhere out his way if he wanted to find something suitable—Paris, maybe. He borrowed Mrs. Harper's car keys and stowed their packages while she messed about in a fancy French lotions shop. After, she insisted on taking him to lunch.    
  
The restaurant had Christmas music playing, too. She said it was how American radio stations did things—that Christmas carols started a few days after Halloween and didn't let up until the New Year. Their waitress sat them in a booth, out of the way and not too close to any of the speakers blaring holiday carols. It was not lost on Harry when Charlene slipped the muggle girl a ten dollar bill.    
  
“‘Arry,” Charlene began, fingers wrapped around her water glass. “Zere's something I've been meaning to speak to yoo about. Yoo're not in trouble,  _ cher _ ,” she added warmly. It sounded like something she might've said time and time again to her son. Charlene wasn't a strict woman. It was difficult to get on her bad side. Sometimes Harry wondered if she even had one. She seemed to like almost everything and everyone, tolerating life's troubles with a patience that was saint-like.    
  
Harry rearranged his legs beneath the table. “Okaaay. What’s up?”   
  
Charlene seemed fascinated by the woodgrain of the table. Her eyes fixed on it, following the lines to where they fell off the table. She wouldn’t look up at Harry. “I was in yoor room zee other day, picking up zee laundry... and I found...” her lips closed as she swallowed. “I don't want yoo to lie to me, 'Arry. Its always best to 'ave zese zings out in zee open. Yoor friend, zee Malfoy boy....” The French surname rolled easily from her togue. “Yoo're in love with 'im, aren't yoo?”

 

Shit. She'd found the bloody photographs.  
  
Harry swallowed too, and thickly. He hated talking about this shit—hated it. He loved Draco. He did; but his feelings were private. They weren’t anyone’s business but his and Draco’s. And where he shoved his prick shouldn't matter in the larger scheme of things... but it did. The deviant desires of his trousers were apparently fascinating to people, along with politically-charged and potentially morally offensive. It shouldn't be, but it was. He sighed. His life would be one hell of a lot easier if he weren't Harry Potter.   
  
“Er....” He paused. There was nothing to be ashamed of. He started again. “Yeah. Draco's my best mate. And he's also my, uh, my boyfriend.”  _ Stupid word _ , he thought. But there was no other language appropriate for what they were. They snogged their brains out, kissed and groped and fucked in broom cupboards and were both chaps. They were gay boyfriends. That was the way people would understand it. They were all thinking it—those who knew, like Ron and Hermione. Even Mrs. Weasley and Professor McGonagall, though adults generally pretended to take it better than Harry’s teenage compatriots. They still thought it in the backs of their heads, though, so he might as well come out and say it first:  _ gay boyfriends, gay boyfriends, gay boyfriends.  _ Bloody hell.   
  
“Neither of us are gay, exactly. I had a girlfriend before, but we broke up and... it just sort of happened with Draco and me. We're ruddy of perfect for each other, in a weird way,” he scratched the back of his neck, resisting a nervous chuckle. “It makes me angry sometimes, that I was too thick to see it before. We nearly missed each other. But I got lucky.  _ Really _ lucky. He decided to stick around and give me a chance. I just... I fell in love. Hopelessly. We both did.”   
  
Charlene was looking at him as though he were a seven-headed grindylow in a glass case. Like she didn't know what to make of him. He wondered if coming out made everyone feel this way, or if he was just a particular type of freak. It felt as though he were unzipping his skin to reveal an ugly, horrible monster. And it scared him just as much as the people he showed it to. Maybe more.   
  
“We're gonna come out publicly once the war's over,” he offereed to fill the silence. “Seems the best way to do it. I don't want him to be any more of a target than he already is, and I don’t want to hinder the war effort. Something tells me people might treat me different if they knew I was with a bloke.”   
  
Charlene’s jaw wobbled.    
  
“‘Arry...” she mumbled. “ _ Je suis désolée _ .” She blinked profusely. It took a moment for Harry to detect the sheen of tears in her watery blue eyes.    
  
“You’re... sorry?” Harry inferred. His French was only slightly better for Draco’s tutelage. “What for?”    
  
“Yoo don’t want anyone to treat yoo differently, yet zat’s exactly what I did.” She reached across the table, offering her hand, palm up.    
  
Harry took her hand, flipped it, brought the back of her pretty, age-spotted hand to his mouth and kissed it. The move was very Draco. Charlene squeezed his fingers and smiled weakly.    
  
“S’okay,” he told her.”You’re reacting a lot better than my friends—better than a lot of the people I’ve told back home, actually.” Harry remembered Remus Lupin screaming at him, and Headmistress McGonagall’s frighteningly arched brows stabbing at him through the floo. Charlene’s apology was welcome by comparison. He squeezed her hand back. “Thanks for... you know... being cool about it. This is different for me.” He sighed. “No one’s storming out, or accusing me of being under the Imperius Curse. Guess I’m getting better at this ‘coming out’ bollocks.”   
  
“And... ‘ave you liked boys before?” she asked tentatively.    
  
Harry gave himself a moment to think about it—really consider. What came out of his mouth surprised him. “I thought I fancied girls. Turns out what I like is less... black and white. I always went for girls who were unique, who were very exotic and magical. But looking back, I think there were a few blokes I noticed for the same reasons. My Defence Against The Dark Arts instructor during my third year, Remus Lupin... he went to school with my Dad and they were friends, so I figured that was the reason I spent so much time with him—to learn more about my Dad. But maybe a part of me fancied how strong a wizard he is. He’s a werewolf, too, and it would seem I get off on a bit of danger, so... yeah. I might’ve had a bit of a crush on him.” Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. “Then Cedric Diggory. We fancied the same girl during the Triwizard. He was always so handsome and talented and perfect. I was jealous. I wanted to be like him, once I got the zits off my face and girls started noticing me. Cedric was bloody perfect: standing next to him made me feel like a toad. I dunno what-all that means but... maybe, without the tournament getting in the way, I could’ve had some feelings for him, too.”   
  
“Woold yoo say yoo’re bisexual, then?”    
  
“I don’t think so,” Harry toyed with his napkin draped over one knee. “I mean, I’ve never looked at a bloke before and wanted to snog him, like I do with girls. It happened with Draco over time but... he’s different... he’s special. I couldn’t imagine myself being happy with a guy. But I can’t imagine myself being happy with anyone who isn’t Draco, so... maybe I’m gay  _ for him _ .” Harry snorted. “That’s what Malaya says, anyways.”   
  
“Yoo should spend zee holidays together,” Charlene suggested suddenly, perking up.    
  
“Christmas?” Harry sat back in the booth, releasing Mrs. Harper’s hand. He stuffed his hands in his sweatshirt pockets. The garment had been Gideon Harper’s; golden yellow, and emblazoned with the words “Ohio State University” in white embroidery across the chest. The size was about right, if a little long in the sleeves. “I hadn’t really thought about Christmas. I usually spend it with my friend Ron’s family. But Ron and Draco don’t exactly get on.”   
  
“Zen go away,” Charlene shrugged easily. “Take a vacation, just zee two of yoo.”    
  
Harry was actually considering it. “That could work,” he mused. “But it would have to be someplace muggle. We can’t run into other wizards and risk the Death Eaters getting tipped off. Maybe somewhere a little isolated... but Draco’s fussy. It’s not like I can borrow a tent and drag him off to some mountainside in Finland.” He could picture Draco’s face—the blonde would filet him alive with nothing but those silver eyes and a careful flick of his wand. “He’s an old-fashioned pureblood chap. Likes his amenities. Hot water and such, you know?”   
  
Charlene’s smile broadened. “I know ze perfect place.”   
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** “Make Love To Me Forever” by Gary Lightbody of Snow Patrol, released March of 2001 by Jeepster Records.


	52. The Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco passes time at Hogwarts while unfortunate news wings its way to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **DISCLAIMER:** Opening quote taken from “The Chain” by Ingrid Michaelson, released by Cabin 24 Records, August of 2009.  
>  Lyrics mentioned by Harry are from “The Girl In The Dirty Shirt” by Noel Gallagher of Oasis.

“ _I’ll never say I’ll never love;_

_but I don’t say a lot of things,_

_and you my love are gone.”_

  
  


_The Chain_

Ingrid Michaelson

 

 

 

 

Harry would be leaving soon. Draco could feel it in Wonder Boyfriend's tighter-than-usual hugs; the way he held on a moment too long, sniffing Draco's increasingly messy blond hair. He paid less attention to his looks when Harry was about. Probably because they spent all their time in bed or otherwise on their backs.

Harry was drawing closer before they had to pull away.

His last night in the tower, he asked Draco to play the piano for him. When asked what it was he wanted to hear, Harry shrugged, saying, “Anything. Surprise me.”

He smiled when Draco played Oasis, Harry's favorite band. But Draco didn't sing the simple lyrics—just pounded away on the keys, mimicking the strumming of guitars. The words slipped through Harry's head in Noel Gallagher's voice, “ _You've got a feeling lost inside, it just won't let you go. Your life is sneaking up behind, it just won't let you go._ ”

He looked up when Draco began to hum along.

“Why don't you sing, love?” Harry asked from the sofa. “You know the words. I can tell you want to.”

The blonde scoffed. “I certainly do not! Wha' eva gave yeh such a barmy idea?”

“Just... the look on your face,” Harry sighed, lying back down. “You can sing if you like.”

“No thank you,” the blonde snipped regally, pointed nose in the air.

Harry pressed his luck, asking, “Would you sing for me?” A pregnant pause met his request. He tried sweetening the deal with a _please_. No luck.

“Absolutely not,” Draco replied firmly. “I don't sing. Not publicly, anyway.”

“Since when am I public?” chortled Harry.

“Since I'd like ta have sex with ya again,” Draco, his hands now still upon the keys, looked over at Harry. The pureblood's expression was light—and vaguely distant. “I jus'... don't sing. I love music an' it always struck me as odd tha' my parents discouraged my havin' singin' lessons along with the piano. But I've neva sung a note in my life an' I'm not 'bout ta start.”

“That's pants, Draco,” Harry stretched out on the sofa, his hands folded behind his head in thought. “Did your mother sing?”

“All the bloody time.”

“Then why weren't you allowed?”

Realization slapped Draco across the face. Hard. “My father thinks singing is effeminate,” he said slowly, gazing unseeingly at Harry. His grey eyes slid to the fire in the hearth as he recalled. “Once, when I was very young, I broke my nose playing Quidditch. When I cried, Father beat me with a switch. Any semblance of the feminine, any emotionality or weakness, was unacceptable. I'm sure my little boy soprano echoin' through the Manor,” Draco waggled his long white fingers, mimicking his sweet boyish notes floating through the halls of the old Wiltshire house, “would have set him on a murderous rampage.”

“That's.... _Cor_ , that's awful,” Harry stuttered, propped up on his elbows to look at Draco. Harry understood, having taken a few belts to the back himself. “I know how much you love music. You should sing if you want to. I promise I won't lose my hard on if you're awful... but you won't be.” Harry smiled warmly.

“Advice on living from the boy who came of age in a cupboard,” Draco muttered, a slight answering smile crinkling his features.

“So would you sing for me?” Harry persisted in a yawning, sleepy baritone.

“I'll... think 'bout it,” the blonde conceded. “Is tha' alright? 'Cause I think I'd need ta get royally lashed before I'd consider givin' it a go.”

“Sure,” Harry nodded, pushing himself to his feet and stretching through another mighty yawn. “I mean, I'd really like to hear you sing. But I can wait 'til you're comfortable.” Harry came over to rest both hands on Draco's bony shoulders. “I'd wait forever for you.” He kissed the top of his fair head.

Draco rolled his eyes, swatting Harry away with a mumbled, “Get stuffed, Wonder Boy.” Harry only waggled his eyebrows at the innuendo, pulling at the hem of his shirt suggestively. Draco's eyes darted between his partner and their bed. He got up from the piano bench, stalking after Harry as the brunet walked backwards toward the bed. The Boy Who Lived To Tent Draco Malfoy's Pants paused in the middle of pulling off his shirt.

“You'll keep playing for me, yeah?” Harry's expression was earnest, brows raised, as though he expected Draco might stop playing piano in front of him altogether in order to rehearse his singing. “I like listening,” Harry shrugged rather shyly.

“That's why I don' wanna sing,” Draco muttered darkly, backing Harry against the bed. “I'd rather you _continue_ enjoying. Na shut up,” he smirked. “An' I'll show ya somethin' we both know I'm _very_ good at.”

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

To pass the time, Draco arranged for a skirmish between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Quidditch teams. Many saw it as an informal rematch after Ravenclaw’s stunning defeat. Their captain, Chaser Alan Chambers, was hesitant at first, unsure what angle Draco might be playing at. Several owls later, the captain relented. Ravenclaw was slated to play against Slytherin next, and they could use all the practice they could get if they hoped to stand a chance against the green and silver tide. Slytherin was playing especially big and brutal this year. Though they could be easily outmaneuvered, it would take an immense talent to outsmart them. Several of Slytherin’s mountainous players only _looked_ like idiots. They weren’t to be taken lightly. Draco understood this perhaps more acutely than most.

Gryffindor would face Slytherin in the first match after returning from winter hols. It was in both Draco and Chambers’ best interests to keep their teams in top form—Draco more so, as his players would have more down time between matches.

He had a secret reason for wanting to practice with the Ravenclaw team—or, to be more specific, with Ravenclaw’s Beaters. This year the ravens had two brothers on their roster, Michael and James Grant. And while the twins couldn’t compare to Slytherin’s Durmstrang imports in size, they were an equal threat on the field. Slytherin’s captain, sixth year Maldon Rees, focused on size alone when building his roster. Chambers had selected his Beaters for their cunning, their exceeding intelligence and pure deviousness, on and off the pitch. Only last week, Draco and Granger had hauled the Grant brothers into Headmistress McGonagall’s office by their ears, having caught the pair in the Restricted Section after hours, poring over books. They’d nearly been suspended; instead, Draco had been able to sway McGonagall’s decision, lessening their punishment to a series of grueling morning detentions with Professor Weasley.

Chambers had thanked Draco profusely. It wasn’t everyday that a rival captain rescued his opponent’s strongest players from school administration; Draco had used every centimeter of clout and charm he possessed to see the thing through. The Grants, however, weren’t quite as pleased after their first session with Percy Weasley. They said assisting the Ministry man was like watching paint dry. Still, they’d promised to keep their arses in line after their Head Boy had stuck his neck out for them. Draco used this good turn to grease the cogs with Chambers, getting their skirmish scheduled around detentions, practices and other commitments. The whole thing took days to set up.

Draco kept an ear to the ground for gossip. It didn’t take much to glean that the Ravenclaws were nervous to stand against him a second time. Panic rippled through Ravenclaw Tower when it was discovered that Harry Potter would not be present—apparently Draco was far more sinister when outside of Potter’s supervision. He made a mental note. Everything could be played to his advantage.

Slytherin still managed to crush Ravenclaw in an overwhelmingly hostile match. The point spread was over three hundred by the time all was said and done, with the match itself lasting less than an hour. Draco had been particularly impressed by Slytherin’s Seeker; a previously unremarkable fourth year whom Draco knew only as ‘Harper.’

He spent the evening in contemplation, sipping a glass of port before the fire, before it occurred to him that he knew the boy—was in fact related, if somewhat distantly. He searched the family tree imprinted in his mind, tracing back to where his father’s great-great grandmother, Celia Harper, had married into the French wizarding family de Conde, producing a single daughter, who would marry into the Malfoy family. The Slytherin Seeker was on the Irish side of the family; more closely related to Harry’s mentor, Leon Harper, than he was to Draco. Still, they were perhaps fifth or sixth cousins.

Harper was slight like Draco, though as dark-haired as Draco was blond. Like Draco, Harper used his smaller stature—and resulting speed—to his advantage. The entire match, Harper and Rees had barricaded themselves behind their Beaters, Czeslaw Vïtols and Yuri Král. In his early Slytherin days, Draco would had played much the same as Harper. Now he would have to devise a strategy to throw off the Slytherin team’s balance—bringing Rees out of hiding, fucking with his head enough that his resulting decisions would be rash. Only then could Draco sneak in, when Rees’ guard was down, and strike. He would have to confuse Harper as well if he hoped to succeed. His best hope was to get Harper to the forefront of the field. He’d been trained to stay back, so Draco hoped that luring him into a more offensive playing style might disrupt his game, causing him to lose sight of the Snitch.

Beaters would always be Gryffindor’s biggest obstacle. Draco’s team was small and quick, like himself. A single well-delivered hit could potentially take out a number of his key players—tiny Angelika Whipple, for example, or his younger Chasers, Samantha Young and Natalie McDonald. Somehow, he had to eliminate the threat—Slytherin’s muscle—before dealing with Rees and Harper.

Draco had his work cut out. He drank his port and thought.

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

“Malfoy?”

Nothing.

“...Malfoy?”

 _Scratch, scratch, scratch_ went Draco's quill across the parchment.

“... Malfooooiiiiieeeeee!”

At last, Draco broke down.

“ _What_ is it, Gweir?” He may have spoken for the first time in forty minutes but he didn't turn from his place at the coffee table, carefully scripting yet another triumphant NEWTs essay.

The answer came at him in a sweet drawl. “Wha'cha dooooin'?”

Draco gripped his quill very tightly.

“What does it _look_ like I'm doing?”

“Risking premature hair-loss,” the lad giggled. Draco twirled around in his seat to catch him running pudgy child's hands through his hair in imitation of his Head Boy. He must have been watching Draco very closely, indeed, because he nailed the image—right down to the way Draco's tongue had a tendency to play lizard, poking in and out over his thin-drawn lips whenever he concentrated.

“It's important work,” Draco sighed. “And needs doing.”

“Can't you play chess with meee?” Gweir whined, lolling across Draco's bed like a lanky, mop-haired sloth. His face was tiny and bunched up like one, too.

“No. Schoolwork. Of great import...” he trailed off, trying not to laugh at the funny upside-down creature about to slither off the side of his bed.

“Piano lesson?”

“I can't.” Draco set down his quill before he crushed it. “Work before play. And don't you have coursework as well?”

“First years don't get nearly that much. It's bloody _Saturday_ , Malfoy!”

“I'm well aware what day it is,” Draco simpered, turning back toward his essay with renewed conviction. “That today is Saturday does not in any way alter or negate the fact that this research, in addition to another seventeen inches on the subsequent Sophist influence, is due this coming Tuesday. I'm sorry—but I have to finish this.”

Draco pushed his sleeves up past his elbows and set to work. He could do so because Kieran was accustomed to the sight of the Dark Mark by now—the boy was completely unfazed by it, as though the darkness upon his arm was like any other vanity-induced or commemorative tattoo. Kieran had touched his bare arm over multiple piano lessons, the only person besides Harry who would dare do so—the only person aside from Harry whom Draco would allow. They were the only ones who came close enough to touch. The mark was private, personal, a symbol of his own self-inflicted hell. It wasn't something anyone needed to see, let alone run their fingers over. Kieran understood, though, that the Mark had been his downfall, his undoing. It was a sign of shame to him; like his scars, it stood as an outward sign of poor decisions, lack of foresight and a weak stomach. And that wasn't something anyone need see.

These private quarters were one of the few places Draco felt comfortable rolling up his sleeves or walking round in a tshirt. He scratched out another three inches before the next interruption.

“Ugh,” the boy grunted, throwing himself onto his stomach with a drawn-out sigh. “What's your essay about, then?”

“ _Se Impetro Munus._ ”

“What's that?”

Draco took in a sharp breath through his nose. The air smelt of ink and persistence. “It's a two thousand, seven hundred year old theory, love, about the passing of magical aptitude from elde—you know what? _Here!_ ”

He got up, crossing the room in half a dozen powerful strides, throwing open his and Harry's trunk to rummage through the contents. He found what he wanted shoved off in a corner—one of those Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Patented Daydream Charms. Harry had gobs of free products lying about, gifts from the ginger twins which he never seemed to use. Scar Head had packed them up for Draco to bring to school. Now the blond threw the pink and purple pastel box at Gweir.

“Have fun,” drawled Draco.

“Oh, ace!” the boy cried, tearing open the frilly packaging with delight. “Thanks, Draco!”

And, face consumed in a puff of white smoke as the spell bloomed from its box, the twelve year-old Harry Potter look-a-like tumbled back onto Draco's bed, slack-jawed and dreamy-eyed, where he would remain for the next hour and a half.

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

Kieran piled his breakfast plate high with bangers, eggs and bacon.

Beside him, Draco dished up a small bowl of fresh fruit, sliding the bowl down the table and into the vicinity of Kieran's dangerously overflowing plate.

“Malfooooiiiiieeeeee...” Kieran whined, eying the fruit with limited enthusiasm.

Draco shot him a lifeless smile, the wizard's patience running thin. “Humor me,” the blond insisted. The older boy could be a real kill-joy sometimes. Kieran rolled his eyes but stuck his fork in a chunk of melon just the same.

“Fine,” he grumbled, popping it into his mouth. He later took a sip of the Head Boy's coffee when his back was turned.

He should have been in Slytherin. He knew that now. Sometimes, he thought, they both would have been much happier down there in the dungeons. Him and Draco, together. Abigail Brown wouldn't chase him, or try to kiss him, if he were a Slytherin boy. He wouldn't have to wear a red tie—his least favorite color. And he and Draco could sit in the Common Room and play chess or study without anyone making stupid, nasty comments. Fagging was a normal part of boarding school life, especially for boys. His Mum had told him all about it; how younger years would attach themselves to an older boy and follow him around, shining his shoes or bringing his robes to the house elves for mending.

Some boys did it because they were dumb as a sack of garden gnomes and needed help with their studies. Some boys fagged because they wanted to get ahead in a school club like Quidditch or Gobstones. Other boys just wanted to be popular, so they elected to spend their time getting in with the most handsome and charming fellows of the elder years, picking up hints and making the right connections to advance socially. Still others offered themselves freely out of admiration and respect for a particular older boy with great skill or a strong personality... somebody like Draco Malfoy.

Draco was easy to follow. Sure he was mean sometimes, but only when he was stressing over exams or worried about his boyfriend, Harry Potter. Draco pretty much disappeared when Potter was around—but that nirvana never lasted long; never more than a handful of days, usually just a quick drop-by in the afternoon or maybe a weekend spent ensconced in Draco's quarters, hardly emerging for meals. Draco was always happy when Harry showed up, and anxious when he took his leave. Draco kept saying that Harry was off fighting You-Know-Who: that knowledge—while it made Kieran along with everyone else feel a little safer, knowing the war wouldn't go on much longer—didn't do much for Draco's moods when his brave bespectacled hero was gone for weeks at a time. Kieran wished Harry Potter would make time in his oh-so-busy bad-guy-hunting schedule to pop by and snog his boyfriend a little more often. Perhaps bi-weekly? Just a quick grope in a broom cupboard or something. Peace at Hogwarts was in direct proportion to the quantity and duration of their kissing sessions. And it seemed Harry Potter was about the only bloke who didn't understand the correlation.

All things considered, Draco was a benevolent fag-master. There were worse people to tail around Hogwarts; at least Draco was terribly interesting. It didn't hurt that he was rather attractive as well—and bloody charming when he chose to be. Draco played piano, and a host of other instruments. He was Head Boy. He captained the Quidditch team. He wasn't shy of a debate. He drank and swore and smoked cigarettes out on the Heads' private terrace. Draco could be fun at times. He knew a lot about magic. Like his counterpart in academics, Hermione Granger, Draco seemed to have swallowed a few text books in his time at Hogwarts. Kieran hoped that someday he could know as much about so many things. Knowledge was one of the things which could make a wizard truly great. In that category, as well as many others, Draco Malfoy had quite a lot to offer.

As a fag-master, Draco wasn't at all cruel. Kieran had heard a rumor that last year, a Prefect in Ravenclaw called Anthony Goldstein had ordered two first years clean the statue of Rowena Ravenclaw in their Common Room using only a ladder, a bucket and their own toothbrushes—no magic—in order to prove their worthiness to fag for him. By that standard, Kieran was insanely, ridiculously lucky to have Draco bossing him around. The worst Malfoy did was look over his coursework and force him to eat the occasional fruit or vegetable. Sometimes they went flying together, both squeezed in tight on Potter's Firebolt, snow whipping through their robes as they flew over the white-blanketed grounds. Other times Draco would tutor him at the piano. One night, when Hermione Granger had been nagging him something fierce, Draco had offered Kieran a shot of some muggle liquor called tequila. It burned on the way down. A few sips later, Kieran had been drunk for the first time in his life. Unwound, he and Draco had banged on the piano, told lewd jokes and collapsed on his big fluffy bed in fits of giggles, their legs skyward and kicking.

Once Kieran knew for certain what hard liquor smelled like, he could occasionally detect its odor lingering around Professor Slughorn during Potions lessons. There wasn't anyone in his year with whom he could share a laugh over that tidbit. Just him and good old Draco.

He half expected to find the bitter bite of almond liqueur at the bottom of Draco's coffee cup this dreary morning. It had been quite some time since Potter's last visit. Draco wasn't the only one getting antsy as November snows blew in. Hermione Granger pounced on every bit of parchment which made its way into the castle, eager for news. She'd nearly torn Lavender Brown's copy of Dutch _Witch Weekly_ to shreds a few days back. Ron Weasley sat beside her, a hand on her knee under the table. The gesture looked romantic-enough but Kieran knew better—it was to keep Granger from flinging herself at other people's post like a niffler on galleons.

Kieran was beginning to despair that there would be no owls today. It had been several days, and Angelika Whipple was expecting an Afrikaner Quidditch periodical from her brother back in KwaZulu-Natal. The Quidditch rag was sure to be passed around Gryffindor Common Room as soon as it arrived—a relic of the outside world. It was rare to get news of any kind, even something as simple as Quidditch or celebrity gossip. Whenever someone heard from their families, it was always that they were afraid to venture into any wizarding parts of town, that parents had stopped going to work or were packing up, moving themselves and any younger siblings to a relative's house. The further away your relatives lived, the better. Outside the UK was good—another continent was better. No one wanted to stay in Europe right now. Samantha Young, a fourth year on Draco's Quidditch squad, kept bragging to anyone who would listen about her relations in California, where her mother and younger brother had gone to stay after the Ministry fell.

Kieran glanced up at a familiar sound—the rush of owls, feathered wings beating the air as they flew past the beams at the uppermost reaches of the Great Hall's ceiling, post and papers clutched in their talons. There were a good number of them today, perhaps a dozen. That either meant there had been some major breakthrough in the fight against the Death Eaters, or there had been another tragedy, another skirmish, another handful of nice, innocent people killed and not nearly enough Death Eaters taken down with them.

Kieran set his fork aside and waited, muscles in his legs and arms tensing as a mixture of excitement and dread leaked down from the rafters. He tried to nail himself to the bench, ready for his seat to be upended if anyone nearby received post.

He watched the owls swoop down to their recipients; a good distribution between the houses this time around. There was one letter for Slytherin, the smallest house, two for Hufflepuff, four for Ravenclaw despite it being the second smallest in population, leaving the remainder to drift toward the Gryffindor table.

A Ravenclaw girl with auburn hair plaited in pigtails shot to her feet, hopping up on the table to grab her pet owl, all but ripping her post from the weatherproof holster on the bird's leg. She turned and sat right down on the table, her bum nearly landing in a plate of kippers. Someone's quick Summoning Charm saved the platter—and the girl's robes—at the last second. The pigtailed girl batted hands away and anxiously unfurled her prize: several pages of a wizarding newspaper, not enough to be a whole paper but clearly the first few pages, perhaps even a complete section. Or maybe that was all the presses were printing these days. A large headline appeared in Cyrillic script, moving pictures decorating the space below. Kieran squinted, peeking between moving bodies to try and get a peek at the photograph.

One last owl came fluttering into the Great Hall; tiny, quiet and virtually unnoticed in all the commotion. Kieran only caught sight of the bird as its wobbly flight path neared his end of the the Gryffindor table.

It was a chubby little thing, not much more than fluff and feathers. The creature had the biggest, yellowest eyes he'd ever seen, with a body not much larger than a cricket ball. There were white and honey-brown streaks on its chest, white spots decorating its back and a cream-colored undercarriage, itty bitty black talons peeking out under all that fluff. The bird looked almost cartoonish, too small and cute to actually be something living. It had to be a foreign breed. He'd never seen one quite like it before.

It kept winding closer and closer. Kieran began to fear the little thing had lost its way, or its mind, harassed by the much larger and more aggressive birds which had beaten it to the dining tables. The little owl skittered, unable to come to a complete stop, stomping its feet to slow its progress as it slid down the center of the Gryffindor table. At one point, it actually rolled over head-first—which did nothing to stop its momentum but caught the attention of quite a few students as serving utensils and a danish were sent flying. The bird collided with a pitcher full of pumpkin juice, not heavy enough to tip the container. It shook its head a bit, rumpled its feathers as though bucking up its courage, and marched right over to Draco Malfoy.

“What a sweet little owl!” cried one of the third year girls. “Would you look at those eyes!”

More people turned to look, watching as Draco held out a pale, slender hand for the bird to perch on. Draco clamped the bird's feet with his thumb, unhooking the equally miniature satchel attached to its leg. Kieran hadn't seen the leather pouch past the feathers. The owl jumped up to Draco's shoulder as soon as he released it, preening at a strand of white-blond hair over Draco's ear before seeing to the state of its own downy fluff. Draco raised a careful brow at the bird before electing to ignore it in favor of the missive it had carried from far, far away.

Draco's letter was sealed with a heavy, formal-looking crest set in green wax. There was a dab of red on the parchment beneath the seal—a drop of blood and some highly advanced old magic, together ensuring that only the intended recipient could break the seal. As Draco unfurled the parchment, Kieran read the print on the wax seal upside-down. _Ministry of the Americas_ , it said in official script, _Field Operations Services – Task Force Capt. Leonidas Harper_.

Not many people seemed to notice that Draco too had a letter. Noise was building behind them as the Ravenclaw girl prepared to translate her newspaper to a growing gaggle of onlookers.

Vaguely far-sighted, Draco held his letter out away from himself in order to read it, the square of golden-colored parchment dotted with an untidy black scrawl. Kieran wormed his way closer, catching a better look from the crook of Draco's shoulder.

The letter read:

 

 

_Draco,_

_I think of you constantly. You are always on my mind and in my heart._

_Everything reminds me of you. Your face is the last thing I see falling_

_asleep each night and the first thing I want upon waking. I miss you so_

_much I don't know what to do with myself except carry on, survive and_

_plan each miserable day until I'm in your arms again. Know that I would_

_rather be with you than off saving the world. The only thing really worth_

_saving is you._

 

_Know that I love you._

 

_Yours always,_

_Harry_

 

 

 

Draco's chest hitched. His bottom lip went weak, hanging out from his profile and wobbling soundlessly. Emotion threatened his steely eyes. Kieran was sure a part of the Head Boy was mortified to be showing this much of himself in public. But the rest of him was stunned silent, feeling running off his face in waves. His hand was less than steady as he lowered the parchment to the table, resting his forearms at the edge of his plate as his blond head dipped, hiding his face.

They both started when a cool hand alighted on Draco's shoulder, stroking the little owl's round head.

“Lovegood,” Draco greeted her without turning.

The sixth year girl was uniquely pretty, with a dreamy sort of look to her face and fashion, several silver-wrought bracelets on her wrist clinking whenever she moved. Kieran guessed Draco had identified her by the sound of her jewelry. There were radish-shaped dirigibles hanging from her ears, mostly hidden by the fall of her wavy blonde hair. Her features had a kind quality, relaxed and open. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning, trying to catch a sideways glimpse of Draco's hidden face.

“Malfoy?” she said slowly. “Are you—”

Draco didn't let her finish. Instead, he held the letter up over his shoulder, effectively pushing it into her hand. She glanced down at it, her expression shifting as she caught sight of the untidy penmanship.

Her eyes flickered. “A letter from Harry? Is he alright?”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, his gaze settling on a nearby pile of toast but hardly seeing it.“Harry's... working on a project. He's frustrated because it's challenging—likely very dangerous—and taking longer than expected.”

“Oh,” Luna spoke knowingly. She eyed the weary set of Draco's shoulders, speaking to his back. “Is that what the letter says?”

Draco put his elbows up on the table, resting his head in his hands. He squeezed until his knuckles were a mess of ivory and red. White strands stuck out at odd angles from between his fingers, a carbon copy of Potter's messy hairstyle. The two were more alike than most people realized. Either that, or Draco was missing Potter so much he was emulating the chosen dolt.

“No,” Draco deadpanned. “I'm reading between the lines. Read it for yourself.”

Luna's eyes widened in astonishment as she read the short missive, her hand frozen in mid-air, half-way to covering her mouth in surprise.

“This is a love letter,” she stated matter-of-factly. She aimed a look at the top of Draco's bowed head, eventually settling the parchment on the Head Boy's empty breakfast plate. She looked as though she wanted to put a hand on his shoulder—he was clearly suffering so. Instead she said, “I shouldn't be reading that; it's just for you. You keep it in your breast pocket, close to your heart. That's what Harry would want.”

Draco nodded numbly, tucking the paper away in his robes.

Lovegood looked like she wanted to say something: Draco looked as though he couldn't make a single word if his life depended on it, he was so lost to his tumbling, restless thoughts.

Someone shoved pretty Miss Lovegood out of the way, trying to get to Draco. It was the Ravenclaw girl with plaited pigtails, holding her newspaper aloft.

“Malfoy!” The auburn-haired witch said loudly. She had a Russian accent. “Vhere iz Malfoy? He'll vant to see zis!”

Draco's head snapped up at the sound of his surname, his face a disturbing blank—pale and pointed and devoid, like a dead person, incapable of response. It was scary. His silvery eyes were dead.

The newspaper was waved in Draco's face even as he stood.

“What's this, then?” he intoned, pushing the newsprint away from his face enough to focus on the many little moving pictures. People were shoving their way down the House tables, trying to get closer, to see Draco's reaction to the news. Kieran knew there wouldn't be one.

Draco promptly sat down on the bench. His hand wilted around the printed page. Their Head Boy went limp as a rag doll, collapsing back against the table with an audible thud. Students knew to give him a wide berth, then. No one wanted to be near him on the off-chance he exploded—or worse. So Kieran pushed forward, not stopping until his chest was flush with the Head Boy's side, gazing up at his impassive face. Draco was more of a carving than a man, hard as marble and rooted to the spot as though he weighed a thousand stone.

Draco's ghost-white lips formed a single word. “No.”

The Russian girl pointed to the newspaper's headline settled in Draco's lap, pitching her voice to carry down the row as she translated.

“Hit Vizards Stationed at Azkaban Overzhrown—Death Eaters On Zhe Rampage, Led By Lucius Malfoy.”

Whispers rippled through the crowd of students. Faces paled in a wave.

“Zhey have escaped,” she told Malfoy.

A muscled Slytherin chap stood beside her—one of the Beaters for Slytherin Quidditch. He gazed down at Draco with some sympathy in his eyes.

“It vos only a matter of time,” the big Slytherin offered. His voice was so deep it rumbled nearby flatware. “Iz not Malfoy's fault. Blame hiz fazher. He iz zhe criminal.”

Kieran rested his hands on Draco's shoulder, shooing the fuzzy little owl away.

“Draco,” he whispered in his friend's ear. “Draco, you alright?”

Draco said nothing. The spark of life, of hope and faith and believing, was gone from his chest. His eyes were dead, focused on nothing, no color in his face or strength in his limbs. He was hardly breathing, shoulders still as stone beneath Kieran's fingers. Perhaps he thought he was going to die—that someone with a beef against Lucius Malfoy would try to slit his son's throat in the night, or that people would blame him for his father's actions, for his escape from prison. Maybe Draco thought his dad would come to Hogwarts, just like Sirius Black had broken out of wizard prison and come after Harry Potter several years ago.

That had to be it. Draco wouldn't be afraid of just anyone coming for his head. He was used to witches and wizards and stupid wankers hating him—for his name, for his family, for his Dark ways, for the person he loved. Very few things scared Draco. He could handle anything. He executed flawless Wronski Feints the likes of which would leave a lesser man trembling in fear. He ventured into the Forbidden Forest, practiced the Dark Arts and fought with Harry Potter, arguably one of the most powerful wizards of the age. Draco didn't frighten easily.

But the thought of his father, escaped from prison and gunning for his heir, scared the very life out of Draco.

His own father, Lucius Malfoy, was coming to kill him.

 

 

 

 

 


	53. Beretta: 1945

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry, Ron and Hermione work to uncover Hufflepuff's cup. They encounter more than they'd bargained for at Malfoy Manor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** magical battle, adult language, violence, blood  & gore, potential/unclear minor character deaths, Harry being seventeen-and-forthwith-a-complete-and-utter-idiot

_“_ _Gray silence settled over every tribe and people._

_ After the bells of baroque churches, after a hand on a saber, _

_ After disputes over free will, and arguments of diets. _

  
  


_ I blinked, ridiculous and rebellious, _

_ Alone with my Jesus Mary against irrefutable power, _

_ A descendant of ardent prayers, of gilded sculptures and miracles.” _

  
  


_1945_

Czeslaw Milosz

**  
  
  
**   
  
Harry was surprised how short a time it took to assemble a strike force, once the Ministry and the Americans found a way to work together for the common good. It felt as though one day he, Hermione and Ron were talking with Leon about getting into Malfoy Manor... and the next, they were waiting in the Wiltshire forests with wands and guns and grim faces, counting their heartbeats to pass the silence.    
  
It was almost pitch black in the woods. Harry had closed his eyes Apparating, so that when they arrived outside Stonehenge, his vision would be somewhat adjusted to the dark. Other members of their party had stumbled as they picked their way across the countryside, sticking to the ditches and tree cover when it was available, prowling under cover of Disillusionment Spells and Notice-Me-Not Charms. Harry kept warm under his Invisibility cloak.    
  
They stood, gathered in little clumps of friends and colleagues, in the woods surrounding Malfoy Manor. Ron had his long wand out, its winding metal catching what moonlight there was reflecting off the snow. His freckled face was about as white as the cold ground, his jaw set in a hard line. He kept throwing unreadable looks Harry's way—mixtures of resignation, camaraderie and disorientation, as though he hadn't really expected Harry to allow him on the battlefield again. But Ron had been brilliant all throughout their teenage years, fighting off the myriad of dangers Voldemort had thrown Harry's way. Even as a first year, Ron had been brilliant. He'd more than proven himself against the werewolves, Death Eaters and Inferi who'd stormed Hogwarts grounds back in October. Everything Ron needed was already there: all he had to do was believe in himself a little more, and everything would fall into place.    
  
Immediately to Harry's left, Hermione was fiddling with the cuff of her wooly winter hat. She seemed nervous more than anything, not liking to be so near to Malfoy Manor—the old pureblood stronghold packed with Death Eaters, violent-minded werewolves and Merlin knew what else. Her gaze tended toward Harry's face, or a glance up at Ron. She'd been silent through most of the preparation process; uncharacteristic of her, having not once shut her mouth all through the planning stages. Harry was thankful for her silence now, however brooding it was.   
  
He didn't have to look far to know the cause of it.   
  
Dmitry Ionescue stood nearby, using a rag to wipe the blood from his freshly healed arm.   
  
Hermione's eyes narrowed. It wasn't long before she turned, burying her forehead against Ron's shoulder for warmth. Harry could read her thoughts in the set of her shoulders, and the little huff of breath which escaped her mouth in a cloud, floating away between the tree trunks. She couldn't know what magic Dmitry was up to, but she knew she didn't care for it one bit.   
  
Harry inched his way over to the Romanian fellow. Dmitry met his gaze.   
  
“You have to use your own blood?” Harry asked under his breath. Dima checked his arm to be sure it was healed.   
  
“It vos mine or Mishenka's,” the man replied plainly. “Mine made more zense.” He shrugged his coat back on—a heavy canvas jacket, spelled dusty white to blend with the snow in the event that his Disillusionment Charm should fail during the fight.   
  
“What kind of magic is it? Did you learn it at Durmstrang, or from... er, your dad?”   
  
Suddenly, Ron was at Harry's side.   
  
“Blood Magic,” the red head explained in a whisper. Dmitry nodded. “It's frowned upon. Most of us don't even know how it's done, exactly. Some people think it's lost.” Ron raised an eyebrow. “Apparently not.”   
  
“It's Dark Arts, then?” Harry inferred.   
  
“Call it vot you vill,” Dmitry shrugged. “If it vorks....”   
  
“Agreed,” Ron offered readily, making Harry blink. He reassessed his best mate in profile. “You do whatever it takes to protect your family,” Ron added.   
  
Harry shoved his hands in his pockets to keep warm. Deep down, he absolutely agreed. But he wasn't quite ready to voice the thought aloud.    
  
“So,” he shrugged instead, “what's this spell gonna do?”   
  
“It's not just zhe one spell,” Dmitry said. “Vhen ve layer zhem togezher, zhe magic changes. Iz related to zomezhing called a Horcrux.”   
  
Harry and Ron exchanged looks.   
  
Unfazed, Dmitry continued. “By shedding blood, ve can replicate life—for a very zhort time. In zhis vay, Mishenka can appear as ten, maybe twelve horses, razher zhan zhe one. Vith my blood, he can be an Aethonan. More native zhan Granians,  _ da _ ?”   
  
Harry nodded. “Good thinking.”   
  
He'd been nervous when the Ionescue brothers volunteered themselves as bait a second time around. They'd done it once before at Ravenwood, drawing the ire of their Death Eater father... and saving countless lives through their bravery. Harry hated to ask them to do it again. But they'd stepped forward of their own free will. They'd volunteered. He couldn't deny them.   
  
A plot had begun to take shape when Leon's team—during a preliminary search of the surrounding countryside—discovered two dragons, chained up in a cave a few kilometers away and quite irate. The illegally-kept creatures had been shrouded in powerful wards to keep them at bay, with additional spells to keep any prying wizards away. Food had been left for the angry creatures, and Ivan and Mr. Moreno had been able to track several pairs of Death Eater footprints back to the Malfoy grounds.   
  
Their plan was to dismantle the wards, break the dragons' chains and lure them out toward the Manor. The dragons would chase Misha, who would appear to be nothing more than an unfortunate foal about to become dragon fodder. Young Mikhail would lead the dragons on a rampage across the grounds, creating enough of a distraction that Harry, a handful of Aurors, and Leon's team could sneak into the house. Or bust their way in. They had enough men. From there, it was hard to say. They'd know more once they got inside.   
  
The Ionescues weren't the only ones to volunteer for this mission. There were Aurors, Hit Wizards, witches and wizards from the Obliviators and the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Harry reckoned the second coming of Lord Voldemort constituted a disaster—the Dark wizard had certainly ripped through Harry's life like a storm, tearing everything to shreds. There were also a surprising number of civilian volunteers; foreign refugees like the Ionescues and Chern Toleanu, people drawn into the fight, ex-patriots like Leon Harper, and even a second Field Ops Team, led by Rikka's ex husband. The American witch and her ex had stationed themselves on opposite sides of the Manor, of course. They were still squabbling over assets in a nasty, protracted divorce, but that didn't stop either of them from volunteering to do the right thing when it came to the war. Everyone there was a soldier—whether by training or by will. Everyone believed in the cause, in what they were doing.   
  
Peering around through the dark, Harry recognized a Belgian wizard from the Order of The Phoenix, and a blonde woman he'd seen with Margie Gweir back at Ravenwood. He wanted to say something to the woman, but didn't know her name, let alone the words to offer. He caught her eyes across the snow, waving pathetically. She gave him a weak smile in return, pulling a wool hat over her head before Disillusion-ing herself for the fight.   
  
They had a good group assembled. Harry hoped that together, they would be enough. It was hard to know what-all was actually awaiting them in Malfoy Manor. Headmistress McGonagall had had a few brief reports from Severus Snape—mostly useless, as always. Snape's communications contained no new insights, nothing which Harry didn't already know from Draco. Both Snape and Draco said the stately old home had been appropriated as barracks for various displaced Death Eaters, the catacombs below transformed into a holding area for Lord Voldemort's less important prisoners. Harry hoped to get a few good men down there to free those people before the sun rose.   
  
His target was Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Voldemort's horcrux. But only Ron, Hermione and Draco knew that—and only the first two would be going with him in search of it. Just as Voldemort spread his soul thin to preserve his life, Harry withheld information; withheld it from those most precious to him, so that he might never be caught with all of his eggs in one basket, never offering Voldemort a firm-enough place to strike back and cripple Harry's offence. Dumbledore had said it was important to know your enemy, to understand the way he thought and the reasoning behind his actions. Harry was only learning from his foe, and protecting what was most precious to him.    
  
“I don't like zhis.”   
  
Nebojsa had come to stand at Dmitry's side, cracking his knuckles around the long black wand in his hands. The Serbian wizard looked only moderately healthier, a bit less like death warmed over. His face was still pinched, drawn and ill; the pink in his cheeks entirely brought on by the cold. It was the only color in his face, but at least he was standing and walking around without cussing under his breath. He walked with the aid of a large branch whittled down to a walking stick, poking at the ground for dips before he took a step. He would be sitting out this fight but hadn't been content to sit at Grimmauld Place warming his thumbs by the fire. Nebojsa served as one of the scouts; the messenger for this particular base of operations, sending his Patronus back and forth with instructions to other scouts stationed around the house. His Patronus in particular was perfect for the job—a small bird, hardly bigger than a finch, and impossible to discern from the real thing at more than a few meters. One of the other scouts had a Patronus in the marmot family. Harry had seen it zip by a few minutes ago; weaving between tree trunks and magical folk's ankles, low and quick, blending in with the snow.   
  
“Don't like zhis at all,” the Serb repeated, lower.   
  
“You don't like anything,” Harry teased.   
  
Nebojsa smiled, spreading his arms. “ _ Ja _ _ sam _ _ luđa od vašeg _ _ kurac _ ...”    
  
Harry tried to translate what he knew in his head. In the end he just laughed behind his hand, knowing the man was talking something about one of their todgers. Nebojsa put his forearm to Harry's shoulder, leaning his weight on the shorter fellow, his face hovering close.   
  
“Ve know,” he told Harry in a whisper. When Harry tried to turn his head to look the man in the eye, Nebojsa pushed at his chin, forcing Harry's head forward—forcing him to look out over the snow-covered grounds of Malfoy Manor. “Ve know vhy you do zhis.” He jutted his pointed features toward the old pureblood stronghold. The house was little more than a dark mound in a sea of white, the gardens and lawns all covered in a thin layer of snow.   
  
“You vant it back,” Nebojsa continued. “For Draco.”   
  
Harry nodded. There was a part of him, deep down, which wanted to reclaim Draco’s ancestral home—as though by ridding it of Death Eaters, he could somehow return a part of Draco’s sanity, give him back some of his childhood, his pureblooded pride. Draco wasn’t entirely himself without it.   
  
“There’s something else in there—something I need very badly,” Harry admitted. “But I’d be lying if I said Draco wasn’t a part of it.”   
  
“Zhen ve’ll be zure you get it, votever it is.”   
  
“Thanks,” Harry mumbled. “I appreciate it.”   
  
Ron tapped him on the shoulder. “Harry. They're saying it’s about time.”   
  
“M’kay. You and Hermione stick close, I’ll be right behind you.” With a last look from Dmitry, Nebojsa and Ron, Harry flipped the Invisibility cloak over his shoulders, disappearing from view. He followed Ron to the edge of the woods, to the very boulder they'd crouched behind while surveying the place less than three weeks ago.   
  
It was Ron getting attacked by that Yeti which had started all this, really. Faced with evidence of lawbreaking at Malfoy Manor, Minister Scrimgeour was able to authorize a search of the property. Days later, there were volunteers chomping at the bit to have a go at Malfoy Manor. Draco's family—specifically his father—had enemies. With his escape from Azkaban, Lucius was once again in the public eye. And the man was a poster child for everything the wizarding population disliked about purebloods—wealthy, an elitist, and an ice-hearted bastard, to boot. Whatever the man might be like on the inside, Lucius Malfoy was easy enough for the public to dislike.   
  
Harry wanted to think Lucius had some redeeming qualities. He really did. After all, Draco was half Lucius. So, for all his flaws, Lucius couldn't be entirely bad. Still, the things Harry knew about the man drowned out any more temperate voices in his head. The thought of Lucius Malfoy made his jaw tighten uncontrollably, made his teeth grind and veins stand out along his arms. He knew what the man was capable of. And a small part of him, a part which still lived in the Dursley's cupboard and thought Harry Potter was a nobody, was nothing special... that part of Harry's mind feared the man who might one day be his father-in-law.   
  
Harry braced himself for the possibility of seeing Lucius Malfoy tonight. Or Bellatrix Lestrange, Draco's aunt. Or that bastard, Philippe Didier. Voldemort ranked a paltry fourth place on Harry's shit list. That was a first.   
  
He cracked his knuckles beneath the cloak.   
  
Beside him, Kitarou Hitori jumped.   
  
Harry peeked out from under the cloak, catching the Japanese-American's attention to shoot him a quick wink.   
  
“Invisibility Cloak, Potter? Convenient,” the man muttered, shaking his head. “I've never seen one that good. Usually there's some haze at the edges.”   
  
“Harry's has always been seamless,” Hermione put in.   
  
Hitori scratched his neck in thought. “Where'd you come by it?”   
  
“It was my Dad's.”   
  
“Unusual....”   
  
Harry cocked his head. “How so?”   
  
Hermione was the first to answer. “Invisibility Cloaks made of Demiguise hair tend to lose their magical properties over time, possibly through wear-and-tear. And cloaks made of enchantments lose their power when the caster of the spells passes away.” She brushed a lock of hair away from her face with a mitten-clad hand. They looked suspiciously like Mrs. Weasley mittens. “Despite its age, Harry, your cloak is pristine.”   
  
“Wish we knew where your Dad got it from,” Ron muttered.   
  
“Yeah,” Harry agreed. While he was still visible, he looked over at Hitori—the man was close to Harry's size, which made him quite short for an adult. It was nice, though, not having to look up. It made them feel like equals: the same could be said for Draco. “Where's Ivan?”   
  
“He's doing one last perimeter check. Then we move.”   
  
Ivan and Hitori would be heading up Harry's Super Secret Infiltration Team, since Harry had worked with them both before and knew what to expect. This was going to be chaos, a mess—with dragons breathing fire, Dark wizards throwing curses and Merlin only knew what else. All of that stood between him and the house—and what lay in wait inside was an even greater mystery. He wanted people loyal to him and not the Ministry surrounding him when they entered Malfoy Manor. Things would be bad enough once the dark curses started to fly—he didn't need anyone disobeying orders, or worse, turning on him. He also knew the two Americans would be able to protect Ron and Hermione when he couldn't.   
  
His two friends were going to help him look for Hufflepuff's cup once they got inside. It would be faster with three people, he'd decided. Draco was kind enough to provide them with a blueprint of the estate—grounds, secret passages, cubby holes and all. If Hufflepuff's cup was still in there, they'd find it. They might have to turn the house upside down and uproot the rose garden in the process, but their task was too important not to exhaust every possible option. They had to find the cup, along with the three other remaining horcruxes, before Voldemort and his followers could get any stronger.   
  
Ivan burst through the treeline at a sprint. He threw out his big hands, catching himself on the nearby boulder. He was a huge man—perhaps eighteen stone—and it took a stone boulder to stop his momentum. He grabbed Hitori by the shoulder.   
  
“Ve've got trouble.”   
  
Across the hill, trees began to shift. Branches ruffled, shaking off a thin layer of snow. And then their trunks bent nearly to the ground; upended from the roots, pushed aside by two great lumps of shadow. Harry squinted.   
  
“Trolls?” Hermione whispered, her back pressed flush against Ron's chest.   
  
“Vorse,” Ivan replied. “Giants.”   
  
Harry secured his cloak. “We've got this. Come on.” He caught Ron and Hermione's shoulders, drawing them down the hill. Ivan and Hitori followed at a few paces, keeping low.   
  
“What do you mean, 'we've got this?'” Ron hissed between gritted teeth. He dug his boots into the snow, resisting Harry's urging.   
  
“You can't mean... first year?” Hermione spluttered.   
  
Beneath the cloak, Harry smirked. “ _ Wingardium Levio-sah, _ ” he teased. “Remember?”   
  
Ron shook his head. “Bloody hell.”   
  
“I'll play defence,” Harry offered. “That leaves you one each. Hitori and Ivan will back you up. Just go for it,” he gave each of their shoulders a squeeze. “I know you can do it.”   
  
“But—” Ron began to protest.   
  
“Too late,” Hermione moaned. The giants had caught sight of them, doubling their gait.   
  
They were huge—half-again as tall as a Mountain Troll and twice as wide. They were male, with tangled hair and wild, bushy beards, legs like rubbish trucks and hands the size of dinner tables.   
  
Ron was muttering under his breath. “I can do this, I can absolutely do this....”   
  
Ivan caught up with them, his boots leaving huge indentations in the snow. “Vands at zhe ready,” he cautioned. He and Hitori shared a nod... and then they put on a burst of speed, drawing the giants' attention so Ron and Hermione might have a better chance. Invisible, Harry ran right down the middle.   
  
A huge limb swung down, missing Harry by inches. He dove, rolling through the snow, shooting his first spell from the hip before springing to his feet. His Stunner was off, flying past the giant's face but the streak of red light passed close enough to his eyes that he was disoriented, his next swing falling short of Hermione, Ron and Hitori.   
  
“Split up!” Harry shouted, shooting more non-verbal spells into the air. “And keep moving, all of you!”   
  
Ivan was already twenty meters off, drawing attention by shooting sparks into the air as Harry had done. The second giant swiveled at the light exploding around him, nearly losing his footing in the snow. Hitori shot off a spell, conjured netting appearing above the giant's head and falling around his face and shoulders. He turned his attention to pulling the sticky fibers off his face, ignoring the wizards on the ground.   
  
“Hermione!” yelled Harry, still distracting the first giant. “Now! Get him!”   
  
Ron was faster. His Levitation Spell lifted one of the nearby uprooted trees, cracking the giant upside the head with it. The giant bellowed, back-pedaling, losing his footing in the snow.   
  
Hermione wasn't far behind Ron, lifting two additional trees with a flick of her wand and sending them hurtling towards the falling giant. The tree trunks passed by either side of the giant's head, tangling in the netting. Their inertia was enough to topple the giant, the tree limbs acting like stakes, securing him to the ground by the netting wrapped around his head.   
  
Harry sidestepped—danced and dove to evade the first giant, now enraged at the abuse his companion was suffering.   
  
“A little help here?” Harry called. More witches and wizards were coming down from the forests. He wanted to have both giants immobilized before anyone else arrived. This commotion would be visible from the Manor, and Death Eaters would already be on their way. They had precious little time.   
  
Ron and Hermione came at a sprint, Ivan and Hitori on their heels. Harry had moved away from the others, rolling arse over tea kettle down the hill. He spit snow out of his mouth before vaulting over an ornamental hedge, into the Malfoy gardens. He ducked behind a statue just long enough to catch his breath.   
  
He came out swinging, shooting Stunning Spells up by the giant's head—drawing its gaze away from the flood of people ready to attack it from behind. He jumped when a spell blasted an arm off the statue he'd been hiding behind. Plaster filled the air like snow, white sparks chasing one another around his vision from the strength of the blast. He ducked and rolled, making himself as small a target as possible. Harry rolled himself right into a nearby hedge, curling up in a ball and wrapping the cloak tight around his shoulders and knees. He held his breath.   
  
Footsteps raced by—Death Eaters. He could hear their voices, high and worried, asking one another if the grounds had been breached, if they should contact the Dark Lord himself at the Ministry premises. Harry clamped his hand over his mouth, willing himself to make no sound, to truly not exist. The Death Eaters were engaged in combat a moment later. He heard curses shouted, recognized Ivan's yell of fury, and Ron's bellowed Hurling Hex, sending several Death Eaters up into the air. Their bodies hit the ground seconds later. Bones cracked. Hopefully a few of them wouldn't be getting up again.   
  
Harry checked that the coast was clear before ducking out from his shrubbery. He approached the line of Death Eaters from behind, taking pot shots at their backs as he searched for a break in the ranks where he might slip back through to Ron and Hermione.   
  
One good Reductor Curse from Hermione was all he needed. He took off at a run, hurdling the body of a Death Eater as the cloaked figure fell. He reached Hermione just as Ron did.   
  
“I think we should go now,” Harry advised, “before any more of the guards show up. They were talking about reinforcements....”   
  
“Fair enough,” Ron agreed.   
  
Hermione gave a grim nod, pushing her hair out of her face. “Okay. Let's go, boys.”   
  
Ron signaled Ivan and Hitori. They Disillusioned one another and took off, hunched and not making a sound, creeping through the gardens and then the gate, into Malfoy Manor.   
  
Draco's map suggested they use a side entrance located near the kitchens. They cut their way through the gardens, pressing against walls or diving off the path whenever a group of Death Eaters swept by. From the looks of it, there weren't as many at the Manor as they'd feared. Harry held his breath as they snuck in through the seldom-used kitchen door. There wasn't so much as a house elf in sight, the kitchen hearth dead with ash. Ron took up Hermione's hand as they passed into the main hall, wands held out before them.   
  
Harry and Ivan took the lead, Ron and Hermione in the center and Hitori bringing up the rear.   
  
Malfoy Manor was a beautiful place. No amount of seeing the house in Draco's mind could compare to the grandeur of it, the sense of tradition and history. Ancestors snoozed in their portraits along the walls. Every door handle was crystal set in gold. Carved wooden cornices adorned every doorway, and end tables bearing ancient vases seemed to grow out of the walls themselves, the flowers in said vases long dead, wilted and dried up.   
  
They paused before entering the main stairway—a grand receiving room three stories tall, with marble floors and a sweeping velvet-carpeted staircase. Harry, his friends and the Americans hid in a washroom, waiting for a group of Death Eaters to pass. Then, when the coast was clear, they crept through the grand hall and up the stairs to Lucius Malfoy's study.   
  
Ivan kept an eye on the corridor as they tore the room apart, searching.   
  
“Remember,” Hermione cautioned, “it could very well have been charmed to look like something else. You-Know-Who wouldn't be above hiding it in plain sight.”   
  
“Or it might not be here at all,” Ron grumbled under his breath.   
  
Harry straightened, wiping sweat from his brow. It was hot under the cloak. “We have to keep looking.”   
  
Hitori stepped forward. “Might be faster if I helped....”   
  
“No,” answered Ron, Hermione and Harry in unison. The redhead and brunette returned immediately to their tasks, leaving Harry to explain. He didn’t mince words.   
  
“The more you know, the more danger you're in. So mind out.”   
  
Grim, Hitori gave a nod of understanding. He turned his back to them, standing with Ivan in observation of the halls outside.   
  
Minutes bled by. Harry emptied the contents of Lucius Malfoy's desk. Hermione pulled every last book and Dark artifact from the shelves. Ron ransacked the liquor cabinet, as well as anything within a several meter radius. The cabinet had been the last place Draco had seen Hufflepuff's cup, after all. Hermione went over to help Ron search. Boiling under the cloak, Harry opened a door leading out to a small balcony.   
  
He smelled blood on the wind. There were bodies lying out in the snow—a few of them dead, others still dying, patches of blood in the whiteness of snow. Duels raged in the ornamental gardens. More Aurors streamed from the woods... yet more Death Eaters would appear, Apparating in or using Portkeys, it would seem, as the house was all but empty.   
  
Harry sighed. Perhaps this had been a fool's errand. Perhaps Voldemort had already moved Hufflepuff's cup to a more secure location. The Dark Lord didn't seem to care too much for Malfoy Manor—there had been no reports of Voldemort returning to the location since Draco's torture, and few if any of his important commanders were stationed there. But the Death Eaters who fought for the place were no less fierce for the lack of their master's presence.    
  
Harry watched as a blonde Death Eater witch blasted her way through three Aurors, dropping them to the ground in agony, before rounding on the next wave of attackers. In the distance, Dmitry was leading a charge down the hill, at least thirty men behind him, every wand raised. Dima had a blade to hand, glowing green in the dark. He slit throats as he ran, shouldering bodies out of his way, breaking noses with his elbows and landing blows with precision equal to his spells. Even the Aurors gave him a wide berth.   
  
Harry hoped these people weren't about to die for nothing. There had to be something at Malfoy Manor—something worth fighting for, worth dying for. He turned, preparing to head back inside.   
  
“Harry?” Hermione called. “You alright?”   
  
Harry opened his mouth to reply. But just then, sound escaped him.   
  
From the other side of the mansion, a shadow appeared, spreading across the snow-covered gardens. It blocked out what little moonlight there was, turning the air black as it flew high in the sky. Below, everyone craned their necks, peering skyward.   
  
The sky lit up in orange—fire.   
  
Misha had arrived. No less than a dozen Aethonans graced the night sky, wings beating against a backdrop of clouds and stars. And hot on his heels were dragons. Harry counted six, all with jaws snapping, breathing fire.   
  
Misha swooped low—Harry could make out the largest of the winged horses out front, leading the pack. That had to be the Romanian boy. He planned his first dive, a burst of dragon's fire catching several Death Eaters unawares. Almost immediately, the fire began to spread through the gardens. Witches and wizards screamed orders. Smoke bloomed from dry branches, crackling, snow melting in the sudden heat. Organized fronts disbanded in seconds, scattering.   
  
As the dragons made their first pass, Harry did a double take. He squinted.   
  
“Oi, Ron!” He yelled back through the open doorway. “Come look at these. I can't make out if it's a Norwegian Ridgeback or a Hung—”   
  
A burst of flame came too close, catching the wings of a horse at the back of the group. A moment later, Harry had both hands clamped over his ears as whinnying screams filled the night.   
  
The magic protecting Misha burned up. One by one, Aethonans vanished like so many puffs of smoke, until there was only one left—Mikhail, one wing aflame, careening at breakneck speed toward the Manor. With a crash Harry felt through the stone floor, Misha tumbled onto a balcony two floors up and several doors over. The dragons continued to circle overhead, blowing steady streams of fire at any witch or wizard to aim a spell skyward.   
  
Harry broke for the corridor.   
  
Ron tore after him, Ivan on his heels.   
  
“Harry! The fuck are you goin', mate?”   
  
“Misha’s hurt!” Harry shouted. He was jogging backwards, tripping over carpets but unwilling to slow his pace. “Stay here,” he ordered his friend. “Protect Hermione. And for fuck's sake, keep looking!”    
  
Ivan started running too, following the sound of Harry’s voice. Hitori held Ron back by his lanky shoulders, shepherding him back into the study. Ivan caught up quickly, and together they found the nearest flight of stairs.   
  
“Vot are you going to do vhen ve find him?” Ivan asked, only a step behind.   
  
“I have no fucking clue, alright?!” Harry snapped. He took the next corner so fast, his shoulder smacked against the wall. He kept running as fast as he could. “But I can’t let him....”  _ Die alone _ , Harry finished in his head.  _ Like my Mum. Like my Dad.  _ “He’s too young and too good to die like this.”   
  
“Ve all die, Potter,” Ivan huffed. “Zome of us zooner zhan ve deserve. Accept zhat.” The big man trailed him down a windowless corridor.   
  
Harry recognized his surroundings without ever having visited the place before. It was an eery feeling. But he knew each hall, each twist and turn and scratch in the old woodwork—knew them from Draco’s mind. The blonde had left memories in Harry like planted seeds, guiding him around his childhood home, giving him the grand tour. He flashed on a memory of a young Draco no more than knee high running down this very corridor, nearly tripping over a carpet as he chased a house elf, brandishing a stick at the frightened creature and cackling with that burbling, chipmunk-laugh of his.   
  
Harry reached the middle of the hall and stopped outside a grand door, dreading what he might find within.   
  
Without thinking, he threw the door open, charging inside. He didn’t need the light from Ivan’s wand to make out the smoking bits of human out on the nearby balcony. He raced by an ornate dresser and writing desk, shouldering open the balcony doors and dropping to his knees. His wand clattered away, forgotten.   
  
“Misha! Fucking hell, can you hear me?” his voice cracked, hands hovering, helpless. “It’s Harry. Harry. I’m here to help you. What can I do?”   
  
The boy was half man, half beast, one feathery, five foot wing jutting from chestnut bristles at his back, twitching cream-colored ears peeking out through the mess of his black hair. The left side of his body was blackened—smoldering from shoulder to below the waist of his trousers, robes and parts of his shirt burned away. Blood ran from the wounds, from his mouth and the corner of his eye like one thick, red tear.   
  
Frantic, Harry twisted back, looking for Ivan.   
  
“Should we carry him inside?”   
  
The big man just shrugged. His ginger-blonde beard shuffled. “Iz ‘ee dead?”   
  
Harry heard his heart in his ears; it felt about to explode from his chest. This was his fault. If it weren’t for him, Dima and Misha would still be on the run. They’d be in Brazil or Panama by now, shirtless and tan, sipping ales on the beach... lifetimes away from this madness. Harry reached for the boy, ghosting the backs of fingers down his cheek.   
  
“What should I do?” he croaked. “I don’t... I can’t....”   
  
Ivan crouched down beside Harry. “Zhere iz a Ministry Healer, Purlish, down zhere.” He pointed with a thick, hairy-knuckled finger, down and off a ways, past the gardens to the gate beyond. The air was slowly filling with smoke as the dragons passed overhead, lighting up the night with fire and screams.   
  
Harry nodded frantically. “Can you get him?” Harry croaked. “Please?”   
  
Ivan looked from Harry to Misha, placing a hand before the boy’s open mouth—feeling for his breath, Harry realized with a jolt. All logic had fallen out the back of his head the moment he saw all that blood. Some hardened commander  _ he _ was.   
  
When Ivan’s gaze returned, his eyes were hard. His hand landed on Harry’s shoulder. “I don’t zhink he vill make it.”   
  
“No.”   
  
The word was a knee-jerk reaction. He knew it was stupid. He knew, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t want anyone else to die for him, to die because of him. He wanted all this to be over, for everyone to be with their families and the people they loved. But it seemed like the world was dying all around him. A part of him feared he might be next. He felt that wild, frightened-child impulse trying to claw its way out of the cage he kept it in, buried deep in his chest, right behind his heart. He slammed the door shut, locking it away.   
  
“Get Purlish,” he told Ivan. “Now. That’s an order.”   
  
“Can’t,  _ govniuk _ ,” Ivan said firmly. “I vos assigned to protect yoo. No vone else.”   
  
Harry’s eyes widened. “So you’ll let an innocent man die?!”   
  
Ivan shrugged. “‘Ee iz already dead.” Another twitch of ginger-blond whiskers. A flicker around the eyes. “Vell, nearly.”   
  
Harry screwed up his courage—it came from somewhere between his small intestines and scrotum, and it welled up inside his chest like bile and vomit, rabid for escape.   
  
“Fuck you! I won’t let that happen.”   
  
An outstretched hand Summoned his wand in a blink. He didn’t have time to think before the spell was off.   
  
_ Imperio. _   
  
  


  
  
  
Dmitry burst through the door, blood spattered across his face. The door itself split with a heavy crack, a shoulder-shaped dent in the ancient lacquered wood, a hinge ripped from the frame and the door tilting, swinging freely, smacking against the wall with plaster-loosening force. Yuri came a moment later, an axe-like weapon at his side dripping Death Eater blood all over the fancy Persian rug.   
  
“Vhere iz he!?” Dima bellowed. The floorboards shook.   
  
Ivan had just laid Mikhail out on the bed, Harry hovering close by, devoting every ounce of his concentration to his Unforgiveable. It was the only thing keeping Misha alive. The connection wavered, threatening to extinguish at any moment.   
  
Harry put a knee to the bed, leaning in even as blood soaked through the layers of blankets, staining down to the fine sheets beneath. He placed a hand to Misha’s bare chest, willing his magic to hold. He could only hope it would be enough, that Mikhail could hold out.   
  
“Don’t you bloody die on me,” Harry insisted, with all the weight of Dark Magic behind him. “Don’t you fucking dare.”   
  
Dima shoved Ivan out of the way—a feat of strength made possible, Harry thought, by his Animagus nature. The man reached, as Harry had, for his brother’s face, touching the boy’s closed eyes.   
  
“‘Ee’s alive,” Ivan grunted. “Barely. And yoo’re velcome.”   
  
Dmitry pulled ampules of potion from his pockets, crawling up on the grand-styled bed in order to pour them down his baby brother’s throat, one right after the other. His hands shook, ripping at stoppers and tossing the ampules away the moment he’d finished with them. They crashed against the hardwood floor. He muttered under his breath—the same words, over and over again. Harry had heard them before, from Nebojsa. Dima was praying.   
  
With each second, Harry felt Misha struggle for life—felt his lungs aching to function, the haze of pain dancing through his mind, leaving him helpless. He was still weak... too weak to live without the magic of Harry’s influence, the power of that order to stay alive. But in time, he would be right again. Harry repeated the thought over and over in his head as Dima muttered and worked. Ivan glanced out the window at the battle below. And Yura paced, leaving little trails of blood and melted snow along the rugs.   
  
With a jolt, Harry began to process his surroundings: the blue and green bed linens, rich wallpaper peppered with bookshelves and framed, moving Quidditch posters... the tidy row of black leather dress shoes beneath the armoire, and a Hogwarts trunk atop it. This was Draco’s room. These were Draco’s things—his bed, his school trunk, his book of philosophy and half-empty bottle of bourbon still on the nightstand, as though he’d never left.   
  
The scent hit him. Draco lingered in this place: apples and Quidditch leather and autumn wafting off the bedding, mixed with dirt and sweat and blood. His eyes stung. He looked to the carpet.   
  
A wet sound escaped Misha’s throat. Harry couldn’t make out whether it was the potions in his throat or blood coming up from the boy’s cooked internal organs, signaling the end to his very short, very brave life.   
  
_ Don’t die _ , Harry thought wildly.  _ You can’t die. _   
  
Dmitry mumbled. “ _ Gospod s’ toboyu, blagoslovena _ ....”   
  
He couldn’t take it—Draco’s room, Mikhail’s gasping, deathbed breaths, Dima’s praying. He was ill-equipped to deal with any of it. He needed out.   
  
“Healer Purlish is here,” Harry advised in a rush. “From Ravenwood. I’ll—”   
  
Ivan opened his mouth to protest. Dmitry was quicker.   
  
“Get him!”   
  
Harry ran out of the room, Ivan on his heels.   
  
One hallway looked like every other hallway now. Even when he glanced out the windows as they flashed by, the view and the night sky beyond were obscured by billowing smoke from the fires below. The ornamental gardens were burning. Panic clogged his vision as much as the smoke. He couldn’t tell north from south, forced to pick turns at random. Within seconds, they were right back where they started, back outside Draco’s bedroom door. Even his old  _ Point Me _ spell was no use.   
  
Maybe it was magic fooling them, keeping them in one spot. He wouldn’t put it past purebloods like the Malfoys to booby-trap their houses; after all, visitors at Malfoy Manor were often only a few degrees away from potential invaders. Maybe a Malfoy ancestor had enchanted the house so it couldn’t be scouted by their enemies, posing as guests in order to learn the layout before launching a secret attack. That type of cunning and utter lack of loyalty was likely a key factor in how the Malfoy family had survived so many wars with their hides and Gringotts vaults unscathed.   
  
Harry barely resisted the urge to punch a hole in the nearest stretch of wallpaper.   
  
“Vich vay?” Ivan spluttered.    
  
Harry panted. He couldn’t catch his breath. “I dunno.” He came to a halt, brushing a frazzled hand through his hair. “Split up?”   
  
“Ve should stick togezer,” cautioned Ivan.   
  
The big man jumped when there was a loud  _ crack _ , a tiny house elf appearing between them. In a blink, Ivan had a wand pointed in the creature’s face.   
  
Harry immediately identified the house elf as female. She was as small as Winky, quite thin, and wore a lacy white dress which could have easily belonged to a doll before having been appropriated as elf-wear. She even had a little headband with a rose made of silk stuck to one side, accenting her one floppy ear.   
  
There were tears on the elf’s face. She looked scared out of her mind, her yellow-orange eyes gone wide. She launched herself at Harry, reaching for his hand. Warily, he pointed his wand at her.   
  
“You belong to the Malfoy family?”   
  
She nodded nervously.   
  
Harry pointed back to Draco’s room. “There’s a boy in there, in Draco’s room, who’s a friend of his. He’s hurt. He might die,” Harry swallowed hard, willing his voice steady. He felt his throat tighten. “We need to get a Healer up here, right now—and there’s one outside, by the gate. Will you take one of us?” he gestured between himself and Ivan. It didn't much matter who went, so long as they could get help for Misha.   
  
“A friend of Young Master Malfoy?” she repeated. Her frame was small, too low to the ground; Harry couldn’t read her body language, as if he had the time.   
  
“Yes. Please, will you help us? Can you get past the Anti-Apparition Jinx, and get just one of us down there? Or can you get the Healer up here somehow?”   
  
“Kit will be helping Harry Potter,” she said guardedly, hugging herself tight, “only if Harry Potter swears he will protect the Mistress.”   
  
“I don’t—” Ivan began. Harry cut him off.   
  
“You mean Mrs. Malfoy? She’s here?!”   
  
The elf, Kit, nodded. She pointed down the hall, as Harry had pointed back at Draco’s bedroom except in the opposite direction. Her whole body trembled. “The Mistress,” she pleaded.   
  
Harry made his decision before Ivan could so much as open his mouth.   
  
“Yes! I’ll do it, yes!” The words tumbled from him in a rush. His gut told him there was no time to argue, to think—and his magic told him that which he didn’t wish to hear... that Misha was dying. The boy didn’t have long.   
  
Harry glanced back at the door to Draco’s room, imagining the panic Dmitry had to be feeling; his brother, the last of his family dying in his arms, and him powerless to stop it. He didn’t even have Nebojsa to comfort him.   
  
But Harry could do something. He would do anything. “Please, just get the Healer. Draco’s friend is dying.”   
  
Kit tugged on his pant leg. “ _ Please _ . Mistress first.”   
  
Harry turned to Ivan. “I’ll go. Can you hold the hall?”   
  
“ _ Blya _ ,” the man spat. He flattened his back against the wall, scanning up and down the dark corridor with watchful eyes. “Leon zaid you vere headstrong. Who iz zhis voman, anyvay?”   
  
Kit was already pulling him away—with magic, as there was no other way a house elf weighing a single stone could drag a seventeen-year-old boy down a hallway with such ease. Harry put a hand to the top of Kit’s head to keep his balance. He called back to Ivan, “She’s my mother-in-law. Just stay put!”   
  
He heard Ivan grumbling before Kit pulled him through a solid wall.   
  
They emerged in a hallway which was clearly located on one of the lower floors—smoke completely obscured the windows, orange flames flickering through the grey like lightning bolts inside a cloud. The smell of smoke and things burning grew stronger as Kit drew Harry down the hall. The corners of his vision swirled with smoke as Kit pulled him along by the hand. He used the collar of his shirt to cover his nose and mouth, keeping up at a jog.   
  
Kit waved her hands over a set of double doors, concentrating on her house elf magic. It took several seconds before Harry heard a click.   
  
“Mistress is inside,” Kit told him—told his kneecaps, she was so small. “Only Harry Potter can protect her.”   
  
Harry put a hand to the door knob. It wouldn’t open.   
  
Kit laid a hand on top of his, over the ornate handle. She informed his knees, “Mistress is not Mistress anymore. They took her.”   
  
Harry frowned. “Took her where?”   
  
He didn’t understand what Kit was getting at. It was times like these he wished the magical world wasn’t quite so whimsical—that fantastic creatures would speak in plain English instead of nonsense rhymes, and that there were no such things as prophecies for wizards to misinterpret and wind up killing each other over. His life would be so much easier if everyone would stop speaking in riddles and foreign tongues.   
  
“Harry Potter  _ must _ protect Mistress,” Kit insisted, frantic, voice rising in pitch.   
  
“I’ll protect her with my life,” Harry swore. “Just get the damn Healer. Don’t let an innocent boy die.”   
  
Kit disappeared with a  _ crack _ . At the same time, the knob twisted itself beneath Harry’s hand, allowing him into the darkened room.   
  
The first thing he saw was the flames—they licked at the window frames, held back by the house’s magic or perhaps by the house elves still loyal to the structure, by Kit's strange house elf magic and her devotion to Narcissa Malfoy. He could see flames past white organza curtains. Shadows passed by, witches and wizards fighting their way across the grounds as they burned. He could hear shouts, muffled under dragon roars and the crackling snap of flames.   
  
Harry glanced around. The room was some sort of parlor, with dainty pieces of furniture and walls of pastel blue, butterflies and birds painted near the high white moulding and enchanted to flutter about, some drifting onto the ceiling with the beating of their painted wings. A piano stood in one corner, with neat rows of sheet music stored nearby. Before each of the ten-foot-high windows stood a pedestal, and atop of each Harry could make out the shadowy outline of an instrument. Only a few were familiar shapes—a violin, a small harp, and several lutes with ornate necks made of carved jade. Light glinted off their polished wood curves and bellies. The instruments became more exotic and rare as his gaze traveled the room. His eyes passed over silhouettes, searching for the proud outline of Draco’s mother.   
  
“Mrs. Malfoy?” he called. “I’m, er… It’s Harry Potter. Kit sent me. She said you might need some, uh, some help?” He ventured a little further into the room, peeking behind the door. “Are you okay?” Wand at the ready, he took a few steps forward, using a sofa for cover. “Narcissa? Are you here?”   
  
A shadow flew out from the darkened corner, scratching and clawing at him. On instinct, Harry jumped away, flicking his wand. “ _ Expelliarmus! _ ”   
  
He heard a tiny wail.   
  
Narcissa Malfoy stood before him, her hair lit orange-gold by the light of the burning gardens, clutching her fingers against her mouth and sobbing openly. She was frail—ghoulishly thin. He might not have recognized her were it not for her silver-blonde hair, and the resemblance to Draco... especially around the eyes. Except hers were blue.   
  
Wary, he offered her his hand.   
  
“Mrs. Malfoy... I'm not here to hurt you,” he said quietly, sensing that her mind was not quite with her. He wondered where it could have gotten to. “I'm here to help.”   
  
Her brows pinched—and the arch of them was like Draco, keen and regal, knowing. “Sorry...” she muttered, turning away slightly. The fingers of one hand remained pressed to her lips. Her voice shook. “I know you?”   
  
“Yes. I'm... well, this is gonna sound a little crazy but I, er... I want to marry your son.”   
  
Mrs. Malfoy's brows quirked again. Yet this time it was clear that her muscles remembered a sharp, agile mind which no longer resided between her ears. Though her brows moved—face pinching down to an icy scowl—there was no spark behind her eyes. No magic. No light.   
  
“If I had a son, young man, I believe I would know about it.” She touched her stomach, as though to show him she had borne no children. He could make out every vein on the back of her hand, every finger-shaped bruise along her dainty wrist where her sleeve had ripped. He wanted to reach for her, but held his ground on instinct.   
  
“Your son,” Harry insisted. “Draco. Draco Malfoy.”   
  
She glanced up at the ceiling. “I'll have Kit fetch tea.”   
  
Harry's stomach dropped to somewhere in the vicinity of his knees.   
  
He wondered what could be done to make a mother forget her son. Her only child. Her own. Maybe Mrs. Malfoy and Draco hadn't been as close as a mother and son could be—Narcissa Malfoy wasn't the warmest person, the easiest to understand or love—but she had cared for Draco in her own way. She'd visited him in his nursery, played with and fussed over him. And she’d wanted more children. She shared with Draco her love of music, her passion for reading, history, and conversation. She wasn't a woman without feeling—she wasn't her sister, Bellatrix Lestrange. Narcissa had a heart. Harry feared what might have been done to it.   
  
“Mrs. Malfoy...” he began.   
  
“Please, do have a seat, young Mister...?” she trailed off, setting herself daintily upon a nearby fainting sofa. Her blue eyes blinked up at him, placid and devoid. She looked frozen near tears, fear etched into the lines around her large, beautiful eyes.   
  
Harry couldn't stand to meet her gaze. He wandered away, giving her his back. Smoke was curling through the window mouldings, leaking in around the curtains. The room, the magic protecting them, wouldn’t hold. It was only a matter of time before they were smoked out.   
  
“Potter, ma'am. Harry James Potter.”   
  
“Potter. The name sounds familiar,” she admitted. Inclining her head revealed a bruise at the side of her neck—blackness and purpling in the shape of a man's hand. Harry's guts shifted angrily. “Have we met before?”   
  
“A few years ago, briefly.”   
  
Harry clasped his hands behind his back. His nails dug painfully into his palms. He didn't want to panic Narcissa, but he had to get her out of her. And the only way she would come with him was if he earned her trust. He would have to be fast, then. Or soon the Death Eaters would be upon them both. And by the look of Mrs. Malfoy, she might not survive another round in the catacombs.   
  
Narcissa pulled her hair over one shoulder, combing fingers through the long blonde fall. “I wonder what could be keeping Kit.” Her gaze snapped up to Harry, as though she just recalled his being in the room. “I do pray you're not in any great hurry, Auror Potter.”   
  
_ Auror Potter _ . So he sounded like his father? Or perhaps only looked enough like him for Narcissa to substitute the father's identity for the son's. Maybe she'd forgotten all the years since he and Draco had been born. Maybe she was just crazy.   
  
Narcissa continued adjusting the fall of her hair. “Kit will only be a moment.”   
  
Stopping at the piano, Harry let his fingers trail over the keys, remembering rainy afternoons at Grimmauld Place when Draco used to play for him. And then there was that one night when Draco had taught him to play, pale fingers resting atop his own, guiding him. He tried to remember the notes, the motions.   
  
He managed the first six bars before Narcissa sniffled.   
  
Harry turned to see fresh tears upon her pale cheeks. She stared into nothing, hands wringing in her lap.   
  
He went to her. “Mrs. Malfoy... Narcissa, we have to go.”   
  
She made no reply. It was as though she couldn’t even hear him, she was so lost in the confines of her own mind. Something exploded outside. Now he could hear the cries clearly, the screams of men and shrieks of dragons.   
  
Harry took a knee at Narcissa’s feet. “Please! Take my hand.” He offered her his palm, extended in as courtly a gesture as he could manage. “Narcissa, please. You have to trust me. It's not safe here. We have to go, now.”   
  
Though she said nothing, she placed her hand in his. Harry guided her to the door, tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow. He checked the hall, but could make out precious little for the gathering smoke. Once more, he pulled the collar of his shirt up over his mouth, tugging Narcissa along behind him.   
  
They passed no one. Everyone was outside, fighting for their lives. Harry guessed at random. They passed a large dining hall, strung with golden chandeliers dripping with crystals, elaborate candelabra fixed to the walls at regular intervals. The flickering light of fire reflected off their shiny surfaces as much as the polished wooden dance floor. If they were near such a grand hall, maybe the kitchen was close by?   
  
Harry took the next hall. It delivered them to the main receiving area, with its towering twin staircases and echoing marble floor. Harry didn’t spare a moment to thought, racing to cross the room. The front door was nearly within reach.   
  
“Potter!”   
  
Harry spun around. Narcissa slid on the stone floor. He squeezed her hand tighter, keeping her with him. There were precious-few windows. He scanned the dark, searching for the source of the voice that gave him shivers.   
  
Harry raised his wand defencively. “Show yourself!” he called.   
  
From the shadows behind the stairs, Lucius Malfoy emerged.   
  
Beside Harry, Narcissa gave a whimper of emotion. Harry couldn’t make out whether the sound was desperation or fear. Harry gripped her hand, keeping her close at his side.   
  
The lord of Malfoy Manor didn’t look well. His tailored robes hung loose around his frame, darkness clinging to the spaces beneath his eyes and cheekbones. Azkaban had not been kind to him. His wand hand was as twisted and vein-riddled as an old man’s as he raised his weapon in answer to Harry’s demand.   
  
Lucius Malfoy held his wand in the old style, resting gently in the palm of his hand, fingers curled in what would have once been a graceful fashion. Now his hands looked gnarled, as though he’d spent hours with them wrapped around the cold iron bars of his cell, or clawing at the stone, searching for a way out. His hair fell stringy around his shoulders, eyes sunken and hollow. He advanced.   
  
“Unhand my wife,” he ordered. “Immediately.”   
  
“So you can throw her right back in the dungeons? For Voldemort to torture some more?” Harry took a protective step in front of Narcissa. “I don’t think so.”   
  
Lucius was moving across the hall, each heel of his boots striking a clear sound against the stone. Harry held his ground. Lucius’ eyes were wide—as mad, almost, as his wife’s. His mouth opened as he advanced.    
  
“Don’t you think I would have prevented that, if I could? She made her decision, and the Dark Lord neither forgives nor overlooks any of our family’s failures.”   
  
Harry shouldered Mrs. Malfoy further behind him. He tried to keep his voice calm and even in his reply.    
  
“I have no idea, Lucius. I don’t think I know you well enough to say what you would or would not do.” Harry gritted his teeth against the words, but they still snuck out. “I know what you did to Draco, though. With those fancy holidays and all the Quidditch tickets. And with the Didiers. So regardless of how your lovely wife ended up in her current state, I’m going to base my opinion of you off of verifiable facts.” He secured Narcissa behind him. Her shaking hands took up roost on his shoulders. “I think you’re a coward, Mr. Malfoy. I think nothing is more important to you than yourself. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you sacrificed your wife  _ and _ your son to save your own skin.”   
  
The calm veneer of Lucius Malfoy’s face wavered, slipping to a sneer. “I think you’ve meddled quite enough in the affairs of my family,  _ Mister _ Potter. And I’m afraid I cannot allow you to leave.”   
  
His first spell was silent and quick as a gunshot, catching Harry off guard. It was only Draco’s weeks of drilling him at Grimmauld Place which allowed him to throw up a Light Shield in time. Narcissa screamed as the ball of light from Lucius’ spell exploded against Harry’s defences. She cowered behind Harry, fingers digging painfully tight into the meat of muscle between his shoulders and neck. She buried her face in the hood of his cloak, hiding. She was small and frail enough to use him as a shield.   
  
“S’okay, Narcissa,” he told her quietly, blinking away the sparks dancing around his vision. “We’re okay.”   
  
“Lucius,” she muttered. “Oh, Lucius. Oh Lucius....”   
  
Harry fired off a round of spells, softening the floor on which Lucius Malfoy stood. The man’s knees buckled, his balance uneven. The hand without his wand flailed.   
  
While his opponent was distracted, Harry began backing Narcissa towards the door.   
  
“You’re taking Narcissa from me now?” Lucius cried, half incredulous and the rest feral. “First my son and now my wife?!”   
  
Harry’s mouth was open before he had a chance to think. “Taken Draco? Assuming you ever had him in the first place!”   
  
Lucius released a ball of flame—sent it screaming for Harry and his wife.  _ Some loving husband _ , Harry thought.   
  
“My wife! My child! My heir!” He threw a new spell to accent every other word. Spells pummeled Harry’s shields, one blast after another, wearing him down. “What's next? What else of mine must you acquire for yourself? My home, Potter? My vaults, or perhaps my life?”   
  
Harry fired several rapid Stunners, covering himself as he and Narcissa retreated. Malfoy laughed; haughty, mad.   
  
“But that’s right,” Malfoy simpered. “The Dark Lord says you cannot kill. A pity, then, that you cannot put poor Draco out of his misery.”   
  
Harry froze. So that’s where Draco's talent came from—the ability to egg Harry on, to engage and enrage him like no other. It was hereditary. Harry held his breath against the storm brewing in his head. Retaliating would do him no good.   
  
An antique vase went flying past his head, followed quickly by a chunk of marble floor. A piece of banister railing came loose in the gale Lucius was conjuring, flying towards them. Harry threw himself in front of Narcissa, taking the brunt of the debris against his side in order to shield her. She clung tighter to him, clutching his cloak so hard it choked him.   
  
He would lose, he realized. That’s what protecting her would cost. There was no way to beat Lucius Malfoy in a fair fight—not like this, anyway. He fought the terror rising up from his guts.   
  
Lucius was still going when Harry’s head came back.   
  
“I’m not fool-enough to believe my son has abandoned his politics and sided with the Ministry.  _ I know! _ ” he bellowed, manic. “ _ I know about the pair of you! _ ”   
  
Harry felt, more than heard, a sudden ringing in his ears. It was rage, he realized. Lucius Malfoy was trying to make him feel bad for fancying Draco—for snogging blokes, or being bisexual, or whatever. The same way he’d guilt-tripped, shamed and manipulated Draco for the past seven years.   
  
Harry was not in a tolerant mood. He dropped his shield when Lucius Malfoy stopped for breath.   
  
“And you’re ashamed!” Harry accused. His voice rattled nearby glassware. “Not because your son’s been seduced by another poncing little queer, but because he’s got the courage to go after what he wants! Unlike his father! Isn’t that right?”   
  
The look on Lucius Malfoy’s face... like Harry had slapped him with a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes rubber haddock, square across the mouth.   
  
Harry sent a volley of jinxes the man’s way, hurrying in the opposite direction the moment his spells were away. Malfoy batted, his face going red. But Harry was nearly at the door.   
  
“You’ve no right!” Malfoy screamed. His spells were becoming more erratic, shattering antiques and launching great chunks of wood and stone through the air. Narcissa covered her face with a cry. Harry’s grip tightened, pulling her along. One of Lucius’ spells sent a huge wooden bench zooming across the hall. Harry and Narcissa ducked, barely in time, as the piece of furniture smashed against the door, long broken boards blocking their escape. Harry rounded on his opponent.   
  
A ballooned wine glass zoomed for him, crashing against the side of his head. Harry felt his skin pierced at the temple, blood trickling down the side of his face. He saw red.   
  
“You’re going to regret that!” Beyond angry, he hoisted his wand over his head, shouting, “ _ Eptir Eldr! _ ”   
  
The world exploded in white and blue. Apparently there was quite a bit of magic to be consumed in the old house. Narcissa threw herself against Harry. They crashed back into the debris surrounding the door.   
  
A tiny hand wormed its way into Harry’s.   
  
Narcissa smiled against Harry’s chest. “Oh there you are, Kit. Tea?”   
  
  


  
  
  
Harry registered the nauseating, brain-pinching sweep of Apparition. The next thing he knew, he was lying on a very different and far cleaner stone floor. He smelled biscuits and Mrs. Skowers’ Industrial Formula.   
  
The lights were too bright. He squinted, shielding his eyes with his wand hand. One lense of his glasses had broken in his fall, and it was difficult to see through the spiderweb cracks. The smoke was gone, but people were still shouting. Something went  _ bing _ . It was horribly annoying, and sounded suspiciously like an elevator.   
  
Harry tapped his wand to his glasses, muttering, “ _ Reparo _ .” A second later, a slew of people descended upon him.   
  
“...The hell am I?” Harry asked as he was helped to his feet.   
  
“St. Mungo’s,” a woman answered.   
  
Shards of wood and glass fell from his hair and clothes as he stood. He barely had a moment to brush himself off.   
  
Narcissa shouted, batting at the hands of a Mediwitch trying to examine her. Harry reached out, stilling the blonde witch’s hands with his own warm ones.   
  
They were attracting a lot of attention. Apparently Kit had brought them to the main lobby of St. Mungo’s. Witches and wizards came at a jog to know the source of the commotion. Harry and Narcissa were dirty, covered in debris and dirt, bruises and blood. When Harry breathed, he smelled smoke on Narcissa’s hair, and the bite of his own sweat. He tasted blood at the side of his mouth. He pulled Narcissa to him, wrapping an arm around her waist to give her strength.   
  
“Harry Potter?”   
  
“My stars, that  _ is _ Harry Potter!”   
  
Harry looked around, still getting his bearings. “Kit?”   
  
Narcissa gave a jump against him. “My Kit!” she wailed. “Where’s Kit? Where’s Kit?”   
  
Harry kept Mrs. Malfoy close, trying to calm her and look for the tiny elf at the same time. “Kit is the house elf who brought us here,” Harry explained to the nearest Healer. “Very small, white dress, wears a rose made of silk on her head. Please let me know if you find her.”   
  
The Healers were pulling at his arms, trying to separate him and Narcissa. She became more and more agitated the faster they were surrounded.   
  
“Please, Mr. Potter, come this way,” several people signaled towards a hall. “Please, this way. We need to get you to an exam room.”   
  
Harry secured his arm around Narcissa’s shoulder. She clasped his other hand with both her own, still distrustful of the trained healers all around them. He ushered her through a set of doors and into a plain white room with two beds, an exam table and a collection of medical apparati. From the other side of the wall, he heard that damned lift go  _ bing _ again. He was about ready to hex it into a thousand pieces.   
  
Instead, he sat Narcissa down on one of the beds. Several of the more maternal, gentle-looking staff took her hands, speaking softly to her, calming her. Her eyes remained fixed on Harry as a Mediwizard began dabbing at the gash on his head, using a spell to remove a sliver-like shard of glass from his skin. Harry felt the blood rush freely down his face, but did not move.   
  
“Mr. Potter,” the wizard warned. He was young for a medical professional, no more than twenty. Harry thought he recognized the fellow from Hogwarts—Hufflepuff? Ravenclaw, maybe. The fellow’s fingers held back Harry’s hair in order to have better access to his wound. “You’ve lost a fair amount of blood. You really ought to sit down.”   
  
“I’ll be fine.” Harry grunted. A moment later, three pairs of hands were upon his shoulders, his backside connecting with the metal examination table. He refused to lie down as they examined him.   
  
“Cast any Dark Magic, sir?”   
  
Harry rolled his eyes. That was all the answer they were getting, and the sour expression on his face let them know it.   
  
“Other wounds?”   
  
“Numbness? Dizziness? Changes in vision?”   
  
Harry slipped his glasses off, allowing the Mediwizard better access to his head wound. “I’m fine,” he insisted.   
  
“You’re most certainly not!” a Healer barked, waving a wand over him. Casually, Harry pushed the wand tip away.   
  
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t point that in my face,” he told her, putting his glasses back on.   
  
“You’ve been working with the Dark Arts—there’s residue everywhere! It’s almost as though you’ve cast an Unforgiveable!”   
  
The Mediwizard gulped at the mere mention. Harry watched the man’s Adam’s apple bob a hand’s breadth from his face.   
  
“Unforgiveables?” someone tisked. “You’re talking to Harry Potter. Show some respect.”   
  
Harry scrambled for his connection to Misha—in the fight with Lucius Malfoy, he’d lost track of it, letting the magic loose somewhere in the back of his head. He dug for it now, scrambled, wracking his brains. But the cord tethering him to the Romanian boy was no longer there—had been severed. He found himself struggling for air.   
  
He pushed the Mediwizard away.   
  
“I have to go,” he told no one in particular, jumping off the table and reaching for his cloak. “They need me.”   
  
“Mr. Potter!” someone begged. He couldn’t tell who.   
  
Harry flipped the Invisibility cloak over his shoulders. “I’m fine!” he snapped, fastening the cloak with disobedient hands. Someone shot a Cleaning Spell at his face, wiping away most of the blood. He could still feel it on the side of his jaw, drying in the stubble there, tangled in his sideburns.   
  
He glanced up. “Narcissa.” His gaze traveled to her. Their eyes met. “Keep me updated on her condition. You can reach me through Kingsley Shacklebolt.”   
  
“In the Enforcement Office?” a stern voice inquired. “You’re an Auror now, Potter?”   
  
Harry flinched. He didn’t have time for semantics. He glanced up at the woman. Short salt and pepper hair framed her round face. Her white robes were ill-fitting, suggesting she’d gained quite a bit of weight recently. The badge on her chest proclaimed her name to be Irene Stanek, Head of Trauma Medicine.   
  
Harry fixed her with a hard look. “Worse, Healer Stanek. A Hit Wizard.” He turned, heading for the Public Apparition Point at the end of the hall. “Keep me informed. And somebody fix that bloody lift. Good evening.”   
  
  
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
The Death Eaters were gone by the time Harry made it back. The moon sat high above the clouds, great towers of smoke rising from the grounds of Malfoy Manor. The wounded had been spirited off, but the dead still lay scattered across the snow, splashes of blood like oil spills in the turned-up slush. Harry waded his way through the gardens to the Manor, slipping inside unnoticed.   
  
He passed a few familiar faces in the hall, Tonks among them. She gave him a salute in greeting.   
  
“I take it we won, then,” Harry quipped.   
  
“Just doing a last sweep,” Tonks confirmed. “We managed to capture a few of them for questioning.”   
  
“Good,” Harry nodded. “Have you seen Ron or Hermione?”   
  
“Second floor, last I heard. They’re fine,” she reassured him with a small smile. Her hair shifted from violet to a pale mauve vaguely reminiscent of a pair of robes Albus Dumbledore used to wear. “Oh, by the way—some Russian guy was looking for you. He’s up on the fourth floor. I heard someone got injured up there. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?” she added. “You look like shite.”   
  
Harry rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks.”   
  
Tonks clapped him on the shoulder before chasing her fellow Aurors down the hall.   
  
Harry climbed a back staircase, thinking he would go catch Ron and Hermione. He found Lucius Malfoy’s study ransacked and empty, leaving him with no choice but to continue on to the fourth floor.   
  
He stood a moment outside Draco’s room, just looking. The door to his bedroom sat wobbly on its hinges—crooked and sad, a big dent in the very center, fine wood splintering in places as it gave way. It was half-destroyed, like Draco. Like his perfect pureblood life. And, unlike this door, it would be a hell of a lot harder to fix Draco. If that was even possible.    
  
Harry didn’t want to think about any of it: Draco, Misha... the war. Death and everyone he cared about being hurt before his eyes, with him powerless to stop it. It was all too close like this, too real, laid out before his eyes in wood grain patterns and sparkling golden handles waiting for his accursed touch. Whatever lay on the other side of that door was harsh and painfully, incomprehensibly bad. And Harry had no interest in it. He couldn’t fix it, couldn’t make it better.    
  
But it was his fault. Some of it truly was. With a heavy heart, he owned that.   
  
Harry inched closer to the closed door. He really didn’t want to go inside. He was too afraid, he decided, of what he might find.   
  
Unfortunately, the door was thrown open just as he was turning to leave. Yuri came bounding out with an armload of bloody sheets.   
  
“Harry!” The big man greeted him loudly. “ _ Nachalnik! _ ” He called back over his shoulder. “Harry iz here.”    
  
Reluctant, Harry had no choice but to step inside. The chamber smelled painfully of Draco—it was his, right down to the autographed Quidditch posters and the empty bottles of vodka hiding on his desk under a Concealment Charm. Harry struggled not to breathe. Between blood and burned flesh and Draco, it was all too much. His eyes narrowed.    
  
Mishenka lay in Draco’s bed, his wings and fuzzy horsehide banished. He looked smaller without the feathery protrusions on his back. Muscled arms hung weak at his sides, the blankets tucked up to his armpits. Nebojsa rubbed a wet cloth over his forehead, speaking softly to him. The boy’s eyes fluttered.    
  
Dmitry was already on his feet—coming for Harry. He swept the smaller wizard up in a spine-cracking hug, lifting Harry clean off his feet.    
  
“You zaved him,” Dima mumbled, wet. His tears met Harry’s neck in a hot slide, running down beneath the collar of his shirt. “You... you...  _ mulţumesc _ ...  _ frate meu _ ....” Harry wasn’t sure if Dmitry was talking about his brother, or calling Harry his new brother, adopting him for the service he’d done. He suspected Dmitry didn’t know either. He wrapped his arms around the Romanian’s thick neck and squeezed.    
  
“S’okay,” Harry told him. “But I likely have a bruised rib, so could you put me down, maybe?”   
  
Dmitry set him right on his feet, fussing with the fall of his cloak, picking bits of plaster and wood from the folds of his hood. The Romanian smiled weakly, his birch-colored gaze fixed on a point just below Harry’s throat. Harry patted his elbow reassuringly until Healer Purlish came to speak with him, drawing him away to a far corner of the room. Harry prayed it was good news.    
  
Harry wandered over to the bed, greeting Nebojsa with a small, awkward wave. The Serb bowed his head in reply.    
  
“So, uh, the Healer thinks he’s gonna be okay?” Harry asked lamely. He rubbed the balls of his boots against the carpet for lack of anything better to do, hands finding their way to his back pockets.   
  
Nebojsa noded, somber. “ _ Da. _ ”   
  
“And... er,” Harry swallowed, trying again. “Did... with the Blood Magic and, uh... the Animagus....”    
  
_ Gods _ did he sound like a fucking idiot. Nebojsa wouldn’t even look at him. The man straightened. His bony fingers worked the rag in his hands, unfolding it and refolding, finding a cool section buried between the folds and casting a silent spell to add a splash of fresh water. Harry watched as the cloth began to drip, droplets plunking against the new, clean sheets.   
  
Nebojsa spoke, barely above a whisper. Every syllable hissed, betraying his emotion with startling clarity.   
  
“ _ I know what you did _ ,” his chin jerked, indicating Misha still lying prone on the bed. “ _ The Imperiusssss Curssssse. You did it to sssssave him, of course, and we cannot begin to thank you for that. But you mussssst have more caution, my friend. I wassssss barely able to undo your ssspell in time _ .” His cold eyes slid to Healer Purlish, consulting with Dmitry on the other side of the room. “ _ A ssssssecond longer, and Purlissssssh too would have realissssssed what you did. You would be in Azkaban, little one _ .” He paused, gaze falling to the top of Harry’s very messy head. The foreigner looked thoughtful, thin mouth quirked. “Not zhe best place for zhe Chozen One,  _ da _ ?”   
  
Harry’s throat tightened. He couldn’t swallow, couldn’t speak. Thoughts swirled in his head like mist in a crystal ball—Divination seemed clear by comparison. He found himself aching for another one of Dmitry's hugs.   
  
“I vill not tell  _ srce moye _ if you don’t,” the Serb shrugged, non-plused. Seriousness bled from his demeanor until his shoulders slouched, giving away how exhausted he was. “‘Ee vouldn’t care.”   
  
“I’m  _ so _ sorry,” Harry managed a whisper. “It was the only thing I could think of.”    
  
Nebojsa wrapped a long arm around his shoulders. “Vith your skill... I vould have done zhe zame.”   
  
Harry felt like, if he opened his mouth, maggots might come out. He was rotten inside. “Yeah?”    
  
His tall friend nodded. “Best I’ve ever zeen. Flawless. Perfect control....” He drifted into silence, sounding a little nostalgic. And possibly a little turned on.    
  
Harry remembered something Draco had said about dark wizards being attracted to power. Maybe they were all a little darker than he liked to imagine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  



	54. 2AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter returns from battle to be faced with a far more intimate fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** romance

  
  
  
Harry Potter stumbled through her floo.   
  
Minerva hardly looked up. Even the fact that the seventeen-year-old was carrying a bottle of champagne and an ample box of chocolates did little to pique her interest. The gifts were likely for his cankerous sweetheart, Head Boy Draco Malfoy, who had been more than choleric lately due to the increasing danger and duration of Potter’s missions. At least this time, The Boy Who Fought had remembered a Cleaning Charm for the evidence of battle on his person. He’d even repaired the rips in his clothing, save for one at the knee of his trousers.   
  
It had been quite a fight to take Malfoy Manor. The newly rebanded Aurors Office had pulled out all the stops—teaming up with Potter and his new mentor in destruction and rule-breaking, Leon Harper—to pull off what would likely go down in history as the Ministry’s first victory against Death Eater forces in this dreadful Second War. Their combined strike force had held back nothing, employing every method they knew and a few withheld from record, in order to achieve victory, driving the Death Eaters from that ancient Wiltshire home. Preliminary reports had just been smuggled to Minerva’s desk.   
  
Between them, Nymphadora and Kingsley had their ways, and Minerva was infinitely grateful. The Minister wasn't about to knowingly keep her in the loop, after all.   
  
She frowned. Potter’s heavy workman’s boots were leaving dirty prints on her carpet. She set down her quill, giving the boy her attention for the moment.   
  
“Making progress, Mr. Potter?” she inquired—regarding, of course, this mysterious project he, Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley were rumored to be working on. Clearly his insistence on reclaiming Malfoy Manor had something to do with the secret endeavor. Many people believed that Potter simply wished to flush out the Death Eaters, or perhaps get to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and end the war. Some suspected he had a wish to return the house to his beloved little pet, Draco Malfoy. Minerva sought to put down those rumors, yet had nothing more compelling to replace them with save the truth—that Harry Potter was up to something. Something sneaky. He always was. He would have made an excellent Slytherin.   
  
“I... think I found something, Professor,” Harry said, tiredness about to overtake him. He looked ready to fall asleep on his feet. It had been an especially long night for The Boy Who Lived, if the reports were true.   
  
He gestured to her office door with the chocolate box in his hand. “Would you mind terribly if I got your opinion in the morning? I'd really like to see Draco.”   
  
Before she could make reply, Harry had already given a small, awkward bow and taken his leave.

 

 

 

\- - -

  
  
  
Harry cast a quick Tempus Charm as he hurried down the hall—half one in the morning. He pulled his Invisibility cloak from his bag, though it stunk of sweat and battle, and threw it over his shoulders. He didn’t want to frighten any of the Prefects or professors patrolling the halls. And he didn’t wish to be detained. He’d barely escaped McGonagall’s office without an interrogation.   
  
What he needed most was Draco.   
  
Well, Draco and a good night’s sleep. Everything could be sorted in the morning. He could sort himself in the morning.   
  
He gave the password to the bust of Paracelsus guarding the Heads’ suite, tiptoeing up the incline which led to Hermione and Draco’s rooms. He dropped his cloak and bag beside the fountain, pushing his glasses atop his head before bending to splash some cool water over his face. He wanted to look at least half alive before Draco caught sight of him. A quick peek to his left showed there were candles lit in Draco’s room, judging by the wavering quality of light spilling from beneath his door.   
  
At his back, the door to Hermione’s room opened with a creak.   
  
“‘Mione!” he started, twisting around on his knees. “You’re still up?”   
  
His friend looked horribly tired—bordering on ill. Her hair was caught up on top of her head and secured with a shoddy spell, smudges of ink on her fingers and one across her cheek. There was an Arithmancy textbook in her hand.   
  
“Two days until end of term, Harry,” she muttered weakly, her eyes flitting somewhere just over his head. “NEWTS are just around the corner.”   
  
Harry felt strangely guilty. “You didn’t have to come with me tonight,” he began.   
  
“Of course I did,” she interrupted, the hand with the textbook going right to her hip. She gestured with the other; a sweeping movement, as though she were flinging his concern aside. “I made you a promise, Harry. Ron and I both did—that we would be there with you, no matter what. And we intend to keep it.” Her face softened a little. “All you have to do is call.”   
  
Harry pushed up from his knees, wiping his hands on his trousers before going to her, extending his arms for a hug. She eased into his embrace, linking her wrists at the smalls of his back and resting her chin against his hair, just above his ear. She was still growing taller while Harry seemed to stay the same.   
  
“Thanks,” Harry offered tightly, unsure what else to say. Her free hand traveled up his spine, pressing their hearts together a moment before laying a kiss to his temple and stepping away.   
  
From Draco’s room, Harry heard notes from the Black family’s heirloom piano. Slow at first, each measure coming as though it were testing the last, as though Draco was unsure. Draco paused in his playing, probably muttering. Harry could picture his blonde based solely on memories—how he sat, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed somewhere just past the edge of his instrument, head bobbing with each accented note.   
  
Going back a few bars, Draco replayed the last section, this time changing several key notes and their timing. Harry found the melody haunting but somehow familiar. It reminded him of the way the wind whistled through the Astronomy Tower at night, rustling the trees and the surface of the lake far below. It felt like Hogwarts at night—dangerous, but it was home.   
  
Hermione let out an agitated little sigh. She flicked a hand toward Draco’s quarters.   
  
“Go on, then,” she chided. “I know that’s where you want to be.”   
  
Harry’s head canted to the side. “What are you saying?” he asked, honestly dumbfounded. When he tried to sneak a peek into Hermione’s room, she blocked his line of sight. So, on a hunch, Harry barreled on. “Yes, I want to see Draco. But that’s only natural! I mean, I’m sure Ron came straight up here—”   
  
Her mouth dropped open, eyes widening.   
  
Harry backpedaled. “He’s still here, right?” Harry indicated her room with a casual point.   
  
Hermione’s answer was to slap his finger down, quickly turning prudish. It was dark in the foyer, but with the sliver of candle light coming from her room, he thought he detected a blush on her cheeks.   
  
“Ron visits you, right? Alone?” Hermione’s big, startled eyes dared him to say it all out loud. Harry couldn’t resist a dare. “For sex.”   
  
Her reply was downright affronted. “That Malfoy is a terrible influence on you, Harry. I've thought so from the beginning.” Harry rolled his eyes dramatically, just to be sure she saw the gesture. “As for Ronald and I—we're saving ourselves for marriage. We want it to be special.” She stopped there. But he could tell by the twist of her mouth that she was just dying to tack on an all-together childish “unlike  _ some _ people.” But Hermione couldn’t bring herself to talk that way.   
  
One day, she’d realize how wrong she was. She and Ron would have sex and then she’d be just like Harry—thinking of nothing else. Sex with someone you really loved did that to you. It was nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to have people harping about, on your arse every five seconds about. Eventually, she’d spread her legs and figure that out.   
  
Harry took a deep breath through his nose. And then he let the anger out. It had been a long night and he was through with holding back.   
  
“What're we supposed to do?” Harry’s hands flapped, exasperated, at his sides. “It's not like Draco and I can get married—” he was about to add “with the war going on” but was swiftly cut off.   
  
“Did  _ he _ tell you that?”   
  
“No. We haven't talked about it.” Harry froze. “Are you saying we can?”   
  
Hermione folded her arms under her bust, looking like she’d rather be explaining Ancient Rune Theory to Trevor, Neville’s escapist toad.   
  
“Wizarding law is loosely written for that very purpose. The Ministry issues a standard form and most Ministry employees are licensed to conduct ceremonies. One can marry anyone capable of reciting vows—man, woman, centaur, ghost, or, in a very disturbing and precedent-setting case, a particularly well-trained kneazle with a Morse code machine.” Her gaze sharpened. “Are you saying you actually want to marry Malfoy?” She said it as though Draco was that well-trained kneazle.   
  
In the silence that followed, Harry heard Draco playing his piano.   
  
“How long has he been at it?” Harry asked, pointedly changing the subject   
  
“Since dinner, I’m told. Which he didn't eat—at least not in the Great Hall.” The way her eyes moved, Harry knew she suspected Draco’s dinner had been liquid of the alcoholic variety. “He's played every night since you left. And usually 'til two or three in the morning.”   
  
Harry hooked his thumbs in his back pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet—they hurt. “He misses me, Hermione. He's lonely. He doesn't have any friends here.”  _ He doesn't have any friends at all_, Harry thought morosely.  _ Just me_.  _ I'm everything he's got. _   
  
Hermione brushed a wisp of hair away from her eye. “You can’t keep doing this to him,” she warned. “Eventually....”   
  
“Wot?” Harry couldn’t help the aggressive jut of his chin. He always got defensive when it came to Draco.   
  
Hermione’s gaze dropped to the floor. She stepped back into her doorway, a hand on the golden door handle, eager to make her retreat.   
  
“Just... please, tell him to stop playing at all hours of the night, okay? It keeps the third year girls awake: like I’ve told you before, their rooms are right on the other side of the wall. I've had to give them all Sleeping Potions.”   
  
Harry held his breath to keep from making a nasty come-back. He tried not to think about all the times Hermione had given him or Ron a potion, sometimes without their knowledge, like the Cheering Potions hidden in their tea back at Grimmauld Place. Granted, he’d pretended to slip Ron Felix Felicis once... but that was different. Perhaps Harry was just more sensitive to it now. After all, someone had dumped Veritaserum into the Gryffindor pumpkin juice, hoping to catch himself or Draco unawares. He didn’t like all these potions going around. It must have shown on his face because Hermione was retreating into her room.   
  
“I'll ask him if he might seal our room so no one’s bothered,” Harry conceded. He tacked on, voice going lower, “But I won't tell him to stop.”   
  
Hermione gave a nod, already in her room and closing the door. “It’s a compromise,” she agreed.   
  
“G’night, then,” Harry shrugged. He turned on his heel and crossed the anteroom in three swift strides, not wanting to wait another minute to hold Draco again.   
  
The door was unlocked and Harry let himself in.   
  
Just as he’d thought, Draco sat at the piano, a feather quill tucked between his skinny fingers as they caressed the keys, trying yet another variation on that eerie melody. He paused, scratching out a few bars on the page in front of him before throwing down the quill, backing up several measures to play the phrase straight and true.   
  
Harry couldn’t hold back any longer.   
  
“That's beautiful, honey.”   
  
“You think?” Draco stood, long legs quickly closing the distance between them.   
  
“Definitely.”   
  
Harry kissed him deeply, chocolate and wine still in hand. Draco wiggled away, taking the sweets from him and—after examining the box and finding it to his satisfaction—setting it and the champagne aside. The blonde fussed with the bottle, spinning it to read the label even as he spoke.   
  
“Well, I always wanted ta try composing. Dinna think I had the knack fer it. But I guess these things can change.”   
  
“Speaking of things changing,” Harry swallowed thickly, pushing the words out. “What do you think of marriage?”   
  
  
Draco turned to look at him full on, a frown quirking his eyebrows. “As an institution, or are we discussing a particular instance?”   
  
“Well, in general, I guess.” Harry swung his duffel bag off his shoulder, dropping it by Draco's feet. The blonde shuddered the slightest bit, stepping away from it as though he could feel the cold from outside still living in the fabric. His pointed face was wary as he spoke, his tone reserved.   
  
“I think it's very nice, people promising to be faithful to one another an' such. It's also a shame the whole thing so rarely works out.” His face dropped and he rubbed idly at his arms as though they itched. “Why? Are you proposin'?”   
  
Harry shrugged—just one shoulder, playful. “Only if you're accepting.”   
  
When Draco didn't move a muscle, Harry took himself down to one knee. Once his intent became clear, Draco appeared short of breath, his big grey eyes skittering everywhere at once—refusing to actually  _ look _ at Harry. He wanted to reach for Draco's hand, to hold it in his own.   
  
“Draco, I know right now you feel like you don't belong. I have no idea how hard it must be for you,” he caught both of Draco's cool hands in his, warming them. The Gaunt ring sparkled on his finger. “But I want you to understand that you already belong—to me, Draco. I want to marry you. That is, if you'll have me.”   
  
“Yer crazy,” Draco whispered. It was a tiny, awed sound.   
  
“Well, so are you.” Harry looked up into his silver eyes, reflecting Gryffindor red and firelight. Behind his beautiful gaze, there was madness—a madness born in the Malfoy catacombs, fueled by his screams, surrounded by Dark magic and buried deep within him. Neither of them could escape it. But Harry was ready to embrace it rather than run from it. The madness was a part of Draco now.   
  
“I guess I can deal with a bit more danger leveled at me,” Draco sighed.   
  
“Danger?” Maybe Harry hadn't thought this through very well. Hell, he hadn't thought it through at all! The idea of marrying Draco had possessed his brain like the Imperius Curse.   
  
Draco nodded vaguely. “Yes. The Dark Lord will be livid. He hates gays almost as much as mixed-bloods and traitors.” That made Harry and Draco the Holy Trinity of things Lord Voldemort hated. “But what about our names?” Draco continued in an oddly disinterested voice. “Would you change yours or do you expect me to drop mine?”   
  
Harry's cheeks pinched, wondering where in the hell  _ that _ question had come from. This wasn't exactly the reception he'd expected to a marriage proposal. “Who says we have to change our names?”   
  
“It's the law,” Draco scoffed. “Helps keep the bloodlines clear; you know, prevent any confusion regarding inheritance and such in the case of children.”   
  
“Two wizards can have children?!” Harry was beginning to believe in miracles.   
  
“Don't be ridiculous,  _ poilu! _ ” Draco laughed, pink flooding his cheeks. “Two blokes, have a baby? Tha's rich. Where would ya get an idea like tha', ya muggle?”   
  
“Oh, never mind.” Harry was getting nervous, still down on one knee without an answer.   
  
“Suppose I would end up changin' mine,” Draco sighed offhandedly. “But only because 'Harry Malfoy' sounds positively dreadful.”   
  
“Draco, is that a yes?”   
  
“We'd need a special license, ya know,” he went on as though he hadn't heard Harry's plea: on bended knee, no less. The stone floor was getting awfully cold.   
  
“I thought there wasn't a problem with two blokes getting married. Why a special license?”   
  
“Well, when the two blokes in question wanta get married immediately, ya need a special license. I suppose—if we owl the Minister now, put yer name all over it an' mark it most extremely urgent—we could have our license by sundown tomorrow.” Draco looked at Harry and smiled. It was the most handsome, happy smile Harry had ever seen.   
  
“Really? You'd marry me tomorrow?” Harry asked, hardly believing Draco was agreeing.   
  
“Quick,  _ mon coeur_. Before I change my mind.”

 

 

 

 

 

  



	55. The World, According To One Miss Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanna get you pregnant” is not the most appropriate or romantic way to say “I love you;” but, in this instance, it'll do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** Hermione and Draco talking about sex, hovering vaguely around Ronald Weasley’s junk; offhand, comedic reference to bestiality; and more fucking romance than you can shake a stick at (please, can I kill someone soon? It's getting too fluffy in here....)

 

 

 

 

“They're getting  _ married? _ ”   
  
Hermione resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She couldn't fault Ron, though. She hadn't exactly taken the news well when Harry informed her of these hastily concocted nuptial delusions shortly after sunrise. Ron was taking the news remarkably well, all things considered.   
  
This was one of Harry's Significantly Un-Brilliant Ideas, as the Weasley clan referred to such hairbrained schemes behind closed doors. Harry had hatched some awful plots over the past seven years; searching for the Philosopher’s Stone, the exodus of Norbert, flying Mr. Weasley's Ford Anglia from London all the way to Hogwarts... and those were all before puberty! Harry's machinations only got worse the more his voice dropped.    
  
Marrying Draco Malfoy could not be counted amongst his better designs. And yet, there were worse traps for Harry to get his pecker caught in.   
  
It was a singularly unusual day indeed when getting hitched to Draco Malfoy wasn't the worst option in sight. The thought made her philosophically—nigh  _ epistemologically _ ill.   
  
Then again, Malfoy wasn't quite the same bullying blond of their youths—nor was Harry the same little boy, bright eyed and true, picking cupboard cobwebs from his unruly hair. They'd both grown... and neither necessarily for the better. Both had changed, seemingly overnight. If this union was terrible or good, she couldn't say anymore. That was a privilege she'd forfeited back in August, when she'd walked out on Harry in the midst of his first true adolescent crisis. Leave it to Harry to kill his Defence instructor at age eleven and bounce back in a matter of days, yet be so floored by love. Love with another chap, albeit, but love just the same.   
  
She could only look upon this sudden union with pursed lips and an air of fondness. Having failed Harry once, when he'd apparently needed her most, Hermione was determined to keep herself out of this one—wand, nose, opinions,  _ everything _ . She would be silent and supportive. She would be the good friend she’d failed to be once before. Never again.   
  
So she shrugged off Ron's guffawing. If things didn't work out for Harry and his new spouse, there was always wizarding divorce—which worked precisely the same for same-gendered couples as it did for the mixed kind. Even cross-species marriages. She’d done the research. There was no chance of Harry losing his property or fortune to Malfoy in an ugly divorce; as Grimmauld Place and Harry's Gringotts vault had come to him by way of inheritance, both would be beyond his spouse's reach in the event of a split. The only thing which could be hurt by this endeavor was hearts, egos, and perhaps a reputation or two... nothing which Harry or his intended were too meek to gamble with. They'd both taken risks all their young lives, so what was one more?   
  
When it came to Harry Potter, Hermione knew when it was time to step back and let The Boy Who Lived do as he would. This morning had been one of those moments—he'd glared at her in the weak light spilling through the French doors of the Head's foyer, the trickling of the lion fountain a faint splatter in the background as she was riveted to her dear friend's face. His eyes had dared her to speak a single word against him. And she could not, frozen to the spot in something like a seizure of awe and astonishment, face a silent tableau of emotion, everything laid bare across her sleepy features.   
  
There wasn't a thing she could say or do to sway him, short of holding a seance to call the ghost of Albus Dumbledore to talk some sense into the raven haired boy. Then again, Dumbledore might've liked the idea of Harry and Malfoy together, putting aside their differences and old rivalries and all that rot. The old Headmaster had been big on inter-house unity, bringing down the barriers between pureblood and muggle-raised... but this was a stretch. Two seventeen year old boys were talking about getting married.  _ Tonight _ . She doubted even Dumbledore's pleas of caution could halt Harry in this. He was too far gone, too deeply given in to the idea to turn back now.   
  
He wanted Draco Malfoy. More than anything. And when Harry wanted something that badly, the way he reached for Malfoy now... nothing would stand in his way, that much was certain.   
  
He'd said to her, plain as day, “We're getting married, Mione. Tonight. No but's. I hope you and Ron will come. I’ll speak to him about it myself but, if you happen to catch him, you can break the news if you like. Might be easier on him, hearing it from you first... maybe give it time to sink in and all. But it's brilliant, yeah?” And then he'd ducked off to meet with Headmistress McGonagall before she'd had any chance to react.   
  
Harry's face. He'd been glowing—stern and fierce and enchanted, all at once. He was in love and doing what he thought was right... making his dreams come true. After all, the only thing Harry really wanted was a home and a family. He had that now, with her and Ron, with the Weasleys and the Order and now Grimmauld Place, lovesick and loyal Malfoy at his side to make it all complete.   
  
She wanted, more than anything, for Harry to have what he wanted. To be happy. He deserved happiness and love. Acceptance, too. Seeing Harry so alive had done her in, silencing the protests even as they rose up in her throat, leaving her chewing her lip and smiling helplessly. Joy was infectious like that.   
  
“Married?!” Ron repeated, gripping the armrests of his chair as though they were the reins of a noble steed which could carry him away from this nightmare. His shoes tapped the legs of the armchair like thumping a horse's sides. His mind was likely galloping a hundred kilometers a minute—and in circles. That was how she felt, anyway. This whole morning had been surreal.   
  
Hermione steeled herself, licking at her lips. “Yes, Ron. Married. Tonight, if the Ministry can send a special license in time.”   
  
“But...why?” Ron looked nothing short of flabbergasted.   
  
She gestured aimlessly, searching for the right words to convey what she'd glimpsed in Harry—the fever fire in his heart and how senselessly happy this whole thing made him.   
  
“Ron, I know. I know! It's truly strange; I'm still wrapping my head around it, myself—and Harry only sprung this on me, what, less than an hour ago? But... it's...” and here she slowed, choosing her words carefully. This was the closest she and Ron had ever come to a declaration. After hounding Harry for not conducting proper conversations with Malfoy about their feelings and the state of things between them, she would be a hypocrite if she didn't lay everything out on the table with Ron. What was the worst that could happen? They cared for one another, same as Harry and his pureblooded prince. Putting words to it was just a formality—more like an eventuality, like sunlight after the rains.   
  
Her gaze flitted somewhere around her knees, her heart beating a pitter-patter rhythm against her throat; still, she managed to get the words out. “Harry feels about Malfoy the way you... feel about...  _ me _ .” It was an offering: her heart on a platter.   
  
Ron blinked quickly, head cocked, contemplating.   
  
“He wants to get Malfoy up the duff?”   
  
Hermione started. Then her expression softened.   
  
“Ron...” she breathed, “y-you want to have children with me?”   
  
“Of course,” he said, still looking dazed, a charming little half-smile quirking his lips. “Hermione, I love you. Everybody knows  _ that _ .”   
  
  
And all was right with the world.   
  


\- - -

  
  
  
Draco Malfoy had no right to look that... chipper. It wasn't in his temperament: the population of Hogwarts would agree. Yet the pureblood was practically bouncing off the Goddamn walls in NEWT Charms that afternoon.    
  
Everyone noticed. The normally waspish, snippy and downright cold Head Boy was jabbering like a liberally medicated foreign dignitary, all gentlemanly smiles and politeness as he weaved about the classroom, occasionally slamming into a desk corner or chair as he wasn't paying much attention to where he was walking. The rest of the seventh years silently raised their eyebrows when Malfoy spoke to them, wondering who had slipped him the prescription-strength Cheering Potion.   
  
Then again, Malfoy had every reason to be ecstatic. It was his wedding day.   
  
Hermione gave an involuntary twitch. She had to resist the urge to pinch herself.   
  
It was hard to believe her best friend was marrying the arrogant, smarmy Slytherin she'd punched in third year. Then again, the world had stopped making sense a long time ago.   
  
Ron caught her eye from the next table over, where he was partnered with Dean Thomas for the practical portion of the lesson. Her own partner, Malfoy, was making the rounds like a bride at her wedding reception, careful to visit each table lest any guest feel slighted. Hermione had to admit: the expression on Malfoy's pointed face  _ was  _ rather fetching... in a sweet, lost sort of way. She could tell he was waiting on Harry, waiting on sunset and a hasty owl from the exiled Ministry so that Harry, his hero, could carry him away.   
  
“Where's Harry?” Ron mouthed at her. There weren't many students taking Charms at the NEWT level, so they were absent the usual din of spell-casting which normally shielded their conversations. Ron was trying to be discreet.   
  
Hermione hitched a shoulder. “Still with McGonagall.”   
  
Reading her lips, Ron nodded, shoulders slumped as he returned to his efforts in charming a photograph of an animal into the real thing. Dean wasn't making much headway on his own—his parchment had teeth.   
  
She tried to focus on her coursework. But the events of last night—what might one day be called the Battle of Malfoy Manor—played over and over again in her head. They'd done well, the three of them, despite not finding the cup, and Harry running off like a man possessed. Yet they were almost a team again. Almost. For a brief, run-away moment, out there on the snowy lawn... they’d had it, been themselves again. Hope wasn't lost, nor affection, nor loyalty. She suspected that, with time, things could be patched up between herself, Ron and Harry. The three of them, together again and up to no good. It might not be like it was before... but they still cared for and respected one another. That counted for something: it had been sufficient to bring the old gang back together on the lawns of Malfoy Manor—hopefully it would be enough to rally around, to keep the three of them together for good.   
  
Malfoy plopped down beside her, fanning himself with a stiff bit of parchment. His small, neat handwriting littered one side, blurred as he beat the paper against the dead air of the classroom.   
  
“What do you think of this business, Granger?” he posed under his breath, as though they were talking about the weather and being clandestine for laughs.   
  
She kept her torso facing forward, bent under the pretext of reexamining her notes. She pitched her voice low, so only the Head Boy and perhaps Ron could hear.   
  
“What business are you on about, Malfoy?”   
  
The pureblood waggled his already arch-shaped brows. “The cup. Or have you not heard?”   
  
_ Helga Hufflepuff's cup, suspected horcrux of You-Know-Who? _ Hermione turned—only her head, still hunching over her parchment.   
  
“Heard what? Did Harry find it?”   
  
“Not Harry,” Malfoy shook his head. “Some American chaps rooting around the Manor. On Harry's orders, I'd imagine. He's probably having a look at the thing right now,  _ undisturbed _ .” His lip curled at that last word, close to sneering.   
  
“Shame we weren't invited,” Hermione muttered bitterly.   
  
Malfoy mirrored the sentiment. His pale hair caught the light, a bored and simultaneously pained expression etching small lines in his features, their pinched formation saying what his acid tongue managed to hold back. She could all but hear his voice in her head, prattling with practiced ennui:  _ This is our lot in life, Granger. The Chosen Twat tells us what he sees fit, invites us in when he pleases and leaves us out in the cold the rest. I would have thought you'd be accustomed to it by now.  _   
  
“Ugh,” Hermione sighed. She had enough Draco Malfoy in her life—she didn't need his drawl rattling around in her head. Her forehead fell against her parchment, wand clattering from her hand to roll across the table. “I give up,” she groaned.   
  
“Really?” Malfoy teased. “Reptile conjuring isn't so difficult if you put your mind to the task....” He twisted his hawthorn wand, easily turning the banded garden snake adorning their parchment into the real thing. It slithered across her Charms book, little pink tongue flickering.   
  
Hermione waved her own wand, banishing the snake before it could reach her arm. “Not the charm—I mastered animal conjurations the end of last school year,” she rolled her eyes. “I meant... trying to understand Harry.”   
  
Malfoy let loose a playful snort. The dark cast to his eyes warmed subtly. It was hard to see unless you were really looking.   
  
“I gave that up quite some time ago,” he murmured. “I find it liberates a great deal of my time, not wondering what's brewing under that rat's nest of his.”   
  
Hermione picked up her wand again, tapping it idly against the table in a see-saw motion, tip then handle and then tip again. Something occurred to her.   
  
“Malfoy, where'd you hear about someone finding the cup?”   
  
The Head Boy leaned conspiratorially toward her, until he was close enough to whisper in her ear.   
  
“How about from that unmentionable knight, Sir Cadogan, who woke us at half five this morning to escort several Americans onto castle grounds?” She could hear Malfoy's eyebrows waggling in the cadence of his drawl. “Perhaps we went to meet them at the castle gate. Perhaps I saw the cup delivered with my own eyes.”   
  
Hermione perked up. She couldn't imagine Malfoy voluntarily going  _ anywhere _ with Sir Cadogan The Mental, as Ron called the painted fellow. She cocked her head. “The royal we?”   
  
Malfoy came close to blushing. He corrected himself with an inclination of his head, almost like a courtly bow made to her shoulder.   
  
“Harry and myself. Naturally, as he's been kipping in my bed for some time now.”   
  
Hermione cracked a wry smile. “I remember a time not too long ago when you were kipping in  _ his _ bed.” She could still picture Harry standing in the doorway of the room she'd used at Grimmauld Place, wringing his hands with worry as he mumbled about Horcruxes and Draco Malfoy having a lie-down in his four poster. If only she'd known then how things would turn out.   
  
Malfoy gave her a funny look—like he didn't suspect she had a devious bone in her body, and was therefore incapable of making raunchy jokes. The way his lips pinched, it would appear Malfoy thought she was taking the mickey out of him. Which she was, a little. The blond seemed surprised more than anything, not expecting an adult conversation—let alone a sexually-inclined conversation—to ensue with  _ her _ of all witches. He shook the thin sheen of shock from his pointed face, trading it for silver-eyed devilishness in a heartbeat.   
  
“Wonder Boy and I... we like to switch it up, if you know what I mean.”   
  
Hermione bit back a nervous laugh. “I'm sure I don't.”   
  
“My dear Granger,” Malfoy scoffed, pulling away to meet her gaze head-on, “my poor old girl, surely you have an inkling? The mechanics of  _ l'amour des hommes _ are not what one would consider complex—invented by men  _ for _ men, after all. Nothing too difficult, nothing a bloke couldn't execute in a drunken stupor.” Malfoy smiled—rakish, the scourge of Hogwarts and deflowerer of best mates. “One has a pointy, stabby bit dangling between his legs, the other a waiting and sometimes rather unsuspecting hole; and, with a dash of lubricant—”   
  
She surged forward, clamping a hand over Malfoy's mouth before anybody heard him. Quickly, she scanned the room for eavesdroppers.   
  
Ron looked their way, startled, as an animated and affronted Malfoy wormed his way out of Hermione's grip like a buttered eel, shoving her hand away rather violently before righting his borrowed Gryffindor robes with a tremendous huff to ruffle his bangs. The Head Boy folded his arms across his chest, all indignation and scowling.   
  
“Wot's all this?” Ron leaned in her direction.   
  
“Nothing!” Hermione insisted quickly. “Nothing!”   
  
Ron didn't believe her. He was sliding his chair closer, hoping Professor Flitwick wouldn't notice, tied up as he was with Seamus Finnigan's latest botch. How the hapless Irishman made it to NEWT Charms was anybody's guess.   
  
Hermione used her foot to push Ron's chair right back where it belonged.   
  
“Mind out. This is... uh...  _ girl talk _ ,” she told him sternly. “Wedding night stuff. Trust me, even I don't wanna know.”   
  
Nothing could have scared Ron away faster. His face was a vivid Gryffindor red as he made a determined return to his Charms work. Turning back, Hermione caught sight of Malfoy casting  _ Muffliato _ just to be sure they weren't overheard.   
  
“Are we seriously having this conversation?” she hissed at him through her teeth.   
  
Malfoy's eyes widened, mock-innocent. “I'm not the  _ Mademoiselle _ who started it.” He licked his lips ponderously, tacking on beneath his breath, almost scandalized, “For once.”   
  
“It's not a typical topic of conversation for Gryffindors,” she admitted.   
  
“Unlike us Slytherin rots, talking blow jobs and buggery amid our careless, days-long benders, you mean.”   
  
“I didn't say that...” Hermione cautioned, holding up a hand to stay him. “Gryffindor House has had its share of fun-loving spirits like yourself.” Malfoy scoffed. She huffed right back, sardonic, “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you prefer 'bad ass'?”   
  
Malfoy tapped his chin in consideration—pompous little shit.   
  
He was quite the court fool today, playing a sort of character—jester and entertainer. She wondered if this was a side of Malfoy seen more by the Slytherins. Over in the corner, Zabini hadn't been at all fazed when their Head Boy went careening around the room, soaking in the attention and happy as a niffler in Gringotts. Yes, this was Malfoy in his princely capacity, presenting his wit at court for the entertainment and delight of his peers. That the act sated his prideful, attention-seeking nature was an added delight seen all over his glowing ferret face.   
  
“Take Fred and George Weasley,” Hermione offered. “They slept with girls and stirred up trouble. Then there's James Potter. Or Sirius Black. Both became Animagi illegally while at Hogwarts. They did it just to stir up trouble with their friend Remus Lupin, the teenage werewolf.” It didn’t take much to go on, once she got rolling on the house’s more colorful history. “And I'm sure Dumbledore would have ruffled a few feathers in his day. So you're hardly the first rogue to grace Gryffindor with your lecherous ways. And I doubt your, uh, buggery,” the blond made a silent  _ whoop _ when she said the word, pumping his fist in the air like his Quidditch team had just scored a goal. “Well, you and Harry certainly aren't the first instance Gryffindor Tower has ever seen. Nor will you be the last, I'd expect. Don't act like you're special.”   
  
“But I  _ am _ special,” Malfoy whined, preening sarcastically. He sounded remarkably like Lavender Brown—she'd been told Malfoy had a talent for impersonations.   
  
Hermione smiled despite herself. “It's the bride who's the center of attention on her wedding day. That's the same on the wizarding side as it is with muggles. I've read all about the customs.”   
  
Sly, Malfoy tipped in his chair until only the back legs were on the ground, a knobbly knee tucked under the table being the only thing keeping him from toppling backwards on his smug showman's arse. He had to be the center of  _ someone's _ attention, it would seem, or his life wasn't complete.   
  
“Brides, yes. My point exactly,” the groom simpered. He gave her a look down his long pointy nose, eyebrows disappearing under his lazy blond fringe.   
  
Hermione promptly shut her mouth before she could be caught gaping.   
  
She'd read about the practice of binding marriages with magic, begun when the ceremony's audience raised their wands and completed at the union's consummation. Because the history of wizarding marriage was predominantly of the heterosexual variety, all of the literature she'd read described the completion of the bonding process as when a new husband ejaculated inside of his wife, during the intercourse of their wedding night.   
  
Never had she paused to think how those rules applied to non-traditional couples—lesbian witches, gay wizards, ghost-human marriages and the more obscure cross-species unions where the partners might not have anatomy conducive to reproductive sex. She didn't want to think about that awful wizard and his kneazle with the muggle Morse code machine; the poor magic cat would be tap-tap-tapping out a steady stream of “no, no, no.” At least Harry and his future spouse enjoyed one another that way.   
  
She could never tell, at times like these, whether Malfoy was joking or deathly serious. But it would seem he was naming himself the bride, the receiving partner in the consummation of their impending nuptials.   
  
“Silly question,” Hermione began, glad Malfoy was gazing at a shaft of sunlight stretched across the stone ceiling. She didn't want to see the gleam in his eyes. “The, um, 'depositing of sexual fluid' portion—to complete the binding spell. How does that go for non-traditional couples?”   
  
A muscle in the young man's jaw flexed. It was his only reaction. Just a slight ripple near his ear and tracing a tendon down his pale neck, highlighting one vein bluer than the rest. He didn't look at her.   
  
“Vaginal intercourse is a misnomer, actually. No hymen-breaking necessary... for binding magic, anyway. Fellatio will do. It gets a dash more complicated with kneazlers, of course—lesbians—but you get the idea. One partner orgasms, the other receives... or otherwise imbibes. That's all you need.”   
  
“Rather one-sided...” Hermione mused.   
  
“As marital sex often was in the history of our kind. Arranged marriages, unwilling brides. All the brutishness which makes History of Magic fun.”   
  
Hermione snorted. “Somehow I missed that part of Binns' lectures.”   
  
“Binnsy always skipped the good parts,” Malfoy shook his head.   
  
“Rape and...  _ fellatio _ ,” Hermione felt her cheeks going red but she soldiered on, chuckling and incredulous. “Those are the good parts?”   
  
“Hush, Granger,” Malfoy waved a pale hand. It landed on the back of her chair. “A spirited game of 'No Means Yes' isn't likely to hurt anyone. Bruises can be spelled away.”   
  
“Oh my  _ God _ , Malfoy.” Hermione buried her face in her hands. “You're incorrigible.”   
  
“You adore me, Granger,” he shot back in his most honeyed, witty banter voice. “You fucking love me an' you're too bloody scared to admit it, even after all this time. I give you something to rally against. A ruddy figurehead, so that you might define yourself as my antithesis. I kick house elves—you knit them caps. I seek power—you waste away your hours with Cauldron Destroyer and Weasel King, the most pathetic excuses for wizards I've seen in all my life. I know he's sitting right there,” the blond rolled his eyes grandly before Hermione could utter a word in Ron or Neville's defense, “and I take delight in insulting him and his ilk from a meter away, protected by darker magic. For I am the greatest coward that ever was. I  _ am _ who and what I am. I'll own greed and cowardice as my vices any day. Hatred, too. I loathe the Weasleys, what they stand for in lifestyle and taste—and you're fellating one. That sums it up right there.”   
  
She wanted to say something in defense of the Weasleys. They were kind people, generous and loving, loyal and good. Molly and Arthur had taken Harry in like one of their own, and Ginny was like a sister to Hermione. If Malfoy meant to marry Harry, he would in effect be marrying himself into the Weasley clan. She wondered how much of Malfoy's dislike was based on family resentment and how much came from blasé observation and the occasional scuffle over the years; it was doubtful he might have ever allowed himself to see how heartfelt and genuine the Weasleys were. He would see that very soon, when Molly welcomed him into the family with open arms. Being Harry's beloved would wash away any sins of the father in Mr. Weasley's eyes, too. And that was only part of why the Weasleys were wonderful.   
  
Regardless, Malfoy's mind was not one to be swayed by any argument Hermione could present. She knew that. And as such she kept her thoughts to herself on the matter: Harry could deal with Malfoy when the time came for him to interact politely with a Weasley... or she'd have words with Harry, who was at least sympathetic to her cause.   
  
She found a way to turn Malfoy's barb around, aiming it at the blond instead of herself and Ron.   
  
“Positively wicked, that's what you are,” she scolded. “And you talk about snogging the one-eyed snake rather often,” she observed shrewdly.   
  
Malfoy smirked at her. “A fault of my gender. And you, madam, have deftly avoided my accusation!  _ Brava _ . I'll make a proper witch of you, yet.”   
  
Malfoy was rather fun like this—inappropriate and vaguely embarrassing, of course, but fun never-the-less.   
  
Hermione batted her eyes, playing along. “I beg your pardon?”   
  
“You  _ are _ blowing Weasley, then?” The Head Boy inclined his white-blond head in Ron's direction. There was altogether too much  _ head _ going around for Hermione's tastes.   
  
“I never took you for a gossip, Malfoy.”   
  
The Head Boy pursed his lips. “I'm taking that for a 'no,' Granger,” he mused, gazing up at the ceiling. “Not that I blame you. How could I?” and Malfoy gave a little fake shiver. “Two words to end it all: fire crotch.”   
  
Hermione choked on her own spit. Malfoy kept right on going.   
  
He ranted, “I object even on principle—let alone the mental image! A gingery mane surrounding... no. Oh no no,” his white-blond head shook violently. “Gods no!  _ I _ couldn't bring myself to it, either. Not for all the gold in Gringotts. I don't know  _ how _ you do.”   
  
Hermione looked away. Malfoy's lips took on a cheeky, devious little shit grin.   
  
“That's right—you don't.”   
  
Hermione didn't say a word.   
  
Malfoy kept on. “Well how could you?” He seemed to be... pitying her. Yes, that angelic tilt of his brows, the raising of one skinny shoulder.... Malfoy felt bad for her, for having to one day bury her face in Ronald's ginger bush. She herself had put off thinking about it until the time arose; her wedding night, perhaps? Apparently so, if Malfoy's word was to be trusted. She ventured another question, since she had the willy guru at her disposal.   
  
“Do people really give head on their wedding night?”   
  
Malfoy tapped the back of her chair, still leaning precariously on his own. His fingers made a little drumming sound in time with his sighing breath.   
  
“As I understand, it's more a matter of personal preference than anything else. Some prefer it to the alternatives.”   
  
“I suppose.” Her nose wrinkled at the thought. “Not wanting to get pregnant would be a factor....”   
  
“Hardly!  _ Amortius Intentia  _ has prevented many a bastard or otherwise unwanted pregnancy for nigh on two thousand years!”   
  
“You've mentioned the spell before.” She twirled her wand, looking busy as Professor Flitwick scurried by. Malfoy remained in repose, hand draped over the back of her chair like a pet snake. She spoke after Flitwick had passed. “But I couldn't find it in any of the usual references.”   
  
Malfoy made a noise like a cat hacking up a hairball. The wet cough quickly transformed into a squealing peal of laughter, like a donkey's bray sneaking out of his chest.   
  
“You would, Granger!” the Head Boy wheezed, giggling to himself. “Looking up ancient pureblood sex magic in the sodding school library... tha’s downright  _ precious! _ ”   
  
“I didn't  _ know _ it was sex magic,” Hermione spluttered, on the defensive. It was hard not to laugh along with Malfoy—that childish titter of his was infectious at times.   
  
“ _ I  _ mentioned it to you, girl,” he chastised. “Draco Malfoy, school rake, it would seem. Clearly it was sex magic. Or the Dark Arts.”   
  
“Anything to vex me,” Hermione smirked.   
  
Malfoy smirked back. “Indeed, you're catching on.” His arm slipped down around her neck, draping over her shoulder like they were old chums—a pureblood and a mudblood, the oldest and best of mates. “Anything to vex you, Granger.”   
  
  
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
They would look at one another—sly glances cast across the Great Hall, Harry standing with Professor McGonagall and Malfoy at the other side of the star-and-candle-lit hall.    
  
Malfoy was engaged in conversation with his Romanian friends. Hermione guessed that Harry had invited the muscle-bound pair, if the muddled expression of pleasure and surprise on Malfoy's pale face was anything to go by. Malfoy talked with his hands, smiling at the burly brothers and their tall, tattooed companion. Harry's eyes would watch the path of Malfoy's hands, gaze settling on shoulders or hips, mapping the contour of the wizard's bony body beneath a simple black wool blazer. When their gazes met, Malfoy's eyes would brighten to shafts of silver, lighting his face. He made Harry smile.   
  
She was surprised Malfoy wasn't wearing dress robes. It was his wedding, after all. She suspected Harry had had some influence in their dress. His own attire was equally muggle in nature—plain wool trousers with a matching black jacket, what she recognized as one of his white uniform shirts, freshly pressed, and a dragon hide belt peeking out from his unbuttoned blazer. The only piece she didn't recognize was a vintage necktie, striped in Slytherin silver and green. The tie was thick and heavy, and of a very particular, old-fashioned style. If she had to guess, she'd say it was at least fifty years old, perhaps more. It would have been a staple of the Slytherin uniform back when You-Know-Who had been a Hogwarts student. In the back of her mind, that thought gave her chills. So to replace it, she decided that Harry was honoring the tradition of “something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.” The necktie was old and likely borrowed, as was the Gaunt family ring sparkling on Malfoy's finger. The pair of them were developing a collection of relics from that time, from purebloods and dark wizards and things she knew too little about.   
  
Too many omens, she decided, giving herself a mental shake. She wanted to see trouble, and so it was appearing before her eyes. Thoughts of You-Know-Who and horcruxes had no business here. Weddings were supposed to be happy occasions, and she was doing her best to hold herself to that belief. This was certainly the strangest wedding she'd ever attended.   
  
Members of Dumbledore's Army had arrived in the Great Hall, peering around quietly, the place plain and familiar. They had no idea what was coming, of course. At Harry's request, Hermione had sent a message through their old charmed galleons, saying to meet in the Great Hall at half ten that night. Several people had approached her over the course of the school day, inquiring for details. All she told them was a curt “formal dress.” Even so, a few souls stumbled in in their pajamas and dressing gowns, curiosity plain on their faces.    
  
Most of the old DA stood together to one side, Neville among them. He wore a handsome set of navy robes, picking nervously at the hem of his sleeve. Malfoy's little shadow, Kieran Gweir, traipsed in, having ducked out of Gryffindor tower behind Seamus and Dean, Harry’s Invisibility Cloak barely concealed beneath the boy’s robes. Malfoy fixed the boy with a stern look before catching his small shoulders in a one-armed hug, congratulating the lad on his ingenuity and penchant for rule-breaking. There was something said in a mumble—something about the both of them becoming proper Gryffindors yet.   
  
Luna Lovegood arrived with Professor Flitwick and Madame Hooch, the three of them in varying shades of blue. Luna's robes were the lightest, a powdery robin's egg hue which complemented her skin. She went right to Malfoy, taking his hands and kissing him on both cheeks. She beamed at him, seemingly  _ in _ on the big secret.   
  
Harry broke from his position beside Professor McGonagall, striding across the hall. He was making a beeline for Hermione and Ron.    
  
Her boyfriend had been surly and silent the better part of the evening, arms folded over his chest and hardly speaking two words together. It was like having a statue-Ron, carved out of stone and placed at her side.    
  
She knew why.    
  
Harry had picked someone else to be his Best Man. Ron was crushed. And this was how he dealt with his emotions—shutting people out, sulking, grunting, and generally being miserable.    
  
She couldn't exactly blame him for being in a mood, though. He and Harry had been best mates since first year. They shared a special bond—something which she could never get close to, never come between. But Malfoy had gotten between her boys in the end—shoved his skinny rump right in the middle of it, really, cocking up the perfect chemistry between her best friends, the friction of it causing a blast violent enough to send them veering this far off course these last five months. Only now were they getting back on track. This wedding business challenged everything. And she had no clue what was passing through Ron's head as Harry approached.   
  
Ron seemed to cool his temper, so that the red head was only fuming slightly by the time Harry reached them.   
  
Harry seemed different. The green of his eyes was tired, rimmed with shadows visible through the frames of his glasses. He pushed them up his nose before addressing his friend.   
  
“Out with it,” Harry said quietly. It was clear who was speaking—Harry the Commander, a leader on the battlefield and a man who would not rest until he had whatever it was he wanted. Any trace of the little boy she'd met on the Hogwarts Express all those years ago was gone—replaced by this calm, self-assured gentleman with strong purpose and a good head on his shoulders. Harry had grown up. Fast.   
  
Ron spluttered a moment, arms falling to his sides in wordless defeat. Eventually, he found a sentence worth uttering.   
  
“It's not a queer thing. Honest. It's... Malfoy.”   
  
Harry took a very deep breath before answering. “I understand what you're saying. I do, now. Every time you look at him, you see Lucius Malfoy's son: a Death Eater. Someone who’s made terrible choices in the past, choices which hurt the people you care about. You see the reckless, scared side of him. But when I look at him,” and Harry's gaze went off to his left, as though to catch Malfoy in his line of sight and tell Ron the first thing which came to his mind. A fond smile turned the corners of his mouth as he observed the blond, talking animatedly with his foreign friends. “When I look at Draco I see this morning, when he wiped toothpaste off my lip. I see the man who makes me biscuits for breakfast and leaves crumbs all over the counter; the wizard who still tries to teach me to dance even when he knows I'm hopeless.”   
  
Harry's smile broadened, until he looked about to laugh at himself. The thought of Draco Malfoy, Ice-Prince of Slytherin, making biscuits  _ was _ rather absurd. Harry shrugged, his gaze returning to Ron. “The reality of Draco is probably somewhere in the middle of those two extremes. He's trying to find himself again after having everything he's ever known up-ended in his face. I know he's been... well...  _ touched _ , mentally.” Hermione felt her eyebrows rise of their own volition. “It’s something he has to work on. Just understand that underneath all that prickly personality is a human being—someone I love and am spending the rest of my life with... however long that might be,” Harry shrugged, dismissive of the danger he faced. “I need you to be okay with that. Both of you.”   
  
“I've made my peace with Malfoy,” Hermione offered. “He's certifiably insane, mind you, and we'll never be girlfriends or anything,” she added hastily, “but I see how happy he makes you. I won't stand in the way of that.”    
  
She knew she’d be run over in an instant should she ever try. It wasn’t worth it. Harry’s heart wanted what it wanted. She couldn’t control that.   
  
Harry brushed her hand with his. “Thank you.” His eyes fell to Ron, who paled and blushed at the same time.   
  
“It's not a queer thing,” Ron repeated defencively. “I've got no problem with Charlie.”   
  
“Speaking of which,” Harry interrupted. “I've had a look at the tapestry Draco fixed.” He leaned closer, raising his eyebrows at Ron. “It hasn't filled in all the way, but I think there may be another wedding in the family sooner than you think. A gay one.”   
  
“That's fine by me,” Ron nodded quickly. His bangs rearranged themselves, splaying over one eye. He pushed them aside. “I know I was... not the best, when you and Malfoy first... you know.”   
  
“ _ Not the best _ ,” Harry repeated in a monotone. Years spent with Harry let them both know that he was kidding. Harry was one of the most sarcastic people she knew, save for Malfoy and perhaps Professor Snape.   
  
“Shut it,” Ron's neck went red. “I was  _ horrible _ . I reacted so badly, mate. I can see that now. I just....”   
  
“I get it, mate. You need more time... to get used to the idea of me and him,” Harry inferred. “Thanks for coming this far and all. I'm grateful you're here—both of you,” he shot Hermione a small grin, but the happiness quickly faded from his face. He looked older. The tiredness was settling into his features, transforming him from a boy to a man. It was startling to see the transformation occur before her eyes, in the span of only a few seconds, reminding her of all the parts of Harry's life she'd missed these last few months. Only now were they starting to get back on track. She hoped it wasn't too late.   
  
“You understand, though,” Harry went on, choosing his words carefully, “why I can't have you stand with me. Not as Best Man, anyway.”   
  
Ron's gaze was fixed to the floor. Above them, a cloud scuttled past the moon, cutting off the bluish light which had filled the room. The candles brightened, turning the light around them to an orange hue. It reflected off of Ron's hair, his head bowed.   
  
“I don't like it,” Ron muttered at last, “but yeah, I get it.” His shoe pushed at an invisible clod of dirt. He still hadn't raised his eyes. “Who'd you pick, then?”   
  
Harry's vision darted to the side. He seemed to be looking at Malfoy at first, but his gaze was a hair too high. His chin rose, and his eyes returned to Ron's bowed head.   
  
“Radić.”   
  
“Who?”   
  
The question had been on Hermione's lips as well. She didn't recognize the name. Harry jutted his chin.   
  
“Nebojsa Radić. Tall chap standing next to Draco.” Harry’s voice dropped to a whisper. He drew closer. “The one who was impersonating me while we were away.”   
  
Hermione followed the line of Harry's chin. Standing beside Malfoy was a tall, gaunt-looking wizard. She'd seen him before—though he'd been in far better health—at meetings of the Order of The Phoenix, and he'd been at the Battle of Malfoy Manor, relegated to a support role due to his injuries. He leaned on a wooden cane as he and Malfoy chatted. The foreign wizard was liberally mottled with piercings, with the hint of a tattoo crawling up his neck in black ink. His robes mostly covered the design itself, but she suspected there were more. With his close-cropped hair, severe features and long, billowing black robe, he reminded her of a warrior monk—a villain from a muggle kung fu film, dark and ominous. The cane he used didn't help, putting her in mind of Lucius Malfoy's sinister cane, and the rapier that was rumored to be concealed within.   
  
She wondered what this foreign soldier and Harry could share—this man with a killer's eyes, like blue ice as his gaze slid over her and Ron, catching on Harry.   
  
The man, Radić, winked. It felt like witnessing a death threat.   
  
Hermione had never been one to put stock in “auras” and “vibrations.” She left that to crackpots like Professor Trelawney. But this fellow, for whatever reason, gave her the creeps. She rubbed at her arms until his cold gaze fell away, drawn back into conversation with Malfoy and his friends.   
  
“From the Order, right?” she posed weakly. “I've, uh, met him once or twice. He's very... quiet.”   
  
Harry chewed his lip. “He fought by my side at Ravenwood. And he understands the whole thing with Draco and the Death Eaters, so... I thought he was a good choice. He and Draco get on well. And there's the whole queer thing.”   
  
“That bloke's bent?” Ron spluttered. Apparently he'd found the courage to return to the conversation.   
  
Harry shrugged one shoulder. “I think he's bi, actually. Dmitry's gay.”   
  
Hermione couldn't keep track of their names. “You mean...?” And she pointed to herself, silently inquiring if Harry meant the wizard who’d walked in her skin. Harry gave half a shrug and a swift nod in reply.    
  
Hermione took a second look at the burly chap who had supposedly been impersonating her through the use of illegally-obtained Polyjuice Potion. At least Harry had chosen a homosexual wizard upon whom to grant access to every girls dormitory in the castle. That at least showed foresight... perhaps it had been Malfoy’s idea. Secretly, she couldn’t help but wonder how the fellow had dealt with having breasts for nigh-on two weeks. If he were truly gay, had he been ambivalent about her body... or repulsed? Maybe it was for the best not to think on it.   
  
“That big fellow there?” Ron pointed before rounding back to Harry. “You're telling me Tihomir Ionescue—maybe the biggest, baddest Death Eater  _ ever _ —has got a gay son?”   
  
Harry didn't show any emotion as he answered with a quick quip, “Had  _ two _ bent sons, actually. But now he's down to just the one. Estranged, of course, given the circumstances.”   
  
Ron's expression went very serious. “Malfoy told me about it. Awful stuff.”   
  
“Yeah.” Harry agreed. Before he could say more, Professor McGonagall signaled to him and Draco. The foreign blokes followed Malfoy, so Ron and Hermione tagged along behind Harry. Under his breath, Ron proceeded to fill Hermione in regarding the tragic history of the Ionescues—how the father, a Death Eater, had murdered his oldest son, and was hell bent on the destruction of the other queer child as well. The tale made her cringe down to her toes. Ron was just finishing his story when a hissing sound caught Hermione's attention.   
  
Harry was speaking Parseltongue. To Radić. And the sickly fellow answered, hissing back. Beside her, Ron gave a twitch of surprise. Parseltongue was a rare skill. As far as she knew, Harry and You-Know-Who were the only publicly-known Parselmouths. She couldn’t blame the foreigner for keeping his skill a secret; Parseltongue was forever associated with the Dark Arts thanks to the legacy of Salazar Slytherin. Hermione wondered what the two could be talking about in their secret snake language.   
  
Headmistress McGonagall cleared her throat. If Hermione didn’t know better, she’d say the woman sounded nervous. “Now remember, boys,” she said in an undertone. “Forty-eight hours. No more.”    
  
“Forty-eight hours for what?” Harry asked.   
  
Malfoy’s eyes reached the heavens. He brushed a lock of blond from his forehead.   
  
Radić leaned, muttering in Harry’s ear. “To conzumate zhe marriage.”   
  
“Twit,” Malfoy added under his breath.    
  
Harry smirked. When he opened his mouth, the hiss of Parseltongue escaped. A tiny jerk of his dark brows told her he was being sarcastic—and perhaps, sexual? She couldn’t quite place the depth of his voice through the language barrier, but his body and facial expression told her much of what she needed to know. He’d said something perverted. Likely asking if last night counted or something equally vulgar. He’d learned that, for better or worse, from Malfoy.   
  
All four men laughed: Malfoy, Harry, Radić, and the gay one, Ionesque.    
  
Hogwarts’ Headmistress gave them a questioning look before her eyes swept the Great Hall. The staff began to gather, students following. Several more foreigners and a handful of people from the Order stepped forward, forming a loose knot of bodies at the center of the room. Hermione and Ron did their best to stick with Harry at the center.   
  
A table was conjured. Professor McGonagall handed Harry and Malfoy each a sheaf of parchment. Luna Lovegood flicked her wand, producing a blue-feathered quill. Hermione smiled at the inclusion of “something blue.”   
  
Each of the bridegrooms stretched their parchment out over the table and began to read. Hermione inched closer, having never seen a magical marriage contract up close before. Similar to muggles, witches and wizards had prenuptial agreements, and Hermione wondered if that might be what Malfoy was perusing with so much care.   
  
No one quite knew what was going on yet. They watched with poorly-veiled interest. Luna Lovegood glanced up at the ceiling, seeming to count the stars. Radish earrings swung to and fro from her ears as she gazed up, observing the moon and clouds mirrored in the ceiling above them.   
  
Hermione drew closer while she still could, standing just behind the “happy couple,” peeking over shoulders. Thankfully they were both quite short. She examined the parchments.   
  
Harry had the prenuptial. He was crossing things off left and right—giving Malfoy everything in the event of his death; Malfoy, on the other hand, had been given choice over the wording of their vows. He rolled his wand between his thin fingertips, considering.   
  
“You'll do the traditional, then?” Hermione asked. It made sense, Malfoy being the formal sort.   
  
“Eugh,” the pureblood grunt-snorted back, his face wrinkling. “Wonder Boy thinks they're strange,” the blond subtly rolled his eyes in Harry's direction, though fondly. “And I seriously doubt he could memorize them in the next quarter hour.”   
  
Harry leaned over from his own official scroll. “You mean all that ‘ _ I am your hand, ever at your side’ _ rubbish? Like Bill and Fleur's wedding?”   
  
Malfoy pushed pale fingertips against his lips to keep from laughing. His eyes closed a moment, holding it back. “ _ I  _ would be the hand, Potty. But yes, those are the traditional vows.”   
  
“But we're both blokes,” Harry protested good-naturedly, gesturing with the quill. “Does it really matter who says what?”   
  
Hermione didn’t know the answer to that, herself, and was eager to hear. Just then she heard a thump, followed by a choked-off sound. She realized it was the Serbian wizard, Radić, not-so-subtly stepping on his beefy boyfriend's foot. The poor fellow promptly took a cane handle to the stomach for good measure, silencing whatever information he'd been about to offer. It felt as though there was a secret the Serb was attempting to cover up. Perhaps he and Malfoy were in cahoots?   
  
Hermione didn't have a chance to ponder as Harry kept on. “But you're right, love. I could never remember all that. Is there something else? Maybe something, uh, shorter?”   
  
“They made a new form,” Hermione offered. She gestured toward the parchment with the vows.   
  
The new form was supposedly more romantic, brought into popularity during the last rise of You-Know-Who. They were likely the vows Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had said, along with Lily and James, Harry's parents. The words were sentimental: they had history. They were syllables she and Ron might one day recite. Harry read the first few lines and blanched.   
  
“I don't think so,” he said quickly, recoiling. “I've never talked like that in my life.”   
  
“Let's not start now,” Malfoy agreed, shooting daggers Hermione's way.   
  
She held up her hands, muttering, “It was just a suggestion.”    
  
The newer vows spoke of destiny, things meant to be, and love through thick and thin. They were perhaps more tailored to a woman's notion of marriage and happily ever after. At least that's what Malfoy would say. The pureblood would likely dismiss them as bollocks and trite invented by half-bloods over-running the magical world. Anything to avoid the truth—that these were vows of passion and love, spoken freely to your partner for life. And as it stood, Harry and Malfoy both would likely die a thousand deaths before uttering a word about their feelings in the middle of a crowded room. That was how things were with them. They’d rather act their feelings out, since they couldn’t make the words.   
  
“Here,” Malfoy jabbed his wand at the scroll. He indicated a single paragraph, quite short, almost neglected at the very bottom of the page.   
  
Harry got closer, pushing his glasses up his nose to read the words. “It says 'Suggested For Battlefield Or Death Bed Ceremonies.'”   
  
Malfoy bit his lip, shrugging helplessly—and perhaps there was a note of flippancy in his voice when he crowed, “At least it's short.”   
  
“And to the point,” Harry agreed. “I think I can memorize two sentences.” He looked up at Professor McGonagall, telling her with a smirk, “We'll do this one, thanks.”   
  
“Very well then,” she replied, eying the two, and then the little crowd surrounding them. “Who will be standing with you? I need them to sign the documents first, as witnesses.”   
  
Harry turned, reaching through the crowd to pull Radić forward. The Serbian wizard was more than two heads taller than Harry or Malfoy. His height and the shape of his face caused him to look down his long nose at Professor McGonagall. She peered back at the fellow over the square rims of her spectacles, only vaguely disapproving. That was about as good as it got with Professor McGonagall on a first meeting.   
  
Malfoy turned. He offered his hand, palm up, to Luna Lovegood, drawing her forward like a princess presented at court. Malfoy could certainly turn on the charm when he felt like it.   
  
“Miss Lovegood,” McGonagall started. “I wasn't aware you were of-age!”   
  
Luna smiled, her radish earrings swinging merrily as Malfoy directed her to the parchment she was to sign. “It was my birthday last week, Headmistress.”   
  
“Then I have no objection,” McGonagall declared whilst fingering her wand, almost fidgeting, as though she couldn’t wait to get this over with—before the Gods and the ghosts of the Founders themselves struck her down for what she was about to do. The rapidly graying Headmistress glanced around once before indicating the bottom of the prenuptial. “You'll affix your seal here,” she laid down a second scroll, pointing with her wand, “and here.”    
  
Two copies, just to be thorough. No one was messing about here. With McGonagall, you wouldn’t expect any less. That must have been why Harry and Malfoy asked her to officiate. With Harry’s new clout at the Ministry, they could have gotten just about anyone; Scrimgrour himself, even, if Harry would sign an Auror contract. But that would be too much like signing his life away. It seemed as though Harry had other plans now.   
  
Luna Lovegood and Draco Malfoy stood side-by-side, Malfoy watching the blonde witch sign.   
  
Hermione was a little surprised to see Luna standing for Malfoy. They were so... different. Luna was tender and gentle where Malfoy was spiky and impossible. It was amazing that they'd learned to tolerate one another, let alone walk the corridors together on their Prefect's rounds. Their blossoming relationship boggled the mind; then again, so did many of the events of the last six months. This happening was, in comparison, relatively easy to swallow.   
  
It was odd enough that they'd become friends. But now Luna was standing, in essence, as Malfoy's Maid of Honor. The gesture led Hermione to wonder just how much of the feminine Malfoy would be adopting in this ceremony. Earlier, he'd hinted at intentions of, well... of being on the receiving end for their wedding night activities. Perhaps to do so, he would also have to suffer the traditionally female role in the ceremony leading up to. That he had selected Luna and not one of the other blokes he got on with—someone like Blaise Zabini or an ex-Durmstrang student—seemed to speak to his purpose. With a woman standing for him, there could be little doubt of his intent.   
  
Luna and the Serbian wizard signed their names, casting a non-verbal spell alongside their signatures. Hermione had never seen anything like it.   
  
Ron pressed close behind her. “Pureblood thing,” he explained; sensing her curiosity, it seemed, by the tilt of her head and the angle at which she leaned closer in order to see. Ron spoke against her ear. “Some of the oldest families still have crests to go with, but we've all got a seal. It's a measure to verify our signature with magic, in the event it's ever called into question. McGonagall's being thorough.”   
  
“Probably a good idea,” Hermione whispered back, “all things considered.”   
  
The Serb signed first, and Luna second, handing the blue-feathered quill to Harry with a grin. “Congratulations,” she told him. “You've been through so much—you deserve every happiness in the world.” She kissed Harry on the cheek, then Malfoy again, before stepping off to the side.   
  
Hermione recognized the sight of Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, screwing up his courage. She'd seen that expression before—the look caught somewhere between hope and constipation—as his brow scrunched, lips pursed, glasses sliding down his nose and shoulders so square you could mistake him for granite beneath his dark dinner jacket. She imagined that to be exactly how he’d looked as a first year, staring down You-Know-Who to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone, or in fourth year, locking wands with You-Know-Who in order to escape the graveyard and return Cedric's body. She'd seen enough of that face during the Triwizard Tournament itself, and again the following year, fighting Umbridge and then the Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic; and even now the expression lingered. It was such a familiar and yet tragic sight, that Harry had shouldered so much in his young life. And here he was taking on yet another burden. But at least this time it was of his own choosing—small comfort, but at least this trouble, for better or worse, was all his own.   
  
Harry's brows descended further as he nodded, allowing his pierced, tattooed foreigner of a Best Man to instruct him in the casting of an ancient pureblood seal to accompany his signature.   
  
Before long, Harry pushed up his sleeve and signed.   
  
Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Did the muggles teach you to write, or chimpanzees?” There were a few startled snorts of laughter, mostly from the teaching staff. “I swear,” Malfoy drawled, “when we're hauled before the Wizangamot to prove the validity of this contract, every last one of them is going to have a good laugh at your penmanship. You wait and see,” he waggled a bony finger at Harry, who was chuckling along with everyone else.   
  
“I don't zhink ve need zhis contract,” Yuri the wandmaker joked. “It zounds like zhey're already married.”   
  
A whisper spread back. Robes and pajamas rustled with whispers and shifting feet, hands brought to mouths as word rippled through the tiny crowd. It hadn't been quite clear up until now—no one had said it out loud. But Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter were tying the knot. Getting hitched. Jumping the broomstick. Call it what you will. Faces warped, some lighting up with glee and others filling with discombobulation. She watched as Seamus and Dean handed several sickles each to an elated Colin Creevey, his brother Denis by his side. Colin proceeded to count his coins, making sure the seventh year boys hadn't shorted him, while Denis stuck his tongue out, clapping his hands with ill-contained glee. Hermione caught the excited grin which graced Kieran Gweir's face. The boy shared a quick hug with nearby Professor Flitwick, the pair of them all-but jumping up and down with childlike joy.   
  
Harry and his intended stood perfectly still... smiling at each other, like they knew they were doing something stupid and naughty and instead of feeling bed, they reveled in it. The feelings reveled in their eyes.   
  
Headmistress McGonagall sighed at the pair of seventeen-year-old boys before her, sliding the contract over to Malfoy.   
  
Harry laughed, extending the quill between them. He raised his eyebrows. “You'll have the rest of our lives to put me in my place, Malfoy. But only if you sign.” He grinned, cheeky. “There's still time to back out of this, you know.”   
  
The smirk on Malfoy's face made him look positively devilish. Hermione spotted some of the beauty of him, then—round apples of cheeks, and a light in his eyes under that fringe of blond hair. Perhaps it was that fiendishness and quickness of wit which had drawn Harry in. He'd certainly found something of Malfoy to love, with the way they were looking at each other—as though they were the only ones in the room. Possibly the entire universe.   
  
“You'd like that too much,” Malfoy quipped.   
  
Harry sidled closer. “Not going to get sick of me, are you?”   
  
“I could never tire of your...” Malfoy gave a dramatic pause, searing gazes held, “...vault at Gringotts.”   
  
Harry laughed loudly. Malfoy smiled, his cheekbones twinging pink—almost a blush.   
  
“Sign the damn papers, Draco,” Harry said. His voice was lower than she'd ever heard it; rumbling, but not too rough. “So I can marry you proper.”   
  
In all the years she'd observed Draco Malfoy—sneering and simpering and casting less-than-charming hexes her way—she'd never until that night seen the details of the man. He'd always been a blur of unpleasantness in her mind. She worked now to create a new image of the man. His skin was nearly translucent, he was so pale: half his coloring came from the golden flickering of candles, or a passing shaft of moonlight from the starry sky above. The color of his eyes seemed to absorb shadows and the blackness of his suit, their shade tinting with darkness or color depending on where his gaze fell. In light or dark, his bone structure was apparent; jutting from his face in sharp angles brought out by the whitewash of him against black fabric—black jacket, black trousers, black shirt, black tie, all impeccable, precise, planned to the last matching stitch. He kept his wand tucked in his breast pocket, the jacket of his muggle suit bubbling slightly as he reached for the quill Harry was handing over, having just signed their marriage license.   
  
Malfoy was left handed. She'd never noticed. His silver-grey eyes scrunched whenever his lips moved, whether in snarling or now, in a satisfied, rather toothy smile.   
  
And with a flourish of feather and ink, Malfoy wasn't a Malfoy anymore.   
  
Several people surged forward all at once, shouldering Ron and Hermione aside. Presents were showered upon the couple—a small sack of coins from several of the professors, scrolls of well-wishing parchment from Luna and the Creeveys, and a small, ornate potion phial from their foreign friends. Hermione read the name of the brew from their lips— _ Compenti Omgressus _ . She'd heard the name once before, from... she couldn't bring herself to call the blond by his Christian name, but what was he now? Potter? Too strange. Malfoy-Potter? Even stranger. She'd heard of the potion from him, and vowed to research its origins.   
  
The room got louder. Her foot trodden on, Hermione reached for Ron’s hand, looking up at him. “What about the vows?” she mouthed.   
  
“Soon,” Ron mouthed back. He bent to her ear. “They’re legally married now. Not everyone does the magical bonding.”   
  
The Headmistress waved an arm over the ruckus. “Boys?!” she said loudly. “We'd best get on before half your guests violate their curfew.”   
  
“Good point,” Harry nodded, reaching for Draco's hand. The pureblood glanced away, but placed his hand in Harry's none-the-less. Several people clapped and cheered again. Hermione wondered what the reaction would be were the pair to kiss—they might find out soon enough. Harry was all but laying claim to his pureblood with just his eyes.   
  
The crowd backed up, presents deposited on the table. The shorter guests were ushered to the front of the group—Gweir and Flitwick standing beside Luna, the Creeveys with the Durmstrang boys, and the adults of the Order of The Phoenix ringing them. Ron found them a gap beside Neville.   
  
“Quite the surprise,” Neville offered. Half his face was grinning. The other half looked tired.    
  
“You can say that again,” Ron agreed.   
  
Hermione shushed them. The Headmistress had raised her wand, prepared to conduct the formal portion of the ceremony as soon as quiet fell.   
  
The boys stood before the professor, facing one another, the blond’s hand still clasped in Harry’s. The Gaunt family heirloom glittered black and silver on his finger—the ring finger, she realized. Of his left hand. He’d been wearing it as an engagement ring, then. She wondered for how long.    
  
Harry's fingers moved, working the old ring from his partner's skinny finger.   
  
A look passed over the pureblood's face—as though he were about to vomit, eyes snapping closed and his pallor going slightly green—before Harry transferred the ring to his right hand, preparing for the exchange of rings in the formal ceremony about to begin.   
  
She couldn’t quite hear, but stood near enough to read Harry's lips.    
  
“You okay?” he asked.   
  
No-longer-Malfoy's eyes remained shut as he shook his head, expelling air like a man who'd just out-flown a dragon and lived to tell about it. He pressed the back of his free hand to his cheeks, one and then the other, checking his temperature with those cold hands of his. Hermione could make out a bluish-purple vein fluttering at the side of his neck. He looked faint.   
  
“Yeah,” his lips moved, shaky. “I think I'm alright.”   
  
Harry moved closer, looking worried. “Was it the ring?”   
  
Silver eyes rolled grandly. “You think, Scar Head?” The childhood insult was so plain, even now. “It's over now.” Their foreheads made contact, noses brushing, twin fringes running together, framing intense gazes. Hermione felt she was trespassing just looking at them. The room quieted, all attention turned to them. Malfoy mouthed, “Let's do this—before you lose your nerve.”   
  
“Scared?” Harry asked.   
  
“Not in the slightest,” the blond rebuffed. “You?”   
  
Harry's lips turned up. “You wish.”   
  
Professor McGonagall looked down at them over the square rims of her glasses. “Are we ready now?”   
  
“Vait!” someone said. Heads turned.    
  
An arm was raised. Then wands. No-longer-Malfoy flinched.    
  
The boys from Durmstrang sang—chanted, really. Simple, low notes building in unison to form a melody. Light came from their raised wands, stretching in an arc above the couple. Luna raised her wand, then Kieran Gweir, and soon others—catching the strands of light so that they formed an arc over the couple’s bowed heads. They were like boughs, magical tree-like limbs blooming with specks of light, mirroring the stars in the night sky above.    
  
Harry gazed up in wonder. The blond flushed with embarrassment, looking at their joined hands, his thin lips pressing painfully tight. The light played in their hair, illuminated bits tumbling down like enchanted snowflakes, melting the moment they touched solid shoulders.    
  
The singing, the light—it was beautiful in its simplicity, the moon taking that moment to break through the clouds, bathing them with crisp, blue-white light. Light danced, as though it were snowing faery dust all around them.    
  
Distracted by the sight, Hermione was one of the last to draw her wand and join in the silent spell.   
  
At the center of it all, the pureblood bridegroom drew his wand right-handed. He looked shaky.    
  
Harry didn’t wait for McGonagall’s signal. He spoke over the singing—spoke to Draco alone, though the whole room could hear him clearly.    
  
“I take you, Draco Lucius Malfoy, to be my husband. To love and to cherish, to honor and obey, from this day until my last.”    
  
His wand tapped twice against a pale finger, conjuring a plain silver band.   
  
“And I take you... Harry James Potter, to be my husband. To love and to cherish, to honor and do my very, very damnedest to obey.” Harry couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “From this day until my last.”   
  
Two taps of a hawthorn wand, and a silver ring appeared on Harry’s finger. They waved their wands as one, casting a Concealment Charm—a silent warning to all present that their union was to be a secret one. Their rings disappeared, but their marriage was already forged, lives and magic bound. Hermione suspected the magic sparks falling down around them had something to do with it, lending strength to the vows by some ancient, pureblood ritual. Or perhaps it was just music. It still danced up her spine.    
  
The light died with the music. Harry and Draco were left standing, two boys holding hands at the center of a silent room, every wand raised.   
  
“Then, by decree of the Ministry of Magic of Great Britain, and the oath of those present here, you are now wed.”   
  
Harry took his husband by the shoulders, planting on his lips the most passionate and simultaneously innocent kiss Hermione had ever beheld. Their lips pressed, opened, full and familiar. They rarely kissed in public, and the sight took their audience by storm.    
  
A tear snuck down Harry’s cheek. And it was the first time she’d ever seen him cry for happiness, for pure, unadulterated joy.

 

 

 

 

 

  



	56. Let's Be Honest – Porn, Round 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porn. Round 2. Self-explanatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** This chapter deals with erotic asphyxia or Breath Play. Breath play is dangerous. The “strange heartbeats” mentioned are PVC's (premature ventricular contractions), which are precursors to things like cardiac arrest and death. PVC's can only be reliably detected with a cardiac monitor—certainly not by ordinary people, even certified medical professionals. This is a big artistic leap on my part. Asphixia was at one time used as a treatment for premature ejaculation but has been proven ineffective; however, erotic asphyxia is still practiced and small numbers of people do die from it every year. Just putting some information out there.

Harry found himself fretting over what Dobby might've done to his and Draco's room in their absence. Garish holiday decorations in the Room of Requirement came to mind—Christmas baubles with Harry's face painted on them, or enchanted garlands singing off-key carols, or worse. They'd only been gone an hour or so. He'd say Dobby couldn't do much damage in that amount of time... but then he'd be selling house elf magic short.  
  
Dobby had been unusually excited by the prospect of Harry Potter's marriage; Harry suspected his intended wasn't important to the steady little house elf, only Harry's happiness. Harry could marry a goat as far as Dobby was concerned; if Harry was thrilled, the ever-loyal house elf would be, too. Harry hoped that Dobby might have contained his enthusiasm, especially in the decorating department. He opened the door to the Head Boy's chambers with a certain amount of trepidation, praying the elf had managed to keep his exuberance in check. Nothing killed the mood faster than seeing your own face everywhere, blinking docile back at you, painted slap-dash with little house elf hands.  
  
Draco let out a long breath as the heavy door opened—apparently he'd been thinking along the same lines as Harry... or that Colin Creevey would be waiting for them, trying to snap a picture of the happy newlyweds.  
  
They were spared—not even Peeves or a passing ghost was to be seen in their chambers. No Sir Cadogan rambling about. And the painting of a mother and her infant was also mercifully empty. Harry breathed a sigh of relief, gesturing Draco inside ahead of him and closing the door behind them.  
  
There was a fire crackling, fragrant logs giving off a pleasant smell. A lone festive garland had been draped over the mantle, with candles set to float around the hearth and dresser mirror. The room had taken on a sort of golden glow, like a mountain cave lit by firelight, flickering off the old stone walls.  
  
The air was warm. Harry began to loosen his tie, trailing in Draco's wake. The blonde paused between the Black piano and their bed, clasping his hands at the smalls of his back in that way of his, one hand gripping the thumb of the other, Tom Marvolo Riddle's black stone ring on his pale finger. It brought a smile to Harry's face to know a wedding ring was concealed on the other hand.  
  
He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Draco's chest. The blonde relaxed into him. Harry rested his chin on the man's shoulder—his husband's shoulder. That would take some getting used to. But the idea of being married didn't shake him. He'd always wanted to be married, after all, wanted to have a proper family.  
  
When he was young, locked in his cupboard or hiding in a rubbish bin to escape Duddley and his gang, Harry used to dream about getting away from Little Whinging. He had visions in his head—a wife smiling at him, kids playing footie in the yard—and those wavering images had seen him through the worst of his childhood. It was a dream he'd clung to with unfathomable hope. Even at seven, he'd known what he wanted... to be loved, wanted, needed; to be the highlight of someone's day, the love of their life.  
  
Sugar biscuits and Dark Marks hadn't been a part of the picture. Nor had being an Auror. And he'd certainly never dreamt of a scrawny blonde-haired fellow with a foot-long todger and the personality of a Hungarian Horntail on a merciful day. But he couldn't imagine himself happy without any of those things. Without Draco.  
  
This wasn't what he'd been expecting. But in some ways, it was better than anything he could have imagined. He wondered if Draco felt the same. Certainly he'd had a different vision of his future life—married to some pureblood girl, flexing his influence in politics and society like his father had done, and his father before him. Draco's current situation—estranged, hunted, and married to Harry Potter—would have been unthinkable even a year ago.  
  
Harry swallowed. His chin pressed against the fabric of Draco's suit, and the hardness of bones beneath. His arms tightened.  
  
“Happy?” he muttered.  
  
Draco poked him in the stomach with a knobbly knuckle. “Of course, ya cunt.”  
  
“Really, though?” Harry pressed, giving a squeeze. “A year ago, you wouldn't have wanted this.”  
  
“Neither would you,” the blonde pointed out evenly. “Things change... people change. Whether fer good or bad has yet to be determined.” Draco's head turned away, gazing off into the fire without seeing. His cheek brushed the top of Harry's head.  
  
“Yeah. I've changed too,” Harry said quietly. “I know what you're talking about... the feeling—like you've fallen off your broomstick into some deep, dark hole, and the longer you fall, the more you start to wonder how far it goes or how you'll ever get out again.” He was close enough to hear Draco swallow, feeling the muscles of his throat, Adam's apple lifting slightly, shifting beneath his skin. “It's scary. But we've got each other, right?”  
  
Draco snorted. Probably because Harry was being a sentimental twat. But surely their wedding night called for at least a dribbling of it?  
  
Harry went on, pulling Draco tight against him. His fingers drifted down, unbuttoning Draco's jacket, removing his tie clip, unbuckling his belt. “We have each other, ya cunt. I have you to tell me when I'm being a clueless leper. I have you to question me, and yell at me, and force me to see when I'm being a complete and utter prat. And you have me... to...” Harry paused, one hand wormed under Draco's shirt and resting against his bare stomach, the other fiddling with the metal-hooked closure of his trousers. “What do I do for you, Draco? Tell me.”  
  
The man let out a sigh.  
  
“Why are we talking, _poilu?_ ” he intoned, pressing his cheek to the side of Harry's head. “We should be fucking right about now.” He glanced down at his wrist, going through the motions of looking at a watch even though he never wore one. Harry heard an eyebrow rise in the nasal, poncy tone of Draco's voice. “You ought to be fucking me.”  
  
“I know that, love,” Harry growled, not unpleasantly.  
  
The blonde prattled, “Preferably within an inch of my life and sanity.”  
  
Harry spun him around by the shoulders, planting a firm, insistent kiss to surprised pink lips.  
  
“You fancy shagging me. I know that, Draco. I know that.” Their foreheads connected, blonde and black fringes separating Harry's famous lightning bolt scar from the line of white at Draco's hairline. Breath sat hot between their lips. “But the occasional toss is hardly enough. Tell me—”  
  
Draco's reaction was rapier-quick. “Tell you why I love you? Oh sod off.”  
  
Harry's grip went painfully tight. “ _Fuck_. Let me finish a damn sentence,” he growled. “I want you to tell me what I can _do_ for you, you thoroughly aggravating little....” Harry schooled his frustration. He'd always been bollocks at talking about his feelings. Being with Draco just made it worse, the way they put off talking about things unless they were post-coital or foxed out of their minds. It was hard, talking. He always got the feeling he wasn't doing it right. Still, he tried again. “I'm not here enough. I know that. I'm trying to fix it. But for now it would help if you told me what I can do, what means the most to you, so I can be sure to do or say those things, whatever they are. So I can take care of you, help you, the way you help me.”  
  
Draco huffed.  
  
“I'm not going to Legilimens this out of you,” Harry warned. “We're past throwing hexes at one another. So out with it. Tell me. Get it over with,” Harry glanced pointedly at the bed, “and then I'll shag you seven ways from sundry.”  
  
Faced with the offer of Harry’s prick up his arse, Draco had no choice but to comply. Harry knew that, of course. It was his only leverage. And he was prepared to give it up if it meant Draco putting words to the swirling masses in his head.  
  
It took a moment for the pureblood to work up an answer. He seemed to draw it from the backs of his teeth—unsticking the words they never said to one another. Draco spoke with his eyes closed, fighting against each syllable as it tumbled out. “Isn't it obvious? Ya fuckin' _love_ me, alright? Yeh've seen my worst an' ya don't care. You still....”  
  
“You want me to take care of you?” Harry said slowly, confirming even as he did so, pulling at Draco's tie and smoothing his perfect white-blonde hair. “You want me to... I dunno, boss you around and fuck you so you can see how much I....?”  
  
That earned him a nod. It took Draco a moment to control his thoughts, to organize everything into coherency. “Ya know what I am. And yer still here. You think you can make me better.” He tried to look away.  
  
Harry wasn't having it. He sighed, taking Draco's cheeks into his palms and looking at his closed eyes. He looked so frightened and ashamed. Harry couldn't bear it.  
  
“No,” he said. “No. There's nothing that needs fixing.”  
  
“But—” Draco began to protest. Harry cut him off immediately.  
  
“So you're a bit mental? When has that ever stopped me?!” Harry gave his face a little shake. “Dumbledore was a couple chocolate cauldrons short of a potions set but I loved that old man like a mum and dad rolled into one. Ron and Hermione are hardly sane, and all the Weasleys have issues. Then there's Luna—she's rather touched in the head—and even Neville's got problems that would make your brain spin. And Sirius was mental. Guess it runs in the family, huh?” Draco didn't look too pleased. Harry ploughed on, getting to the point. “And I love these people, Draco. Just like I love you. I wouldn't change them or you for the world. The way you are is... it's the way you are. It's a part of you: a part I love. I would never try to change that. Messing with your head... it would be like cutting off your hands—you'd never make music again, and how could I live with myself for doing that to you?”  
  
Draco opened his mouth to protest.  
  
“Don't worry about being crazy, or whatever,” Harry soothed. “If you ask me, you're better when you're bat shit. It brings out this whole other side of you—artistic and vulnerable and just... all the things that brought me to you, that made me see you. Your soul or whatever,” he chuckled at himself, talking about souls. It had been a while since he'd thought about the human spirit outside of a horcrux context. He loosed the knot of Draco's tie, tugging at the silk until it slid from his starched collar.  
  
“You want me to love you, _mon coeur?_ ” Harry murmured, seizing Draco by the loosened tie about his neck. “C'mon, then. Works better with clothes off.”  
  
The choking sound Draco made was new. His eyes were wide as he scrambled, reaching for the tails of Harry’s shirt and freeing them from his trousers. Harry removed Nebojsa’s potion phial from his pocket, twisting it once-over between his fingers, Draco’s tie in his other fist as he considered.  
  
“How long will this last?” he asked quietly. It was a potion Draco had mentioned several times before; one designed to give a wizard stamina and increased sexual performance. _Compenti Omgressus_. Considered illegal in some countries, and a Class B Controlled Substance in others. The UK was neither.  
  
Draco thought. “Tha’ much?” He shrugged, guessing, “Two days, at least.”  
  
Harry pushed the blazer from Draco’s shoulders, dropping the potion in his hand. “You take it, then. I’ll be fine.”  
  
The wizard’s head snapped up. “But I thought yeh were....” His brows knit, put-out... and sad.  
  
There wasn’t much answer to give. Harry reached for the phial in Draco’s hand. “Give it here, then. If you think I’ll need it.”  
  
Draco peeled away his tie with a huff. Black silk snapped against itself as it tumbled to the floor.  
  
“‘S too late, _poilu_. Take it now an’ ya won’t feel it ‘til tomorrow, teatime.”  
  
Harry looked again at the glass phial in his hand. “So you’re telling me this is useless for tonight.”  
  
He nodded.  
  
Harry shrugged out of his shirt and tie. “Guess I’m fucking you the old-fashioned way.”  
  
Draco froze. It was the perfect opportunity to seize him by the waistband of those silly Armani pants, his hardness already threatening the top. Harry grabbed him.  
  
“You’re really going to... ?” Draco asked in a rather awed voice. Harry peeled back Draco’s dark embroidered shirt; spelling away shoes and trousers, rolling lips and tongue down the slope of his pale shoulder, tasting each scar and freckle as they passed beneath his lips. Harry just nodded, enjoying his practice-honed ability to make Draco stupid-drunk with hormones, libido and the smell of sweat breaking his skin.  
  
His glasses slid to the floor with a _crack_. He couldn’t be arsed.  
  
“I think I'm gonna have trouble... holding back,” Draco added, his voice little more than an embarrassed mumble.  
  
“Mmm. You think or you know?” Harry teased from the tender places behind his ear.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, looking for the words behind his eyelids. When they weren't hiding there, he was forced to look away.  
  
“I know. After some jiggery-pokery with your 'present,' I knew. I wish I'd had more notice about all this,” he gestured around at most of their nicest clothes— _his_ clothes—lying scattered about on the floor. “I'd have tried ta start some _Compenti Omgressus_ of our own. Or taken it in time. But as it is....” he trailed off, unable to look at Harry.  
  
“Just tell me what you need.”  
  
Draco was struck silent at the sentiment—could only stare into Harry's pretty green eyes as his throat tightened, chest hitching as he tried so hard to remember how to breathe.  
  
“Here,” he croaked, bending down and roughly tugging Harry's dragon skin belt from the trousers at their feet. “I need you to use this.”  
  
“To—to hit you?” Harry stammered. “I don't think I could do that and stay hard. I got smacked with one of these as a kid. I'm really sorry. I know I just said I was up for anything, but—”  
  
“Hufflepuff’s taint, Wonder Boy. Not that.” Draco worked the belt's tongue through the buckle, creating a loose loop. He dropped the circle around his neck. With a quick pull, it laid snug and low around his neck. He placed the slack in Harry's hand. “When I'm gettin' close too fast, pull. I want you to come first. Pureblood thing, don't ask,” he muttered before Harry could get a word in. “This'll help me focus.” He indicated the tight ring around his neck, sitting just below his Adam's apple so as not to kill him.  
  
“But...” Harry's brow creased. “What if I choke you?”  
  
Draco rolled his eyes. “Love, you _will_ be choking me. That's the fun.”  
  
“But I'll hurt you,” Harry fought him. Silly git.  
  
“Not in a bad way,” Draco countered, placing both hands over Harry's. He stroked the dark, coarse hair decorating the backs of Harry's wrists. “Trust me. It's like when I pull your hair. You'd let me pull it all out if you got yer way.”  
  
“But...” Harry fought on, shaking away Draco's fingers so he could concentrate past his growing arousal. “I thought choking and stuff turned you on. Wouldn't this be overload?”  
  
“The opposite,” Draco let one hand stroll up the belt to touch his own neck, feeling his voice vibrate there. “Lack of air... it slows things down. It helps me relax. I can hold back tha' way, instead a' jus' going off with no big fireworks behind it.”  
  
“I like fireworks,” Harry said slowly, wicked. He wrapped the end of the belt around his fist, gathering the slack until it was taut enough that Draco could feel the tension but still catch his breath with ease. “So do I just pull until you gasp?”  
  
“If ya wanna be a tease,” Draco nodded, eyes glittering gold in the dim light. “If I get real close—ya know when I'm close—yeh'd best choke me like ya mean it.”  
  
“Um,” Harry blushed but kept his gaze steady, loving the excitement building on Draco's face. “Why can't I just use my hands, like before?” Harry wound the belt all the way around his fist until he reached the other man's neck, caressing slowly over belt and skin alike. His fingers were hot, weighty and strong.  
  
Draco licked his lips. “Would be... too much,” he muttered, eyes sliding closed at Harry's touch.  
  
“I would have better control,” Harry pointed out. He didn't stop touching Draco's neck, though; he was taking too much pleasure in how much Draco reacted to this. Already his skin was flushed and sensitive. All of his skin. Everywhere—swirls of pink and red blush beneath white scars and black squirming ink.  
  
“Too much,” Draco repeated dreamily. “Come... instantly. Ease inta it,” he continued, bleary, swaying slightly. Harry angled Draco's torso to rest against his own. The blonde's breathing had already slowed and he seemed far-away, almost... spelled. It made him relax, though, which was crucial to the success of their intended endeavor. Harry combed fingers through his hair and he actually purred. It was a satisfied rumble from the back of his throat, but Harry considered it a human purr. A Draco purr.  
  
“Draco, you're enjoying this.” The blonde nodded minutely against his wrist. “But we're not done talking yet. I'm sorry,” Harry added, pulling Draco away by the belt around his neck.  
  
That got his attention. Literally. Breath caught in his throat in a wet gurgle. That was a very hot sound, like Draco gagging on his cock, or grunting from bouncing up and down on it. Harry's other head was already sprinting right off without him. _Must. Slow. Down._  
  
“Draco, I can't,” Harry offered while he still had the sense to make words. “It's no good. I'm afraid you'll pass out, or that I'll cut off blood to your brain or something.”  
  
“Eyes roll back in my head 'for I pass out,” he smiled languidly. He was going too, going to that place where his other head took over. As it was, his pupils had taken over his silvery eyes.  
  
“That's not enough,” Harry insisted. “I can't watch for that and still plough you the way I need to.”  
  
“F-uuu- _uuck_ ,” Draco moaned. He slumped a little in Harry's arms, hard cock straining to make contact with Harry's body. Realizing his throat was relatively free, he took a good deep breath, expanding the muscles and tendons in his neck to push the belt-collar out a few millimeters more. His eyes lightened, pupils contracting as oxygen flooded back to his brain. Blimey, he was sensitive. “I can take it,” he muttered. “I just need a bit o' warmin' up, s'all. No worries.”  
  
Everything about this sounded like a terrible idea. Harry shook his head. “It's too dangerous. I won't do it at all unless you give me a solid indication of when to stop. I didn't marry you just to fuck you to death on the first go.”  
  
“Mmm,” Draco licked his lips dreamily.  
  
Harry's eyes were drawn to his pink tongue and sulky, engorged mouth—wet and lax in that gorgeous face of his. Harry thought about driving his cock in that mouth, long and slow, before slipping into his arse.... He nearly took Draco to the ground right there. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hold back. Must have been the magic of the marriage binding. He'd never felt the need this badly before. It was unreal, how his prick was taking over his bloody consciousness. He blinked, bit his lip and attempted to focus.  
  
“Heartbeat,” Draco said slowly. He took up Harry's hand and placed it on his chest. Then Harry felt a flutter of wandless magic. The next second, he could hear Draco's insides—the bump of his heart, the subtle whoosh of blood, the creaking of lungs filling with air as the man breathed.  
  
Magic was bloody amazing. He wanted to fuck Draco's pureblood bones through the floor for knowing spells like that. For having magic at all. Hell, he just needed to fuck. He couldn't think straight.  
  
“Hear? Yeh can feel it, too,” he whispered. Harry heard that familiar, beloved bedroom voice hum inside Draco's chest—reverberating, everything moving with it, all connected. Everything was amplified, as though there was a magical microphone or sensor inside Draco's chest, hooked directly into Harry's brain. The connection was seamless.  
  
“Yeah, I feel it,” Harry replied quickly, stepping closer, needing to have that tight, delicate beating as close to himself as possible. Soon he would be in it. His brain spun at that, high and drunk off the very idea. “How do I know when you're in trouble?”  
  
“Beat with no sound,” Draco replied, nuzzling Harry's neck.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Know it when yeh hear it.”  
  
Draco ran a hand up Harry's side, grazing ribs and nipple to arrive at neck. He traced the tendons there with the fat of his thumb. Their cocks touched, sending twin jolts from bollocks to brain and back. Harry could hear the muscles shifting in Draco's strong body. He felt the current of arousal as it ran through Draco's system, speeding up his heart, sending blood galloping through his veins.  
  
“Be... more specific,” Harry demanded. “Twat.”  
  
“A beat tha' isn't a beat. Blood moving with no beat from the heart. One now an' again s'okay. Two or three together? Pull me out, lovely, Bob's yer Uncle.”  
  
Harry nodded against Draco's hair, too much enjoying how Draco's heart would race when he drew teasing fingers down the blonde's oversensitive spine. Draco arched against him, into him, pressing. He gripped the sweet spot where Draco's lower back became the delicious curve of his ass. Instead of stroking, he filled his hands and squeezed hard. It was a warning. He wanted Draco to pay attention, even as he himself was losing control.  
  
“One day I'm going to ask you when and why you learned this spell. And you're going to answer me.”  
  
Draco nodded against him, high from the same rush. They couldn't hold out any longer.  
  
“Wait,” Harry muttered, summoning his wand from his jacket pocket. It flew into his hand, and he immediately threw it at the night stand. “Need that later.”  
  
Draco seemed to nod his approval. Either that or his gaze was bobbing between their dicks, wondering which they would tend to first. His vision settled on Harry's prick, which he reached out to grab without ceremony, tugging him towards the bed. Harry put up no resistance, waiting until Draco's knees were against the mattress to bat his hand away and shove the skinnier fellow backwards, dropping him to the bed.  
  
Harry crawled up, knees on the blankets and straddling Draco, a palm pressed to the dragon hide belt, pressing Draco's delicate bones and flesh beneath. Draco sighed into him and didn't draw another breath.  
  
Harry didn't have to think of what to do next. He'd spent every night, every dream, every daylight fantasy mapping out exactly what he would do when he finally had Draco like this—his to do with as he would, his to have and hold and never fucking let go. The knowledge that Draco was holding his breath only made it that much sweeter.  
  
The first order of business, of course, was snogging Draco silly. He took up a handful of blonde and yanked, bringing Draco's face up to meet his own. Lips crushed and teeth clacked, Draco trying to bite him and suck his tongue out of his mouth at the same time. Harry pushed right back, driving Draco back to the mattress, pushing his own tongue past a snapping line of teeth and back to the sweet reaches of the other’s throat. Draco gave a moan, grinding against him. His nails raked Harry's back, leaving an angry red trail. The first of countless many.  
  
Harry came up panting, the wet peel of kisses in his ears. Draco sat up, chasing him with that mouth. Harry used the belt to drag the blonde back down to the bed, holding him steady. His eyes dilated from silver to black in the span of a heartbeat—the bump of his heart like a chime in Harry's ears, a reminder to keep himself in check. He observed Draco's face; the way his lashes fluttered, how waves of coral blush traversed the planes of his cheeks, drifting down to gather with the reddening skin of his neck, where dragon hide bit at every tendon in his neck, veins purple and blue and popping. Harry dropped down to bite them all, leather on his tongue.  
  
“Pureblood bollocks, huh?” Harry murmured between kisses. “Sure I can't make you come?”  
  
It was almost a threat. Draco seized up, nearly bucking him off.  
  
“No, no...” he protested. There wasn't much air in his lungs, the words not much more than a wheeze. It was so fucking hot. Harry could make out the flutter of his lungs, bumping around in his chest as they sought precious air. He gave some slack on the belt. A ring of grey returned to Draco's eyes—just enough to get his wits about him. “Yeh have ta come first. The vows. There's an order.”  
  
“Pureblood bullshit,” Harry growled.  
  
“Pureblooded shite,” Draco nodded. His eyes were wild, like he was keeping something and knew he'd see Hell for it later. Still, he insisted—pleaded. “Please.”  
  
Harry liked the sound of that—too much. Draco begging.  
  
He slid off the bed, knees hitting the stone floor with twin thuds. Bruises could be spelled away in the morning. He wanted to make Draco beg—again and again. And so, eyes closed, he licked a hot stripe up the length of Draco's cock, sucking the head into his mouth and dropping down until his stomach rallied against him. He pulled back just enough to breathe, to relax, before taking another pass.  
  
Draco was rabid within seconds. He took up the belt in both skinny hands and yanked—cutting a vicious line of red across his neck, trying so hard to hold back.  
  
“Beg,” Harry mouthed around the thick weight in his mouth, knowing full-well the vibration of his voice would drive Draco beyond madness. He pulled back, tongue and teeth, to lick at the slit.  
  
Draco's efforts to bat him away were weak at best. His bollocks were tight against his thighs, and he had to keep at least one hand at the belt, choking himself to stave off. He was close already.  
  
“Beg me and I'll stop,” Harry told him.  
  
“Please!” Draco caved immediately, dignity in bloody shreds. “Please, _please_ don't suck me! Leave my fuckin' cock alone, fer the love a' Merlin or I'll—”  
  
Harry lunged. One knee to the pureblood's chest, he dropped a calloused hand over the lower half of Draco's face—palm covering his mouth, thumb and forefinger pinching his nostrils shut. There was more than one way to choke a man.  
  
He listened to the flood and thump of Draco's heart, to the blood gushing through his veins like a fountain, feeling Draco give in beneath him... feeling him die a little, from the inside out. His limbs slackened, eyes drifting shut, fine blonde hairs along his arms and shoulders standing on end despite the heat of the room. Harry watched it all in slow motion, waiting for that tell-tale thump that wasn't.  
  
He heard it—a bump that wasn't, like a tremor of the muscles bunched around his heart. Blood moved sluggishly, Draco's heart struggling to keep up. The difference was clear. Draco's heart had skipped a beat, the muscles of his chest spasming with its absence. Immediately, Harry withdrew his hand.  
  
Draco's breath was slow but sure, puffing out his stomach as he breathed around Harry's knee to his chest. His eyes opened; black rimmed with silver. “Bastard,” he mouthed.  
  
Harry grabbed his jaw, controlling. “You fucking love it.”  
  
That earned him a savage kiss. Draco's lips were soft after lack of air—Harry couldn't stop biting at them, sloppy and blood-filled. He could hear it all rushing between lips and dick, leaving little for Draco's poor, over-sized brain.  
  
He sucked at Draco's bottom lip, worrying it between his own.  
  
“Lube or spell?” he asked.  
  
“Spell. Now.” Draco thought better of his response. “Please,” he tacked on, sheepish.  
  
Harry held out his arm, calling for his wand. He'd practiced endlessly, thinking it would be a good spell to have the next time some Death Eater wrestled his wand away from him on the battlefield. It seemed to happen an awful lot. He shut his eyes in order to focus—demanding that his wand fly into his hand.  
  
He was only a little surprised when Draco's hawthorn and unicorn arrived instead—Summoned from their pile of clothes by the piano, twice as far as Harry's own wand on the night stand.  
  
 _One wand is as good as another_ , he thought in a rush. He waved it quickly, casting the necessary spells. He could fucking _hear_ the knotted muscles of Draco's backside—tense from holding himself back—begin to release, coaxed open by magic. Draco unraveled in his head, the sound like thousand-year-old trees creaking, swaying into place. In a matter of seconds, the way was clear. Draco settled in beneath him, tucking his heels up on the mattress. Harry slipped back, feet planted firmly on the floor, dragging Draco to the edge of the bed by his hips.  
  
Harry's prick slid right between Draco's cheeks, nestled in the crack between him and the bed. With Draco's legs a bit further up, the angle would be perfect.  
  
Harry slapped at a bony knee. “Up,” he commanded—the same way he commanded his broomstick, and with about as much urgency—signaling that Draco should wrap his legs around Harry's torso, just below the ribs. Draco was too eager or too far gone to put up a fight. Lost in his own head, his legs snapped up right where Harry wanted them, locking his ankles. His left arm snuck out, pale and Marked, to take hold of the foot board, anchoring himself.  
  
Harry took his prick in hand, still holding Draco's hip with the other. “Ceremony?” he asked, teasing. “Satanic pureblood buggery ritual? Magic words?”  
  
A tiny smile twitched the side of Draco's mouth. Grey eyes fluttered shut in a silent laugh. “It would appear tonight's magic word is 'please.' Need I repeat it?”  
  
“Just... shove in, then?” Harry marveled at the simplicity of it. He decided sex was a lot less nerve-wracking as the top. He'd been scared out of his mind in Draco's position... but Draco just had that smile on his face; a bit spaced out, braced for the discomfort and ready to go.  
  
“Please. Stupid... Chosen... Git.”  
  
Harry rolled forward in one sharp but fluid snap.  
  
Draco's eyes flew open.  
  
Harry didn't need the sound coming from the pureblood's lips—he could hear his body screaming.  
  
Harry ground his heels into the stone floor—careening through eons of heat and tight crushing, suffocating, maddening right. The feeling was as ancient as the cold stone his toes curled against. He could hardly keep his balance, tell up from down, utter his own name against the thrill of it. Magic hung in his cheeks, chattering between his teeth, snicking between the hairs of his balls—passing in lightning bursts like Tesla's long-lost and surely greatest fucking invention _ever_. He was lightheaded and strong, shivering and a God.  
  
He couldn't imagine what it would feel like to come like this. It might kill him—might kill Draco.  
  
Draco.  
  
He wrenched his eyes open, glancing down at the startled pair of eyes and slightly open mouth waiting to greet him, ashen brows carving half-circles through an ivory brow. The look on Draco's face was foreign and new—eyes wide, startled and stunned, a strangled sound leaking from his hanging lips.  
  
The heat of the room was making Draco's eyes dry. He kept blinking away non-existent particles of dust, lashes an ashen blur before his eyes. Harry winked in and out of his sight, pulling up. He stopped at the familiar point where his near-sightedness kept Draco in focus.  
  
Dark brows pinched. “Does it hurt?”  
  
“Dunno. Can't quite tell.”  
  
Harry understood perfectly. His breath shuddered in his chest as he managed a nod. “Tell me if it does.”  
  
“And you'll stop?”  
  
The old Harry Potter would have at least looked bashful. But this Harry, the Husband Harry, only gave him a look to make him dizzy from lack of blood to the brain.  
  
His voice came deep. “I won't stop. Don't be daft.”  
  
Harry's hands left their roost at Draco's hips. One warmed the back of a thigh, pressing Draco down into the mattress, angling his bum up for the taking. The other hand took his bony shoulder, to be sure he didn't move. Draco couldn't imagine moving—not speared like this. Muggle plastic could never do the real thing justice.  
  
Harry was murderously thick. This became clear with the first real thrust.  
  
Warm hands pushed. He was spread open, belt yanked until he could scarcely breathe, strangled by the press of chosen muscle, sinew and hairy fucking chest scratching all along his own. Draco bit his lip. The weight of the Chosen One was impressive—deceptively heavy for his size, and all of it bearing down. Draco threw his head back, scrabbling for blankets and bed and hair, anything to lay hands on. He couldn't breathe through the pain—so he didn't breathe at all.  
  
It felt like he was going to come—any second now, which was ridiculous. It was Harry's hands. The way they held him, dangled him over the edge like a drunken dare, fingers like shivs of friction working up and down the bumps of his spine—miles of white skin and freckles and scars, moving under his absolutely-not-a-virgin-anymore touch. Harry knew the exact motion of lips, the precise rhythm of cock and warmth of hands that would undo him. That slide grew a thousand vertebrae beneath his skin, stretching him for days so there might be more for fingers and hot, sweating palms to rise over. Harry's hands were so warm. His whole body was, really; waves of heat rolled from the rounded mountains of his shoulders, sweat building where Draco's calves rested against him.  
  
He was pressing in, slow and sure. And it was divine. He never stopped, hands and hips, straining tight in order to go so evenly, taking the moment between his teeth as he gazed down, unblinking.  
  
Draco's breath sped up—until he was panting, ripping at his own hair as Harry went deeper, deeper, more, until the hairy heat of his balls pressed Draco's ass as though he never wanted to stop, to only go forward for the rest of time, ripping through Draco and just going, off into some ruddy sunset like the perfect hero he was.  
  
Harry was staring at him, jaw rather slack and his mouth sweet, loose. His eyes were bright, focused on the face below his own.  
  
“Shh,” Harry cooed, brushing Draco's chest with his nose. “I love that but... you can't....”  
  
“...Can't wot?” Draco managed between ragged breaths. His throat felt scratchy, sore already and they were only getting started.  
  
Harry licked his lips. “Whimpering. I love it. But you're gonna make me come and I've only just—”  
  
So that was why his throat hurt. His ears only registered the sound—an embarrassingly high-pitched, breathy whelping—after Harry brought it to his attention. That noise was coming from himself? Go figure. He could die of embarrassment, now.  
  
He tried to stop. But giant-fellating _fuck_ , he couldn't. It got worse when Harry used his weight, crashing into him like a muggle film in slow motion, just muscle and offset, spirited, bloody painful verve. It rattled his teeth. And the sound went higher. Merlin and Mordred, he sounded like a bloody girl—a bitch squealing for it.  
  
“I'm not... hurting you?” Harry confirmed. He was biting at his lip to hold back. The wildness in his eyes was a testament to how much he was keeping in, taking things slow. What would it be like when Harry let go? When he opened the floodgates? Draco could hardly breathe for wanting.  
  
Draco yanked two solid handfuls of his own hair, eyes falling closed. “Hurt? Gods no. It's so _fucking_ good.”  
  
He groaned when Harry slid back, feeling the thickness of Harry's prick; and in its leaving, his own body collapsed, missing Harry the moment that fat dick of his was gone. He made the whimpering, long and loud—pitiful but there it was, unstoppable as an _Avada Kedavra_ to the chest.  
  
Harry's teeth sunk into his neck, nipping at the vibration of Draco's vocal cords beneath spit-slicked skin. Tepid hands held him down, a palm pressing the bone of his hips, encouraging his legs to open, another hand with scraping fingers working up his thigh, seizing him roughly under the knee and holding on so tight.  
  
Harry came at him again. Biting down on Draco's neck, he pressed, centimeter by fucking torturous centimeter. He felt amazing. Blood sang in Draco's ears.  
  
“Stop,” Harry warned around a mouthful of Draco, the once pallid skin where his throat and shoulder met now a livid red, ornamented with the curving shapes of teeth. Tomorrow he'd be covered in love marks. “Shut up or I'm gonna cum.”  
  
Draco arched off the bed at that—forcing Harry the rest of the way out, he clenched so tight. It took a second to get his mind back, to press his spine to the bed. Harry pushed at his hip. The force helped to ground him.  
  
“So come,” he mumbled, out of breath and delirious. He couldn't seem to get a decent lung-full for the life of him. He blamed the little patterns Harry was licking, tracing the splotchy burn marks marching from behind his ear down to his collar bone. The belt sat loose around the base of his neck, abandoned for other pursuits. “I don't care if yeh last three more seconds! I don't care,” he repeated. Because he really didn't. “Jus' enjoy it.”  
  
Harry's hand found its way to Draco's cock, which was hard as ever and twitching, leaking precome over the pale hair of his stomach. Harry seemed happy, rubbing up against him. Harry adjusted his stance so he might wank Draco while getting himself off with the pureblood's arse.  
  
Draco touched Harry's cheek before stretching his arms above his head, taking up fist-fulls of the bed linens. He bit at the insides of his cheeks, recalling every afternoon for these last four months... the secret lunch hours when he'd laid back on this very bed, stared up at this very cracked ceiling and nearly tossed himself to death thinking of Harry, of this moment. He had no doubt he'd come from this. He was himself and Harry was Harry—orgasm was inevitable. But he wanted to last. Harry liked to see him hard, wanting, waiting to be satisfied. And he wanted to give Harry that image—that pink, cut-up cock of his bouncing against his stomach as The Boy Who Lived drilled into him again and again, taking as he pleased.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, ashamed of how badly he wanted this—to be an offering. Twitching, and with a grimace, he sacrificed his pride.  
  
“Use me,” he whispered. “I'm yers.”  
  
The hand under his knee tightened uncomfortably. Harry shoved at him, laying down and deeper into him, free hand sliding up Draco's side with the calloused pads of his thick fingers, pushing, punishing, until he reached the belt. He took up the end and tugged without mercy.  
  
Harry's eyes were green fire. “Not using you,” he growled. “ _Loving you_. Stupid cunt.”  
  
A giggle lodged itself in Draco's throat; he fought it down. The man was serious. Intensity lingered in the color of his eyes, in the way each freckle and scar stood clear against his skin, as though hung there by the gods after they'd finished with the stars in the sky.  
  
“You're mine,” Harry continued, “my prat, my Malfoy. You made me,” he whinged. “I couldn't 've... not without you....” Harry's hips flipped forward—a ruthless, grinding thrust, mean—before pulling back to do it again. Harder. He hammered. Draco didn't know it was possible to be ridden while on one's back, legs stiff around Harry's sides, hard and curled like a dead insect dried by the sun on the windowsill. He screamed, throwing his head back, fists beating against the sheets. It was no use. Harry wasn't letting up. He would be loved—loved into the mattress, their wedding bed. He had no choice in this—and that was fine. Better, even. _Use, love,_ whatever Harry wanted to call it. It was exactly what they needed.  
  
He could feel the magic building around them like a strong wind, rattling the window panes.  
  
“I swear,” Draco whispered, “if ya blow the bloody windows out again....” Harry drove his hips forward, ending that statement in a pathetic little whine. The sound spat through Draco's nose, ringing, electric. His mouth dropped open and the noise got louder, punctuated with panting and pathetic, gasping guttural breaths. He keened, throat tight. “Do it,” he dared. “ _Do it_.”  
  
Harry nipped at his chest. His eyes were glowing when he glanced up. “Destroy the windows?”  
  
“Windows... me... something. Anything.”  
  
“Yesssss,” Harry agreed in an endless hiss. He needed to touch. To be as close as bloody possible. He'd climb in Draco's brain if he could—in through the pinching meat of his arse, up his arching spine, worming through the network of veins and tendons straining the length of his long pretty neck and disappearing in that mind of his. He wanted to swim in it, to float, to fly.  
  
Draco bucked under him.  
  
Then Harry's sweet, inexpert ramrodding found his prostate.  
  
It was cruel—that all he had to do was push hard enough and at the right angle. He didn't have to understand a thing. His thickness and Draco's body did all the work. Harry made Draco's teeth chatter. Harry made him whimper, made him scream and beg and cry fat, burning tears of wanting more and more and more, for this to never stop. His stomach rolled as he cried and shook with it, the magic coursing through his veins.  
  
This was it, then—the mysterious sensation which he could never manage to summon on his own—that tripping, heedless, emboldened _something_. It was Harry—him and Harry together.  
  
He wanted to say something, but didn't know what. Words felt stupid, with the way Harry was looking at him; sweaty, hair everywhere, so focused. There was light all around him—not just his hands, curling around Draco's thighs. He hardly noticed the blue flickering anymore. All he saw, all he felt, was the powerful, ancient magic surrounding them. He breathed it whenever he could, Harry's weight all but crushing him.  
  
It was the binding spell, he told himself. Just the binding, intensifying everything. That had to be it. Harry's magic wanted him very, very badly. That was the only explanation for it—for the way his eyes were dry and stuck, held open in an invisible vice grip, locked on Harry's.  
  
He was drunk with the strength of it, coursing through his blood, ringing in his ears. One good thrust, one glance of the power in Harry's eyes, and he went.  
  
Harry's eyes went wide, pupils dilating. Something wavered, teetering on the edge before imploding—the magic, their binding, spilling over as Harry came his brains out. He was turned inside out, balls first, every molecule rearranged by the waves crashing through him. His breathing was little more than ragged gasps, earned with each onslaught as magic and sensation raced for priority in his brain.  
  
He stayed inside until his shoulders slumped, breath leaving in one last heave, throat tightening until he couldn't make a sound. He mouthed, wordlessly, until the power left his eyes. Wet lips worked against Draco's collar bone. His hands still sparked, arms wrapped around Draco, caught between holding himself up and holding the blonde tight.  
  
“That was intense,” Harry croaked. “Draco... you okay?”  
  
Feebly, he nodded.  
  
“Would you, um...” Harry licked his lips. “Fancy going again?”  
  
Draco clamped a hand over his mouth to keep the sound in—it would surely be too pathetic, too out of control, if he opened his mouth just now. But Harry ripped his hand away, needing to hear him.  
  
Harry's eyes were all he could see—green and full and so, so warm.  
  
“C'mon,” Harry's head tilted to the side, approaching frustration. “Draco, you fucking ponce... you know I can't hold back. Can you take it again?”  
  
“Please,” he demanded, _begged_ , anything to keep this magic alive. “Don't stop. Please don't eva fuckin' stop.”  
  
  



	57. An Aside; Because Harry Potter Is A Hopeless, Romantic Sap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Hols & The Honeymoon. A heaping quantity of tripe; because Harry Potter is indeed a hopelessly romantic little blighter, and there is no method by which one can avoid this fact after 460,000+ words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **AUTHOR’S NOTE:** I’ve only been writing this chapter for the better part of five motherfucking years. Because death and destruction are easy: it’s the choice of happiness in the face of everything, to create rather than destroy, that’s the real challenge.
> 
> This chapter has been updated from the initial ~3,000 to over 40,000 words comprised of plot, but primarily gratuitous sex. Mostly because I can, and it helps me avoid arriving upon the actual point of all this semi-didactic tripe.

  
  
Lying safely in bed, they watched the sun rise. In the dark of the Head Boy's chamber, they sipped from an ampule of Invigoration Drought passed lazily between them, its flavor shared in slow, breathy kisses.   
  
The first slivers of light crept in, reflecting off the beveled glass of the windows and the gilded mirror over Draco's dresser. Spots of golden light buzzed about the room like Snitches, zigging and zagging as the sun rose over the Forbidden Forest.   
  
Both of them were weak as kittens, sprawled across each other in a pile of limbs and cooling sweat. Harry listened to the even pulls of Draco's breathing; his scarred, bitten-up chest rising and falling against Harry's side—red marks of fingers and teeth running the length of him, threatening to bruise in a spectacular fashion.   
  
Sunlight made its way up their bodies; starting at toes, working past calves, bony knees and groins and hairy chests to at last sting their eyes.   
  
Harry discarded the empty potion container, raising his hand to shield his eyes against the sun. He could feel dark circles forming under his eyes.   
  
“Canna remember the las' time I stayed up all night,” Draco muttered, burrowing his face in Harry's armpit to escape the sun. The pureblood took a deep breath, inhaling the stink of Harry's sweat—rubbing his face in it, really. He continued in an offhanded tone, “Everyone will be leavin' soon. As I understand it, Granger's spendin' her holiday with the Weasley brood. Then Gweir's bound for his Great Uncle's plantation in Chile: his grandmother fled there after Margene passed. And Lovegood will be with her father. They've stayed in England—Merlin knows why.”   
  
Harry smoothed a hand down Draco's spine.   
  
“I don't wanna move,” Harry sighed, yawning. Truly, it was the prospect of another day trying to hide the depth of his affection for Draco which daunted him. After last night, he feared he would be too obvious—he might not be able to let Draco out of his arms, let alone out of his sight. Things would be so much easier if they just stayed in bed.   
  
He glanced down, ruffling Draco’s hair with his nose. “Is that bad?”   
  
“Could always stay at Hogwarts fer hols,” Draco suggested sleepily. He patted around the bed, searching out another potion.   
  
Harry shook his head. “Not exactly romantic. Besides, I made arrangements.”   
  
Draco lifted his face out of Harry's armpit long enough to raise an ashy blonde brow. He then slapped a potion against Harry's chest and fell face-first into a black-haired pit, sighing happily.   
  
Harry toyed with the potion Draco had dropped in the divot between his pectorals, muddling over whether he ought to down it all or just drink half. Similar to Pepper-Up Potion, too much Invigoration Drought could give a bloke heartburn, especially on an empty stomach. He spoke looking at the potion phial. “We'll catch the Express to London so no one suspects.”   
  
“Then?” Draco asked, muffled in Harry's hairy armpit.   
  
The side of his mouth turned up. “I'm not telling, luv. It's a surprise.”   
  
Draco snorted. “Surprise? It's a sodding _honeymoon_... sentimental twat.”   
  
“We're going to relax, just the two of us,” Harry corrected, shrugging dismissively. “Call it what you will—it's a vacation and we've bloody-well earned it. And don't tell me you wouldn't fancy getting away for a few days, no responsibilities... aside from shagging each other senseless and lying in bed the rest of the time. I’ll make you pancakes, like before....” He couldn’t bring himself to say _the war_. He didn’t want Voldemort in his life, let alone his bed.   
  
A smile reshaped Draco's face against his skin. “Sounds delightful.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, burrowing down into the mattress. “Too bad it requires getting up.”   
  
“Bugger.” Draco laid a lazy kiss to his side.   
  
Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. Getting out of bed felt like such a chore. His thighs and bum ached from fucking in angles he wasn't yet accustomed to, and all he wanted to do was close his eyes and—damn the potion coursing through his veins—drift off to sleep. Instead, he uncorked the murky blue drought and downed about two thirds of it.   
  
“I got you something,” he told the top of Draco's head. “It's in my bag if you want it.”   
  
With a groan, Draco rolled onto his back. “Damn you, Potter,” he cursed, pushing himself to a sitting position. He seemed as sore as Harry, if not more-so. “You've found my weakness.”   
  
“Presents?” Harry snorted. “And here I thought it was my cock.”   
  
Draco fixed him with a smoldering over-the-shoulder glare. His silver gaze hung for a moment on Harry's bits before swinging up to his face, where his glasses sat askew. Draco reached out, adjusting the lenses until they stood straight on the bridge of Harry's nose.   
  
“Your body, dear boy, is _the world's_ weakness,” Draco announced, drawling grandly. “The attraction is hardly unique to me.” With a long, quavering stretch, Draco heaved his legs off the side of the bed and stood. Harry could plainly see the outline of his own fingers sketched in pink across a smooth white butt cheek. The sight brought a rogue grin to his lips.   
  
“Get your fucking presents, already,” Harry teased.   
  
Draco wobbled, marzipan-boned, making his way to Harry's discarded bag with the help of nearby furniture. Bending looked painful as he put a hand to his kidneys, groaning. He rummaged through the sack, pulling out this and that, searching out the unfamiliar. It didn't take him long to find the shrunken shopping bags.   
  
“I meant them as Christmas presents,” Harry explained, propping himself up on his elbows to see Draco more clearly. The blonde wandered back to the bed, retrieving his wand from its black lacquered case and giving it a flick. The packages re-sized themselves, taking up a third of the bed. Draco eyed them greedily.   
  
“Go on, then,” Harry insisted.   
  
Draco pulled out a large clothing box first, lifting the lid with the joy and anticipation of a kid on Christmas.   
  
Harry had wanted to get Draco a hundred thousand gifts. Memories of terrible holidays with the Dursleys plagued him—dirty old socks and bent-up coat hangers thrown into his cupboard on Christmas morning while Dudley rolled in man-high piles of brightly wrapped packages. Harry wanted Draco to have gifts to open, wanted to give the man some semblance of normalcy in all this chaos. He wanted this to be the most perfect Christmas ever. It was the first time he truly had what he wanted; a family, someone to love him, legal and official.   
  
Draco pulled out a red wool coat.   
  
“I knew you didn't have a muggle jacket, and you'll need one where we're headed,” Harry pointed out, watching Draco's face as he examined the garment. The coat was long—it would reach almost to Draco's knees—with thick black fur at the collar and golden, double-breasted buttons. Draco's ringed fingers lingered over certain details—the round buttons, the heavy fur collar, where the lining joined the hem in invisible little stitches. Harry admittedly didn't know much about fine clothing beyond what Draco had drilled into his head, but from the fit and the frightening price tag he was assured that this was a quality piece. He'd gone to Paris and back, just to surprise Draco. “Do you like it?”   
  
Draco was looking at the silk lining when he spoke. “Gryffindor red?”   
  
Harry forced himself to sit up fully, eye-level with his new husband. He caught Draco's gaze, holding it when once, long ago, he might have looked away. “Red looks well on you. Brings out your color.” And he reached out, touching Draco's cheek.   
  
Draco turned his face, biting the fat of Harry's hand.   
  
Harry yanked his hand back. “You know, muggles have a saying about not biting the hand that feeds you.”   
  
Draco fixed him with a playfully lofty look. “Do I look like a muggle?”   
  
“No, you're most certainly not a muggle,” Harry chortled, “you distinctly-magical, self-righteous, ungrateful little pissant.”   
  
He took Draco by the middle, wrestling him onto the bed. The blonde's face wound up buried in the black rabbit's fur of his new coat; his pointy, flailing elbows tucked in Harry's grip as the stronger fellow straddled him, pinning him down, immobilized. Draco kicked his legs in a petulant show, his feet dangling off the side of the bed.   
  
“Fine! Fine! I yield!” the blonde squirmed. “ _Fuck_ , my shoulder!”   
  
Harry released Draco's skinny arms immediately, going for the scruff of his neck instead and squeezing, holding him down just as forcefully. “See if I buy you presents again,” he growled in Draco's ear, none-too-serious.   
  
The pureblood bucked his rear against Harry's crotch. “I'm still a Malfoy, damn it,” he simpered. “We iterate our _thank you_ 's in other ways.” Because only Draco could make a sexual pass _and_ aim a barb at his father in the same damn breath. Making inappropriate jokes and snarky commentary was how they dealt with their pasts—both of them. It still amazed Harry how similar they were. It made Draco easier to understand, and appreciate.   
  
Harry took a swat at the top of that plump arse, landing his hand precisely over the imprint already there. Draco bit his lip, screwing his eyes shut and grimacing at the pain of it. He was such a pansy sometimes.   
  
Much as Harry wanted to, he couldn’t screw Draco again. He explained, “We don't have time, anyway. We have to pack, then act normal—we go down for breakfast and catch the Express. You can blow me on the train if you like.” Harry was, after all, a benevolent husband. This was to be their honeymoon, and Draco would want for nothing.   
  
“Pack?” Draco repeated lamely. “It helps if yeh tell me where we're going.”   
  
Harry smacked him again. He was getting good at it, getting more than the old squawk of indignation out of Draco. The tips of his fingers stung, the skin of his own hands nearly as red as their shadows printed on Draco's bum like words on a page. And now Draco would hiss through his teeth, feeling the same sharp pain in his sore rump.   
  
“Nope. There's a muggle suitcase,” he jutted his chin toward the pile of packages, some of which had slid to the floor in their grappling match. “And some outdoor things I figured you didn't have. I need a quick word with McGonagall before we leave, actually. Think you and your superb pureblood magic can handle packing our things?”   
  
Draco peeked back at him, petulant. “Yeh really won't tell me?”   
  
Harry licked his lips, smiling. “It'll be cold, with snow. And there won't be many people around. Maybe a set of robes each, just in case. Will that suffice?”   
  
“I'll make due,” Draco conceded, tapping at Harry's knee. He rolled off, pulling Draco to his feet. The blonde pressed right against him, kissing up his jaw before whispering in his ear. “We at least have time fer a shower, right?”   


\- - -

  
  
All of Hogwarts seemed to be on the same lazy schedule as Draco and Harry. More than half of Gryffindor House was lounging in the Common Room by the time they made it below stairs, brushing rice and brightly colored flower petals from their shoulders—someone had set a charm outside their door to shower the newlyweds with good-luck bits and bobs when they emerged, their marriage fully consummated.   
  
Who celebrated buggery with flower petals and confetti? Draco suspected Luna Lovegood. He was muttering under his breath of the colorful things he would do to the witch when he laid hands on her at breakfast.   
  
Most of the Common Room’s comfortable furniture was already occupied, so Harry conjured a few pillows and they plopped down on the window bench, watching the snow fall until the house elves came to take their luggage away. Harry discovered a pile of old _Daily Prophet_ rubber bands collecting dust in the corner of the window seat and began flinging them at Ron when his mate wasn't looking. Ron spun around every time, first eying Dean and Seamus and then Draco, eyes narrowed with increasing ire. Hermione caught Harry at it almost immediately, shooting the pair of newlyweds a sly, telling wink.   
  
Harry was propped against the corner of the window bench, Draco seated between his legs, perusing an old Runes book from the library at Grimmauld. Whenever Harry flung a rubber band, Draco would raise the book over his mouth so the rest of the Common Room couldn't see the laughter he was choking back. They were both a tad giddy from lack of sleep, and the potion coursing through their veins... and possibly the unspeakable deeds they'd done in the shower. Harry had no idea where either of them had summoned the energy from—but nothing had stopped them sucking and fucking each other senseless the past five months, and presumably that wasn't about to change. He used to feel as though anybody looking at him would know that twenty minutes ago, he'd had Draco's prick in his mouth or up his bum. It had taken him a while to get over the paranoia. Now, no one paid them any mind. Harry and Draco were just another couple, canoodling in Gryffindor Commons before the Express arrived to take them away on holiday. For a fleeting moment, it felt nice to be normal.   
  
Normal got boring very fast. Thus, Harry increased the frequency of his rubber band flinging, just to see how red Ron's face could get before his best mate exploded in a bellowing, beet-faced, accusatory mess.   
  
The Welsh boy Kieran Gweir sat on the floor at Harry and Draco's feet, a Quidditch strategy guide in his little lap, snickering behind his hand at Harry's antics. Draco reached down at one point, ruffling the boy's already messy black hair.   
  
Draco leaned back, pressing his shoulders into Harry's chest as The Boy Who Lived To Annoy aimed another rubber band at Ron. Draco tilted his face up, the bright light catching his hair and skin, making him glow. At the back of his mind, Harry registered the _click_ of Colin Creevey's camera far across the room, the lens zoomed to the max and pointed right at them. He ignored it, his attention split between annoying the piss out of Ron and how bloody gorgeous Draco looked in the winter sunlight.   
  
“I neva knew you were such a pisser,” Draco slurred against his ear, his head back and throat exposed. “We shoulda been mates years ago. Imagine the mayhem we coulda caused, workin' togetha.”   
  
“Wasn't it bad enough with us at each other’s throats?” Harry mused, one eye closed as he focused on his target. His next rubber band smacked Ron right on the ear. Irritated, Ron slapped at the spot, glaring around the room. Harry buried his face in Draco’s hair, looking innocent as Ron’s gaze passed them over. “All those detentions, your damn Inquisitorial Squad—and how much damage did we do to Myrtle's loo last spring?” Draco shrugged against him, the bones of his shoulder blades scraping patterns over Harry's chest, pressing bruises shaped like his snarky mouth. It made Harry wince and smile at the same time. “I think we passed mayhem a few years back.”   
  
“Still,” Draco sighed. “We coulda been a great team.”   
  
“Who says you aren't?” piped a tiny voice with a Welsh accent. Harry peeked down at Gweir, who was watching them with blue eyes so big they seemed to take over his face. “Weasley's looking,” the lad advised. “Kiss! Tha'll throw him off yer trail.”   
  
Draco looked like he was about to tell the first year to sod off. But Harry caught Draco before he could open his mouth. Harry swept in, capturing Draco's lips in a very obvious open-mouthed kiss. He could feel dozens of eyes on them as Draco took up a fist-full of his hair, twisting in Harry’s lap to invite him closer, giving more. And when Draco offered himself like that, Harry bloody-well took. He didn't give a damn that anyone was watching—that Colin Creevey’s camera was snapping like mad from across the room, and people were starting to stare—but pulled away before he would need Draco as a shield to hide his quickly tenting trousers.   
  
Draco and that stupid mouth of his had always driven Harry wild.   


\- - -

  
  
Ron and Hermione caught up with them on the Express, squeezing into their compartment shortly after Gweir left, fleeing the overzealous attentions of Abigail Brown, younger sister of Lavender and just as clingy.   
  
The two sat down opposite Harry and Draco, Ron wearing a dark look.   
  
“Malfoy,” he began curtly. “In the Common Room. Why were you throwing things at me?”   
  
“Is it still Malfoy?” Hermione asked, far more gently. “After... _last night_.” She whispered the last after double checking that the compartment door was closed, Harry's _Muffliato_ Charm still up.   
  
Draco glanced up from Harry's Chocolate Frog Cards; which he'd been alphabetizing, by hand, presumably out of boredom.   
  
“I'll be going by Malfoy, yes,” he told Hermione. “Until the climate is... well....”   
  
“Once the war's over,” Harry finished for him, sneaking an arm around his partner's waist.   
  
“That's sensible,” Hermione agreed. “Don't you think so, Ronald?”   
  
“The bands,” Ron repeated, belligerent. “You were throwing them. A couple nearly got me in the eye.”   
  
Draco shook his head, smiling. “You've got the wrong Potter.”   
  
Ron bit his lip, eying Harry with wide eyes. “Harry wouldn't.”   
  
“I didn't!” Harry trilled. “It was you, Draco. You put Gweir up to it.”   
  
“I did no such thing!” Draco stopped mid-sorting, as though struck by _Petrificus Totalus_. He turned woodenly to Harry. “Way ta’ throw me under the Knight Bus!”   
  
“I thought that's what marriage was,” Harry joked. “Having someone to pass your cock-ups and bad decisions off on.”   
  
“Why you....” Draco's hands inched toward Harry's throat, Chocolate Frog Cards scattered to the compartment floor.   
  
Ron seemed to realize it was Harry who had launched rubber bands at him all morning. The fact that it was Harry mollified him slightly as he sat back in his seat, arms folded, looking out the window so he wouldn't have to see Draco advancing on Harry with a peculiar look in his steel eyes.   
  
“Wow,” Hermione tapped her wand against her chin, regarding Harry and his new spouse. She pointed between the pair of them, the tip of her wand _whoosh_ ing. “You're rather mean to him, Harry.”   
  
By this time, Draco had Harry on his back, a hand on his chest and the other around his stupid neck.   
  
“You _are_ cruel to me,” Draco announced, chill fingers tightening. Harry felt a corresponding twitch in his pants. The sensation traveled lower, resting between his legs like a humming little Snitch just under his skin.   
  
“I’m cruel?” Harry put on his best Boy Who Lived smile. “He likes it.” And he shot Draco a wink from his back.   
  
“Uh… Malfoy?” Ron posed shyly. “Could you possibly, um, _not_ straddle Harry until you're officially on your honeymoon or whatever?” He jerked his ginger head toward the compartment door, where several girls stood, mouth-breathing against the glass. “You have an audience.”   
  
“Kneazling fuck,” Draco snipped, untangling himself from Harry and adopting the same pose as Ron, arms folded and face equally cross. “Every room you're in, Wonder Boy, becomes a bloody fish bowl. Or a Press Conference,” he added, petulant.   
  
Harry waved the girls on with a shrug. The show was over—the public portion, anyway.   
  
“So, are you two going home for Christmas?” Hermione offered brightly, effectively changing the subject.   
  
“No. This tosspot won't tell me where we're goin’,” Draco gestured grandly. “But he says it's gonna be cold. My money's on Greenland.”   
  
“Give me _some_ credit,” Harry put a hand on Draco's knee. “Greenland? Not very romantic.”   
  
“Merlin...” Ron whispered.   
  
Hermione slipped her hand between her boyfriend’s, saying sweetly, “Harry's right, though. It's supposed to be romantic. You only get one honeymoon.”   
  
“Unless you're Mrs. Zabini,” Ron mumbled. “Wot's she at, seven?”   
  
Draco snorted. “Eight las’ spring.”   
  
They passed idle time with Hogwarts gossip. Even with a diminished student body, people still found things to talk about. Most of the major yarns going round concerned whose family had relocated to what country, and who planned to follow. Only three students had left Hogwarts permanently, one due to the family moving—the boy, formerly a Ravenclaw, now attended The Salem Institute—and the other two departed due to deaths in their families.   
  
There was lighter gossip, too. Ginny Weasley had run a rather public string of unsuccessful relationships, while Draco's starting Chaser Dean Thomas was openly courting fifth year Hufflepuff Laura Madley. Draco relayed several increasingly hilarious anecdotes of the odd places he'd caught the inter-house couple snogging, including atop Argus Filch's filing cabinets while the caretaker was out prowling the grounds. Harry was impressed with their daring, if nothing else. Perhaps they got off on the danger. That much he could understand.   
  
“How long are you two gonna be away, then?” Ron asked, snacking on a licorice wand. He gestured between Harry and Draco with the floppy candy stem. “'Cause—no offense, Malfoy—Harry's got work to do, with the war and stuff. You can't take him away for too long.”   
  
“I know,” Harry admitted readily. “We'll only be gone for hols. Then it's right back to work. I promise.”   
  
Hermione canted forward in her seat, her face pinching. “Speaking of horcruxes, Harry. What about the cup?”   
  
Harry cocked his head. “Hufflepuff's cup? How did you...?”   
  
She smiled Draco's way. “Your better half told me.”   
  
Ron cut in, posing, “If you found it, mate, shouldn't we be destroying it? Like the locket?”   
  
Harry folded his hands in his lap. “Er, no. You see... I don't think it's a horcrux. I mean, not anymore, anyway.” He squirmed in his seat, trying to explain himself. “McGonagall had a report from Snape that Voldemort was wounded pretty badly back when the Death Eaters took the Ministry. I'm thinking—since he had that horcrux nearby—he might've... I dunno, used it up or something. Absorbed it to get his strength back. Would that be possible?”   
  
Ron looked supremely worried. He couldn't keep still, legs jittering, freckled fingers folding and unfolding around the stem of his licorice wand.   
  
Hermione chewed her lip. “I think so. It sounds plausible, at least.”   
  
“I agree,” Draco piped up from Harry's side. “From what you've described, it seems these horcruxes are meant ta keep the bastard alive. If he's wounded, dying, he wouldn't think twice about usin’ one... presuming he can make more, tha’ is.”   
  
“He can,” Harry confirmed.   
  
“Blimey,” Ron breathed, ginger head now resting in his hands. Hermione rubbed a soothing hand on his back.   
  
“Harry,” Hermione was looking pensive. “What makes you say the cup no longer contains a horcrux?”   
  
“Not anotha one a' yer _gut feelin's_?” Draco teased.   
  
Harry rolled his eyes. His gut feelings were famous, and almost never wrong. _Off_ , sometimes. But never outright wrong. He was allowed a margin of error where his guts were concerned.   
  
“No. I ran some tests on it, up in the Room of Requirement. I'm pretty sure whatever was in there isn't anymore.” He looked to Ron. “We can still blow it to pieces just to be sure... but I'd rather preserve a priceless Hogwarts artifact if I can. And from what I remember, Voldemort stole Hufflepuff's cup. When this is all over, I'd like to return it to its proper owner.”   
  
Hermione approved. “That's lovely, Harry.”   
  
Draco made a gagging noise. “Bloody Gryffindors. I think I'm gonna be sick.”   
  
Ron just laughed, muttering, “Get stuffed, Malfoy.”   
  
Harry and Draco burst out laughing; Hermione's brows went up. It would seem Ron didn't notice he'd just made a rather spectacular gay joke. The newlyweds collapsed against one another, dissolving into a Potter and Potter pile of hitching shoulders, red cheeks and slapping, flailing limbs.   
  
Ron elbowed Hermione. “Wot?” his freckled face cringed. “Wot'd I....” He seemed to realize his mistake and turned as red as a Quaffle.   
  
And Hermione laughed too. It was too good, too perfect not to.   


\- - -

  
  
Harry patted around in his school bag. There were too many potions. He couldn’t tell the difference between the phials.   
  
“Nearly to King’s Cross,” Draco muttered. “Where’s this brillian’ plan a’ yours?”   
  
“Just a mo,” and Harry dumped the contents of his bag on the compartment seat, dropping to his knees to sift through them. Aside from the odd quill and crumpled up bit of parchment, his satchel's contents were nothing but potions. He looked like a magical pharmacy—clinked like one, too. Ron’s brows went up. “Fred and George started brewing again,” Harry explained off-handedly. “They pass me a little of everything.” He held each bottle up to the light, examining it before tossing it aside, back into his bag.   
  
Draco snorted. “And here I am without Granger’s knickers.”   
  
Ron pinkened. “You leave my girlfriend’s knickers out of this.”   
  
An old smirk twisted Draco’s mouth. “How about your sister’s?”   
  
That was over the line. Harry held up a hand. “Relax, both of you.” He turned to Draco. “No one’s going as a girl this time… though I do have that potion with me,” he growled, low, “if you don’t shut your fucking gob. Ginny’s off-limits.” He left unsaid that Draco should know better, especially in front of Ron. Draco rolled his eyes grandly, but gave in. He folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against the seat, and said no more.   
  
Of course the potion Harry needed was at the very bottom of the pile. He stood, straightened his robes, and held it out to Draco. The blonde snatched it from his hand, downing the contents of the phial without question. A second later, he was doubled over his knees, gripping his head.   
  
“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, _fuck_ ….”   
  
His hair blurred, darkening just a bit. Next was his skin, scars disappearing, burns receding, the odd stray freckle melting away. Harry immediately missed the smudge of a freckle in the wizard’s left eyebrow, and the birthmark where his thigh met his arse. The bones of his face and hands shifted—elongating, reforming by millimeters, until he was no longer Draco, but the very image of Gideon Harper.   
  
The potion was an odd one. Fred and George came by it completely by accident, and had yet to think up a decent use for it... aside from making utter mayhem. The potion had only one function: it allowed the drinker to take on, for a very short period of time, the likeness of a deceased family member. The dead person had to be kin by blood, not by marriage, and it was never a sure thing who the drinker might turn into; at least, there was no exact science as far as Fred, George, or anyone else could put words to. Twice, Fred and George had stumbled from their potions lab as a twin set of their tremendously-alcoholic Uncle Bilius, by all appearances fresh off a spectacular bender. It was several frazzled minutes before either of the twins could be coaxed down off of Leon’s truck, away from the car park, and back into the warehouse—out of muggle sight before the potion wore off. Fred kept hitching up his jumper and asking if anyone would care to see him pull a nosegay of wildflowers from his nipples: George offered a far less savory orifice as method of delivery. It was a good thing Uncle Bilius was very dead.   
  
The potion’s origin was in the ancient art of blood magic; neutral in nature but frowned upon in Great Britain. Jedidiah and Leon had helped the twins with this particular potion’s development after the Uncle Bilius incident, thinking the potion could be used to impersonate recently deceased Death Eaters, to gain information or even infiltrate their strongholds. Half the wizarding world was related to one another in some fashion. Draco and Gideon were something like fourth cousins, sparking Harry’s idea for a disguise in the first place, now that the potion had been watered down enough not to cause a possession-like state. Somehow, he didn’t think Draco would appreciate being even momentarily possessed by his dead rake of a cousin.   
  
He wondered what Leon would think, seeing Draco like this—the very image of his son. Gideon was even more handsome in person than in pictures; strapping and tall, broad-shouldered and thin-limbed. Draco’s trousers were suddenly too short, his jumper pulling at the seams. He stood, waving his wand, righting them.   
  
Ron chewed his lip, nodding. “That’s good. A disguising potion?”   
  
“Sort of,” Harry shrugged, picking up his things to stuff haphazardly into his bag. King’s Cross was within sight.   
  
Draco combed a hand through his still-blonde hair. He tried catching his reflection in the window, bending his long legs, canting his head. He couldn’t quite see. The way his expression shifted, right down to the set of his eyes, was still Draco. He was certainly in there. But the majority was the dead bloke, Gideon Harper, with Draco barely poking through in places.   
  
Harry laid a hand on Draco’s upper arm, barely able to reach his shoulder now. Fuck, he was tall now—taller than Ron. “You look good. And it’s quite temporary. Just long enough to sneak away.”   
  
Draco snorted. “Fine.” The side of his mouth turned up. “At least I’m bloody taller than you.” They shrunk their cases and coats, tucking everything in trouser pockets. Harry threw his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders, disappearing as the Express came to a smoky stop at Platform 9 ¾. Hermione caught Ron’s arm in the car's corridor, the pair of them waving goodbye before scrambling off the train. They were immediately engulfed in a Mrs. Weasley hug.   
  
No one paid Draco any mind, disguised as the Harpers’ son. He blended into the crowd disembarking the train, all searching for loved ones and saying goodbye to schoolmates. Harry kept a step behind, invisible; a finger hooked through Draco’s belt loop, guiding him toward a darkened corner. He ducked into the alcove after Draco, pulling close.   
  
“Na what?” the blonde whispered.   
  
Harry grinned, even though Draco couldn’t see it. “Hold on.”   
  
He wrapped his arms around Draco and Disapparated.   
  
  
  
  
  
Draco was breathing hard when they landed.   
  
“Warn a bloke before yeh do tha’!” he panted. A pale hand shot to his forehead, pushing his hair back. “This fella gets motion sick,” and he fell forward, knocking Harry back a step.   
  
Gideon Harper was heavier than Harry expected. He smelled of old parchment, ink and potion ingredients—belladonna, lacewings, camphor basil and root of aconite. But he felt a bit like Draco—familiar, lithe and strong. Harry kissed the base of his unfamiliar throat—it was the closest bit of pale skin his mouth could reach.   
  
They were in a muggle loo, tucked in a stall at the very end of the row and shielded by magic. There was noise beyond the tiled room—the sound of people talking, walking by, dragging luggage. A woman’s voice came over the PA system, making apathetic announcements in French. In his arms, Draco perked up.   
  
“We’re…”   
  
Harry nodded. “Yeah. Crossed the Channel to France. You have no idea how hard I practiced.” He reached into his school bag, retrieving a draught to settle Draco’s stomach. He offered the potion, but the pureblood pushed it away. Draco’s blue-grey eyes were watering.   
  
“Not motion sickness, then,” he swallowed. “Potion’s wearin’ off. I might be sick.”   
  
He whirled around, a hand slammed to the loo partition, leaning over the toilet. The sight reminded Harry of the last time he’d seen Draco vomit… what felt like ages ago, back when he’d first come to Grimmauld Place, bloodied and beaten, and utterly without hope. So much had changed. At least now Harry knew how to comfort Draco without feeling quite so much a bumbling idiot.   
  
Slowly, Harry slid a hand up his back. He felt Draco’s spine shifting beneath his fingers—compressing, returning to normal. Suddenly the jumper was two sizes too big, trousers loose around his hips. He gasped—rubbing at his side where his coral-colored scar was—as though he couldn’t quite get his breath.   
  
“Gonna be okay?”   
  
Draco nodded weakly. He wiped sweat from his brow. “Tell yer boys the transition back is rough.”   
  
“Will do,” Harry nodded.   
  
He’d been tempted to take the potion himself, just to see what would happen. Would he turn into his father? Or perhaps his mother. It might be nice, to see them—touch their faces, as though they were real—just once. But sight was a shadow, only a glimmer of the real thing. Like the Mirror of Erised. In the end, he hadn’t gone through with it. He’d never gotten much from dwelling on the past. And there was so much good in the here and now, he didn’t see much point in looking back.   
  
Harry extended his hand. “C’mon, then. Let’s go.”   
  
  
  
  
  
He dragged Draco through the _Aéroport de Marseille Provence_ , coats over their arms and muggle suitcases in hand. Outside, snow tumbled down from a cloudy sky. Harry’s heart beat out an uneven rhythm in his chest. He’d planned this muggle world adventure, had done his best, but what if Draco hated it? Was it too much? A honeymoon in France? What if Draco didn’t like it? What if Draco thought it was sappy and stupid?   
  
He’d have to take that risk. More than anything, they needed time alone. And a honeymoon, for all its connotations of romantic bubble baths and fucking like rabbits, would actually give them a chance to talk. After they wore themselves out fucking, of course, but it would be the first time he’d spent any considerable length of time with Draco since the summer at Grimmauld Place. They needed this. So even if Draco complained about the romance or the location, he would still understand that this was their only opportunity to be alone, to be together, and he’d deal with it. Harry would _make_ him deal with it. Draco might even like that—the sensation of being looked after, cared for, bossed around… loved. That’s what he’d said he wanted. Being told what to do made Draco feel safe. So Harry would deliver in his own way; not controling or vindictive as Lucius and the Death Eaters had been, but a positive force, reasonable and affectionate.   
  
With Draco’s aid as translator, Harry found the area for hired cars. Drivers waited outside their taxis and town cars, smoking cigarettes or rubbing their hands together in the cold. So many cigarettes—so quintessentially French! One man held a sign with the name ‘Potter’ written on it, and Draco smiled despite his best efforts to keep his grin in check.   
  
Their driver loaded their trunks into the boot, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. In the car’s back seat, Harry slid a hand onto Draco’s knee, speaking low. “This weekend you’re Draco Potter. You don’t have to be anyone or anything else, okay?”   
  
Draco showed Harry the back of his head, pretending to watch the bustle of the airport. Draco was still an expert at hiding his emotions—just not from Harry. Not anymore. A flurry of feelings rushed through him: pride in the clenching of his jaw, nervousness in the tightening tendons of his throat, fear in the bobb of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. Harry knew his words had cut close to the heart of Draco’s insecurities. Draco worried that he wasn’t enough to deserve Harry, that his past made him unworthy of respect, let alone love. The pureblood was constantly working to prove himself; always guarded, on edge, afraid of making another catastrophic mistake.   
  
Harry brought it up anyway because Draco’s fears were important. He’d chosen to say something while the driver was outside the car so Draco would have a second to compose himself, and wouldn’t be emotionally exposed like this in front of a stranger. But it needed to be said.   
  
Draco was always wearing masks, always putting on some sort of show he deemed necessary to his survival. He pretended, forcing that big and brash Malfoy personality to the front of every interaction, in order to keep people at arm’s length. This week there would be no masks, no pretence, no artiface—Harry wanted Draco, his husband, and nothing short of honesty would do.   
  
Draco wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were glazed and far away. But he nodded, and that acknowledgement was enough.   
  
Harry squeezed his knee, sliding up a slim thigh, nursing Draco’s tension with his touch and the heat of his hand. Harry leaned close, kissing the back of Draco’s neck, whispering against his skin, “You’re so fucking special to me, just the way you are.” Another kiss, lingering, soft hair tickling his nose. “I love you.”   
  
“Love you, too,” Draco muttered back. “You enormous, raging prat.”   
  
Harry snickered under his breath. Draco would never stop being sarcastic, never stop slinging insults. It was a part of who he was. Harry didn’t need to change that. Every rude name Draco called him these days was just his way of saying “I love you.” Different words, same meaning.   
  
Harry bit the back of his husband’s neck, squeezing his thigh a mite more firmly than necessary. With Draco’s flesh between his teeth, he murmured, “Prick.”   
  
Draco was uncorking emotionally and having trouble hiding it. He needed a second to summon another insult, swallowing thickly. “Pillock,” he managed.   
  
“Ponce.”   
  
“Plonker.”   
  
Harry sounded-off, getting nasty. “Poof.”   
  
Draco appreciated that, firing back with, “Pikey.”   
  
“Pillow-biter.”   
  
“Poltroon!” That was a good one. They could go all day—and they were still in the P’s for God’s sake! By his speedy repartee alone, Harry knew Draco was starting to feel more at ease. So Harry put an end to it. “Prince of Slytherin.”   
  
“Not an insult,” Draco preened. His chin rose, eyes defiant, his voice playful; all signs he was feeling better about himself—which had been Harry’s point all along. Insulting someone usually made Draco feel better: insulting Harry Potter _always_ made him feel better. “I win. _Je gagne_ ,” he repeated in French.   
  
Outside, their driver was nearly finished with his cigarette. Another minute and they’d be on their way, no longer alone in the car. Harry nipped Draco’s neck again, while things were still private. That lovely pale skin was already pink under his teeth, spotted with red, blood rising to the surface. Draco might find himself with yet another bruise. Draco liked the bruises; so Harry kept at it, sucking at that spot, running his tongue in a hard, purposeful sweep… until Draco pressed back into him, relaxing even more—falling under the spell of Harry’s flirting.   
  
Harry wrapped his free hand loosely over the front of Draco’s neck, finding the increasingly familiar pair of arteries that fit under his thumb and forefinger like the grip of a sword that had been made just for him. Then, hand in place, he pressed, ramping up the pressure on Draco’s windpipe, Draco’s pulse beating strongly against his palm. He pulled Draco back, firm against him, contrasting the insistency of his choking hand with a gentle, suckling, feather-light kiss to that wet new bruise.   
  
Draco melted in his arms, resembling a pureblooded puddle. Finally, he allowed himself to relax.   
  
If he wanted Draco to feel comfortable being himself, he first had to break through his barriers to touch that part of him, reminding him who he really was—not a Hogwarts Prefect, not a Malfoy or a piece of pureblood chattel, but a wizard, a person who was fallible and made mistakes, but was equally deserving of forgiveness, affection and love. “All I want,” Harry told the back of Draco’s neck, “is to spend some time with you. To sleep in and relax.” Thoughts roughening, he dropped into Parseltongue, “ _And definitely fuck your brains out._ ”   
  
Draco chuckled, throat vibrating under Harry’s hand. “I suppose I can tolerate that.”   
  
Harry bit his neck one last time before his hand pulled away. The driver was tossing his cigarette butt. “ _Shut up_ ,” he hissed. “ _You’ll love it_.”   
  
Draco squirmed against him, edging away.   
  
“Think you can give me a Translation Charm?” Harry added. “I’d like to be able to talk with the locals.”   
  
Draco had all of fifteen seconds before the driver stamped out his cigarette. Ten seconds would have been enough. Draco waved his fingers off-handed and a rush of magic hit Harry’s vocal cords, giving him the ability to converse in real French rather than the garbled two-year-old speak he’d picked up over the summer. He was able to say hello to the driver as the muggle slid into the front seat. Beside him, Draco hummed his approval. Apparently Harry’s accent was improving.   
  
  
  
  
  
The city around them quickly gave way to snow-covered countryside. They drove through villiages and fields, all blanketed in a layer of white. The journey reminded Harry of the Hogwarts Express, how the landscape flew by, transporting them someplace magical. Because there was magic in everything, in the everyday, and it didn’t take a special train or a magic wand to make the world come alive.   
  
It felt good to sit with Draco in the back of a car—like their many adventures around London, back when they’d first gotten together. For them, the muggle world held fewer dangers than the wizarding one. They’d been safe in London, blending in with the muggles, hidden where pureblood wizards were less likely to look for them. Harry for one felt safer surrounded by all things non-magical. He could relax, knowing a Death Eater or Dementor was less likely to pop out at him out of nowhere.   
  
Draco was the one who was thrown off by all things non-magical. He’d been raised eyebrows-deep in wizarding culture, utterly sheltered from the muggle world. Before Harry, Draco had never seen a movie, never hailed a taxi, never bought his groceries at the market. The mundaineties of muggle existence had become a special routine between them; meaningful, a way for Draco to demonstrate his willingness to try new things, to be open to new experiences, and to accept his new life. That he was willing to get in a muggle car, not knowing its destination, said a lot about how far Draco had come, how much he’d grown out of his old priggish ways.   
  
It had been a while since Harry last organized a surprise for Draco—too long, and too few. He wanted to put a look of wonder on Draco’s face every damned day if he could. As it was, he managed the occasional date night or Quidditch skirmish, but were those enough? He felt so much wonder just being with Draco. Their relationship was magic. He wanted to celebrate it.   
  
Their car slowed on the outskirts of a small village. Waiting for them was a horse-drawn carriage with snow-rails instead of wheels; because the farm roads that lead to their final destination weren’t well-traveled enough to warrant plowing. The carriage had a sort of boot attached, already loaded with supplies for the inn. Their new driver waited for them bundled in a heavy woolen coat—the inn’s proprietor, Benoît, a man Harry had corresponded with aided by Charlene Harper.   
  
Draco spotted the carriage and immediately rolled his eyes. “Oh hell.”   
  
Harry elbowed him glibly. “What? We travel by carriage all the time in Scotland.”   
  
“Yes,” Draco hissed back. “In _Scotland_ , where that sort of thing is normal, not some confounded romantic gestu—”   
  
Harry shoved Draco out of the car, ending his tirade before it got off the ground. Benoît the innkeeper proceeded to explain what Harry had assumed—that the road to the inn was only plowed once per week, and it was more efficient to cut through the fields by horse-drawn carriage. Harry smiled doubly big to compensate for the surly expression on Draco’s face.   
  
Benoît stuffed the pair of them into the open carriage, offered a fur blanket for their legs, wrestled their luggage in with the supplies, and they were off cross-country, across the snow, flakes whipping about their ears. It was about as close as muggles came to flying.   
  
Five minutes was enough to strip away Draco’s reserve and soon enough he was grinning, watching as a mid-sized castle came into view. While it wasn’t much compared to Hogwarts, the former monastery put in an excellent showing, with turrets, murder holes and buttresses enough to impress even a jaded architectural connoisseur like Draco. Surrounding the castle were a half-dozen out-buildings, scattered throughout endless fields of lavender presently covered in snow. The estate had been converted from a monestary to a lavender farm, finally becoming a rustic bed and breakfast after the second World War. The combined incomes of the farms and tourism kept the building in excellent maintenance. Every outlying cottage and challet sported new windows, siding and rooves. For all the estate was charming it was also quite luxurious… because nothing else would do when it came to keeping Draco spoiled.   
  
The pureblood leaned close. “How did you find this place, anyway?”   
  
Harry grinned. “Your fourth cousin, Leon Harper. He and his wife spent their honeymoon here.”   
  
Benoît gave them a tour of the estate from the comfort of their carriage, stopping at the back of the castle to deliver supplies. Then they were off into the woods. As beautiful as the castle was, Harry had reserved a private challet for them, off the beaten path—just in case he and Draco felt inclined to use a little magic on their holiday. Being out-of-the-way lowered the chances that Draco would have to showcase his abilities as an amature Obliviator.   
  
Coming around a bend in the woods produced the first view of the chalet Harry had rented. It looked exactly like the pictures, with two stories, a large stone fireplace dominating one side of the structure, and plenty of white-painted wooden windows to let in the light. The thatched roof was covered in snow, smoke already puffing from the chimney. Harry knew there was a second fireplace in the large master bedroom upstairs. He couldn’t wait to lay with Draco that night, looking into the flames, cozy and warm in bed. It wasn’t quite Hogwarts, but rather their own sanctuary, a retreat where they could divine their own brand of magic.   
  
Waiting at the door to the cottage was the innkeeper’s wife. Benoît introduced her as Ines, and hiding behind her long woolen skirt was their very young daughter Emeline, perhaps four or five years old. The girl ducked back behind her mother’s skirt, laughing, before popping out the other side.   
  
Emeline went immediately to Draco—running up to him, laughing, taking hold of his hand and pulling him into the house. The look on Draco’s face was priceless: shock, confusion, a slight unsurity of muggle greeting customs and his general lack of familiarity with small children creasing his normally smoothe brow.   
  
Benoît and Ines attempted to appologise to Harry as his husband was dragged inside. But when Harry burst out laughing the nervous parents let it go, ushering Harry into the house and out of the cold, Benoît collecting their bags from the sled as little Emeline excitedly proceeded to give Draco a tour of the house.   
  
Harry stood a few steps back, observing this small child drag Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater, around by the hand, chattering at him in French as she pointed out the appliances, the WC’s, the VCR and tele which Draco would have no idea how to use. His husband’s face never lost that quality of wonderful confusion; his willingness to go along with anything largely influenced by the clear visual that Harry wasn’t at all worried, was standing nearby with a stupid smile on his face.   
  
Children were fond of Draco. Something about him—his eccentricity, his wit, his unpredictable bursts of vulnerability—let them know via some private frequency that he was a safe adult to be around. He put children at ease despite being truly frightening on the inside. Like Harry, Emeline could see that Draco’s heart was good no matter how cold an exterior he projected.   
  
Draco started each time Emeline reached for his hand. He wasn’t used to anyone liking him on the first go. But soon enough he was joking with her in French, asking a question here and there which would make her giggle and sprint through the chalet, calling back to him from the next room. Harry hadn’t heard Draco laugh so much in months.   
  
  
  
  
  
Draco spent that first night in Provence in front of the tele. He sat no less than two feet away from the screen, absorbed. It was an old-fashioned set, with two dials beside the screen for channel and volume. Draco had discovered a cache of popular muggle films on VHS and dove right in. The picture was small and grainy, and Draco was enchanted.   
  
Harry spent that first night staring at Draco. He did it under the guise of cooking dinner, of course, lest Draco catch him at it and cuss him out for being a romantic sap… but he couldn’t stop the glances, the little looks, the natural tending of his eyes, drawn like magnets to the sight of his husband, happy.   
  
Because that was the best part—the point of this whole “honeymoon” thing. Harry himself wanted to embrace wedded bliss, to feel that sense of home and belonging he’d been searching for since he was old enough to know what it was. But more than anything he wanted Draco to discover that feeling, too—the safety and unconditional love that was family, and belonging completely to another person on this earth. He wanted Draco to be happy, to be comfortable, to feel secure in this new rollercoaster-of-a-path he’d chosen. Draco deserved that, and so much more.   
  
Cutting veggies while staring dopey-eyed in the opposite direction, Harry only cut himself twice. Small price to pay for the smirk that twitched his husband’s lips each time he swore. In French. _Putain de bordel de merde_ , like Draco said. And Harry was catching on.   
  
  


~ * ~

  
  
  
  
Benoît and Ines invited the newlyweds over to their home for lunch. In trying to be polite, hospitable, friendly, the gesture only made Harry and Draco nervous—because Harry determined they would need to lie, to play muggle. And on some gut level it felt wrong to present Draco as anything less than magical. At least that was how Harry saw his husband; ingrained in the magical world, his identity inseperable from his heritage and culture. Draco without magic was like a man without a shadow.   
  
Harry decided that he would handle the brunt of the couple’s questions, having more knowledge of what would sound acceptably muggle. Draco’s lack of conversation starters meant he was quickly drawn away by Emeline, who was becoming obsessed with him. Harry couldn’t exactly blame her without being a hypocrite.   
  
Benoît and Ines asked all the polite questions: how they met, where they lived, what Harry did for work. It took some clever maneuvering, knowledge of muggle affairs, and the aid of Draco’s impeccable Translation Charm, as he managed to spin a story about his father James being a MI5 officer who went after a cult leader only to be murdered along with his wife. That Draco’s father was a prominent member of the cult, making them enemies during their schooldays. But when Draco tried to escape the cult Harry offered to help him. He distinctly heard Draco groaning loudly from the playroom as he explained that his angelic-looking husband had been the school bully, had teased Harry mercilessly for years; how they got in fist fights and destroyed school property in the process. Only when they spent time together, outside of the constructs of what other people expected them to be, did they find how much they truly had in common. After that it was a whirlwind wedding while Harry continued to work for international intelligence agencies, tracking down memembers of Draco’s former cult and bringing them to justice. That tied neatly into Harry’s association with the Harpers, who were also Draco’s not to distant cousins. That got him another snort from the playroom.   
  
“What a romantic story,” Ines commented, refilling everyone’s wine glasses. Draco eyed the bottle rather longingly as she walked away, his face wishing she’d have left it for him exclusively.   
  
Harry was rather proud of himself. His concocted story was close enough to the truth that it was easy to remember, it hit all the highlights of commonly asked questions about a person’s background, with the added bonus of explaining how it could be that a man as bright as Draco would not recognize basic staples of muggle culture. Draco hadn’t been to a movie theatre until he was seventeen. He hadn’t heard the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. He had no idea what The Cold War was, and probably thought The Iron Curtain was something from the Department of Mysteries. Growing up in a cult, and having only recently escaped, explained so much of Draco’s lack of familiarity with non-magical basics, allowing him to be rightly confused by microwaves, VCR’s and the like. With this cover story, the muggles began volunteering to help him at every turn.   
  
Draco looked almost relieved when Emeline clambered into his lap, a storybook in her hand. Harry had a hard time swallowing the lump in his throat as Draco opened the book, adjusting the little girl on his knee, and began reading the nursery rhyme Humpty Dumpty. He did voices for every character: Harry recognized familiar ghosts from his past. One of the knights trying to put Humpty back together was Ron, and the narrator sounded suspiciously like Albus Dumbledore.   
  
Harry and Benoît insisted on doing the dishes after lunch.   
  
From the sunny playroom came the sound of a folk song, Ines and Emeline’s voices blending together. And it would have been rude of Draco not to sing along.   
  
Harry loved it—the first time he can recall hearing Draco sing without being pissed out of his mind. And just like he thought, Draco had a great voice. How could he not? With his talent for impersonations and his extensive knowledge of music, Draco was a natural singer. It was a shame, Harry thought, he couldn’t just throw Draco in a room full of children playing and lock him in until he was joyful again. He poked his head around the corner with each dish he dried, unable to get enough of the sight, let alone the sound, of his husband singing. It was so good to see Draco happy—youthful, playful, singing.   
  
Whatever they decided for their future, Harry wanted something like this. A life where Draco was at liberty to be himself, where he could sing if he wanted too, without fear of what others expected of him, without fear of disappointing those he loved, without being stifled. More than anything, he wanted Draco to be free.   
  
  


~ *~

  
  
  
  
Harry went to the inn’s gymnasium. Draco followed—mostly out of desire to see the brunet sweat himself to death. Perhaps he'd find himself a glass of wine and watch.   
  
Draco was sorely disappointed when Harry delivered them to a clinical-looking room in the built-on athletics facility, muggle running machines and weights off in one corner, and a springy rubber substance coating the floor. Harry took up the extra bar from a weight-lifting machine, tossing it at Draco. He barely caught it in time, surprised by the cold weight in his hands.   
  
“What's this?”   
  
Harry picked up a second metal bar, this one longer, thicker, and undoubtedly much heavier. He handled it easily, swinging it with a twitch of his wrist; like a baton, cold metal dancing over the backs of his knuckles before landing solidly in his hand. His black brows quirked, half a smile on his lips.   
  
“You fence, right?”   
  
Draco shrugged. “A bit. And quite poorly. I don't see—”   
  
Harry attacked him.   
  
Draco reeled, giving several meters of ground in the span of a heartbeat, barely getting his weapon before him in time. Harry drove him clear across the room in three seconds flat, backing him against the wall, metal bar pressed across his throat like a knife. Breath bloomed hot over his face. Draco’s cheeks flushed, chest catching uncomfortably tight. The room was suddenly far too warm.   
  
“Well, you're not horrible,” Harry shrugged.   
  
Draco spluttered, not making a lick of sense.   
  
“Again,” Harry droned, lowering his makeshift weapon and pulling away.   
  
Draco hitched up his trousers. They were Harry's muggle contraptions, made of nylon with elastic and a drawstring at the waist. They felt funny against his skin, slick and cool. Combined with the way Harry's forearms flexed each time he swung his practice sword, Draco was liable to have a visible erection in seconds. It took a moment to pull away from the wall, hitching up his courage along with his waistband.   
  
“You leave your right open,” Harry told him, switching his makeshift weapon to his left hand in order to mimic Draco's stance. Holding the heavy bar engaged muscles past his elbows, popping a bicep, rippling up his shoulder. Draco licked his lips.   
  
Harry blinked. “Did you... Draco, are you checking me out?”   
  
“Canna help it,” he offered, looking away. And then he twisted, on the offensive, going for Harry's open right side. The Chosen One defended across, meeting Draco's blow with the crash of metal-on-metal. He hadn't even moved his feet, leveraging instead from his lower half, twisting through the torso. Grounded, he easily threw Draco back a step.   
  
“Yer rather good,” Draco admitted, trying to get his breath back. Harry wasn't showing any signs of tiring, shoulders square and relaxed. “So this is how you've been training?”   
  
“Among other things,” Harry said dismissively. It seemed he would rather fight than talk, knocking Draco back again and again, until they reached the corner. Draco took up the opposite end of his bar, needing the strength of both arms to quell Harry's downward strike. He felt the impact buckle his elbows, reverberating through his shoulders. His knees shook, but he held.   
  
It was fruitless. Harry was too strong and too bloody fast. He'd lose every time.   
  
He glanced up at Harry, looming over him. “Ever fight with that sword—Gryffindor's, right? From second year?”   
  
“I practice, Draco.” Harry stepped down, putting the tip of his bar to the ground. He looked away. “I'm not really good enough to fight yet. It's rather a miracle I've survived this long.”   
  
Draco shook his head. “By the seat a’ yer trousers,” he muttered. “The essence of Harry Potter.”   
  
“But I can’t expect to win that way,” Harry argued. “Running about like a clueless leper twat really doesn’t qualify as a strategy—you taught me that.”   
  
Draco’s brows arched magnificently. “You mean... somethin’ I said actually got through tha’ thick skull ‘a yers?”   
  
“Shocking, I know.” Green eyes rolled behind spectacle lenses. And then their eyes locked.   
  
It was the first time Draco saw it—Harry Potter, looking scared. The sight chilled him to a cellular level. Harry Potter was fearless and right and raucously good. He didn’t frighten, didn’t waver, didn’t doubt for a moment. But beneath the aura was a man—a seventeen year old boy with the world on his shoulders. And for a moment, that boy shone through.   
  
Draco wanted to reach out... to take the sod’s fucking _hand_ , to pull him close and.... The emotion was entirely foreign to a Malfoy. Vaguely he identified it as compassion. Pale fingertips drummed against his sides, indecisive, as he reached for other words instead.   
  
“It’ll be okay,” Draco told him. It was a lie, but Malfoys were good at those, after all. At least, Draco hoped he still was. It had always been a Herculean effort, lying to Harry. And he was typically bollocks at it if memory served. Harry—sodding cunt—always saw right through his lies. Draco hoped, more than anything, that Harry would buy them now. “You’ll figure somethin’ out. In the very nick of time, I’d imagine, an’ everything will turn out alright. You’ll see.”   
  
Harry had come closer. His makeshift sword was on the ground, arms around Draco, pulling him near, hands and breath so achingly warm.   
  
“I love you,” Harry whispered, kissing him.   
  
It was a sweet kiss, one made of warm, wet lips and salt and yearning. Draco was swept up in it, tumbled by a riptide of unexpected tenderness. He let Harry sweep him away, if only for a moment.   
  
Someone cleared their throat.   
  
Harry’s lips pulled away with a recognizable slurp. Draco barely had time enough to pull his tongue back into his own mouth. Why hadn’t he felt it before? Someone was watching them.   
  
Several someones. Muggle women, by the looks of them—ponytails and tight athletic clothes, some only in sports bras, others in tshirts or loose fitting trousers. One had on a pair of shorts hardly larger than pants, the bottom-most curves of her arse cheeks hanging out the back. Draco could see the reflection of her bum in several of the surrounding mirrors. She had her arms folded across her breasts, which were as equally fit as her backside. Draco couldn’t stop himself from looking—he was married and bisexual, not a saint.   
  
The rest of the women appeared far less severe. Some were smiling. They were all pointedly avoiding looking at the readily apparent bulges in Harry and Draco’s pants.   
  
They’d been caught. Again. It was becoming a pattern.   
  
“Erm,” Harry fumbled, ever-eloquent—especially where women were concerned. “Sorry. We, er... thought we were alone. _Je suis désolé_.”   
  
The woman in her teeny shorts gestured toward the opposite side of the room.   
  
“We ‘ave a yoga class theeees morning.” Her accent was thick. It was lucky they spoke English—Harry’s French was abominable without the help of a Translation Charm. Adorable, but terrible.   
  
“Yoo shooould join us,” another woman piped up. Several others agreed.   
  
Draco leaned close, until his nose brushed Harry’s ear. “The fuck is ‘yoga’?” he whispered.   
  
“Stretches and stuff,” Harry shrugged. “It’s supposed to make you more flexible. I dunno.”   
  
“Should we go?”   
  
The women were waiting.   
  
Harry shrugged again. “Or I can keep kicking your ass.”   
  
Draco put on his brightest fake smile. Until his teeth hurt. “Yoga it is.”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
“Yoga” turned out to be an exercise in self denial—namely, staring at Draco’s bum, from various angles and in increasingly compromising positions, as the room got hotter and hotter, and the pair of them got sweatier. Harry ditched his tshirt within the first ten minutes. Draco—whether due to his scars or the marks more romantic in nature which Harry had recently bestowed—staunchly kept his shirt on. It clung to him like a second skin. Harry could hardly think straight.   
  
It was news to him that he could grab the bottom of his foot and hold it above his head. Draco did one better, hooking his ankle behind his neck without missing a beat. After that, all Harry could think about was pinning him down and....   
  
The ladies were stealing glances at the rapid expansion of his shorts. Draco wasn’t much better. After a while, Harry gave up any pretence of _not_ staring at Draco. He licked his lips when the blonde bent over; imagined running hands up his thighs and over the high curve of his arse, nipping at his birthmark, spreading his legs and... He took a moment to adjust himself in his shorts. Bloody blue ball hell.   
  
Some of the women were right fit themselves. His perving eyes roved over swelling tits, pert bums, racing breaths and lips licked in both their directions. But nothing compared to the line of sweat gathering down the back of Draco’s plain old tshirt, or the occasional glimpse of Harry’s own boxers whenever that shirt rode up. Draco was stealing his pants again. Harry wanted to bury his face in the tuft of blonde hair just below his bony waistline, to take firm muscle and bone in his hand, feel it under his mouth, suck....   
  
He let out a long breath. The burn at the backs of his thighs was nothing compared to the struggle of having Draco—mussed and hot at ten paces—and not being able to have him, to drop his pureblood to the ground and take him, then and there.   
  
He glanced at the clock. Twenty fucking minutes had passed. In the vain hope of slaying his trouser monster, he began silently reciting every date he could recall for the Second Great Goblin War. Anything to keep his mind out of Draco’s ass.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Draco kicked off his trainers, cutting through the deserted men’s showers to get back to the locker room where they’d left their coats. Harry followed a few steps behind, sneakers in hand, tshirt slung over his sweaty shoulder.   
  
The little zippers at the hems of Draco's trousers clinked against the tile as he walked. Harry followed the sound more than the sight of the man—like a hunting dog trained to prey. There wasn't so much as a faucet dripping to interrupt the silence. Several rooms away, Harry could hear the local women chatting and laughing as they entered their own showers, their sing-song, lovely French voices echoing back along the tile as hot water began to pour in earnest.   
  
His eyes turned to Draco—to the faint trickle of sweat creeping down his neck, the way blonde strands stuck to the tendons of his neck, his tshirt caught up in the damp, clinging to the narrow lines of his back in places. And then, below, there was the vaguest outline of his pants, hugging his bum beneath the muggle athletic trousers. Those were Harry’s boxers, plaid and plain. Draco wore them constantly. Harry licked his lips. He liked the way Draco's rear seemed to sway as he walked, muscles flexing and releasing, back taut and shoulders straight. He was beautiful, sensual. At any moment, he could break out dancing... or fucking. With Draco, there wasn’t much difference sometimes.   
  
There was a groan and a _pop_. And then a shower head sprung to life, water released at full blast, spraying Draco's shoulder. He leapt back with a start. A dirty look was shot Harry's way.   
  
“Turned on, Potter?” the pureblood quipped. There was a hint of that old Malfoy sneer in his voice, and it heated Harry’s blood like no other. The teasing was sexual now—fucking intimate, and he loved it.   
  
“Like you wouldn't believe.”   
  
The Chosen One was clumsy in his rush forward. But what he lacked in precision was made up for three-fold in speed. They collided, chests first, surging and reacting, aggressive in the same instant. Teeth hit, lips bruising. Hair was pulled, hips and trousers pushed at, each fighting for the upper hand. Harry sunk teeth into a supple neck, wrapping one hand around Draco's hardening prick, the other fisted firmly in his hair. Water soaked Draco's thin shirt, bodies sticking together, wet fabric and sweat acting like glue. It was all kinds of right.   
  
Harry felt his veins opening—blood racing from heart to fingertips, to muscles, brain, cock and back again—felt his pupils dilating, filling with nothing but the sight of Draco standing before him; scarred and shoeless and wanting in a muggle shower. And he felt the magic rising up in him, answering as though he were gunpowder and Draco was a match. His blood was cauldron-boiled, mind in a Dementor’s breeding fog. And he couldn’t be arsed.   
  
Under his hands, Draco's breath caught, his shoulders giving the tiniest of shivers. Draco wanted him that badly. And it set Harry’s blood on fire.   
  
The showerhead gave one last death rattle before succumbing to pressure. Screws bounced away, and the metal head clattered to the floor a second later, water pouring from the exposed pipeline now jutting from a busted-tile hole in the wall.   
  
Tendons in Draco's neck throbbed, with his head forced back as it was. Still, he managed a simper. “My, my.”   
  
Harry sort-of liked being teased now. With Draco it was all a big joke, a reminiscing of how things used to be. When Draco called him names, he might as well be saying “I love you.” And Harry getting riled, getting violent, manhandling Draco, was just his way of echoing it back. Blood sang in his ears. His teeth nipped, reddening porcelain skin. Sweat and salt and Draco filled his mouth.   
  
He wanted to lick and bite every last freckle; instead, he growled, “Shut your smart mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.”   
  
Harry couldn’t see, glasses covered in droplets, but he was sure the regal lines of Draco’s eyebrows were approaching his hairline. His cock gave an accompanying twitch against Harry’s groping fingers.   
  
The pureblood licked his lips: Harry reveled in the movement of muscle beneath his mouth. He traced a neat line of burn scars with his teeth.   
  
“Oooh. Shut it with wha’?” Draco was being a mouthy prat. “Yer cock?”   
  
Teeth bit into flesh. He was sure to leave marks this time—that’s what Glamour Spells were invented for. “Don’t tell me what you want, cunt,” Harry managed. “Takes all the fun out of it.” Draco smiled, then. Harry felt the wizard’s lips move against his hair.   
  
“I live ta ruin yer fun, Oh Chosen One.”   
  
Draco’s back found the nearest wall. His arrival wasn’t without turbulence. He hit the tile hissing, fingers digging into Harry’s shoulder, leaving little half-moon fingernail marks to decorate his skin. Chosen muscles flexed, pinning him to the wall. Even dripping damp, Harry’s hands began to spark.   
  
“I can’t help it if people think I’m... prophesied, or whatever.” His shoulder landed hard against Draco’s chest, thumping his pretty ribs against the wall to accent his point. Any lower and he’d have had the wind knocked out of him. Harry was strong—far stronger than him, which had never been much of a secret. Now it showed. If Draco wanted out of Harry’s harsh embrace—or out of the rather one-sided conversation—he would have to claw and spit his way out like a bloody girl. At that realization, embarrassment flooded the pureblood's cheeks. He bit his lip, letting Harry have his say.   
  
“You know I couldn’t care about that if I tried. These people and their prophecies can go fuck themselves. They don’t choose my path—I do. And the only thing that matters to me,” he breathed, chin dropping, laying lips to Draco’s scars through the dripping fabric of his shirt. “The only thing I’ve ever really cared about,” his mouth went lower, until he was on his knees, “is you. So shut up, Draco Potter. Stop worrying, and being cheeky,” his thick fingers were under Draco’s waistband, tugging rather insistently at his pants. “Stop thinking you have to be the funniest, sharpest, bitchiest pureblood of them all.”   
  
Draco opened his mouth to protest. Harry silenced him before he could start, a deft hand closing tightly around his bollocks.   
  
“You don’t have to do or say or be _anything_ ,” Harry murmured against his stomach. “Except mine.”   
  
Harry’s sap mouth found his cock, and it was all over for Draco Potter. His blond head cracked against the wall, trousers pooling in a wet mess on the floor... along with his ego, his sense, and his shame. A weak fist took up roost in Harry’s sweat-mussed hair.   
  
  
  
He panted; closed his eyes, ground his teeth, and thrust.   
  
Water poured from the walls faster than the single drain in the floor could handle. Soon Draco’s discarded sneakers were floating, Harry’s trousers soaked from knees to waistband, Draco’s feet slipping, losing footing in the rising water. Even Harry lurched, catching himself on Draco’s thigh as his own legs slid. His hand worked around to the wall, steadying himself before reaching between his husband’s legs, groping for that still very new place.   
  
Draco gasped when Harry found him. His hands were dripping, cold from the water and yet warm from within. The sensation, combined with the newness of it all, made him jump. Harry was nothing if not a fast learner. One calloused finger circled his entrance, heavy fingers pulling at his cock, tongue wet and lips deliciously loose. Harry knew how to fuck, whether he chose his mouth or his arse to do it with. He would take and take until there was nothing left to give—no balls or brain or heart which had not been had... been made love to, as he said. Draco’s fists tightened in the man’s hair, staving off the inevitable fall.   
  
“I know you’re close,” Harry mumbled, pulling back.   
  
Every hair on his body was sparking to life. Every pore tingled, flexing with the wildness in his blood. He could feel it like a Wronski Feint rush in his gut. There was a blur of light around Harry’s fist as he worked, magic surrounding Draco’s prick. He truly should have been worried. It might’ve shown on his face. Harry was looking at him funny.   
  
“When I fuck you… you’d better scream for me,” he ordered.   
  
Draco didn’t think before firing back, “Make me.”   
  
In retrospect, that had likely been a poor challenge; one he ought to have known he would lose. This was the great Harry Potter, after all. The Boy Who Fucking Lived. It only took a split second for Harry to toss Draco’s knee over his shoulder, lifting him up in the air only to throw him back against the wall once more. He met the tile with force enough to rattle teeth. The swiftness of it was frightening. In another blink, Harry had Draco’s other leg around his waist, taking his weight as he prepared to take him.   
  
Draco still had his shirt on—his fucking socks on, for Mordred’s sake! He was dripping and shivering, as much from Harry’s fervor as from the cold.   
  
“ _Mine_...” Harry hissed against his cheek, a finger sneaking back to once again ply his hole. “ _You’ll scream if I say so_.”   
  
“Yeah? I’m s—” Draco began his retort. He never finished.   
  
“ _Auriculo Absum_.”   
  
He’d mentioned the spell to Harry on a whim, of course; as a method for drowning out Granger and her boring history lessons. He’d never imagined Harry would use that given knowledge against him. The leper was learning. Harry behaved less and less like a perfect bloody Gryffindor with each passing day.   
  
“Fuck,” Draco tested his voice. And even though he felt it in his vocal cords, felt the vibration of voice box and Adam’s apple, he heard not a sound. He grunted. And that too lived in his lips, air expelled and every sensation correct... except that he could no longer hear—not the water pouring from the broken spout, or Harry’s voice, nor the women laughing several doors over. The world was silent but for the bump of blood in his veins. Like their wedding night, he realized. Always blood. Always need. Always his heart in his Dumbledore-be-damned throat whenever Harry touched him. He would break like this. Something would come unhinged and he would never be put together quite right again. Perhaps he was mad. That had to be it.   
  
“Wanna hear you...” Harry mumbled against his shoulder. His fingers pushed, slipping inside.   
  
Draco groaned. He had no idea how loud he was. It was easy enough to let go, what with the steady heat of Harry against him, fingers working him open, mouthing all along the arch of his neck, and that thick cock of his bumping between Draco’s thighs, biding its time. Draco closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and let go.   
  
It didn’t take Harry long at all. He was getting good at this. That shy virgin awkwardness had burned up, leaving just the man—horny and hard and wanting. He knew what to do now; the exact timing of how and hard which brought Draco’s knees to trembling, caused his brain to vacate the premises—some mindless, raving creature taking its place. Draco clutched the back of Harry’s neck, bringing his ear close.   
  
“Now,” he mouthed, not knowing his voice. “Do it.”   
  
Harry paused. He seemed to be waiting for something. Sentimental fucking twat.   
  
“I...” Draco swallowed. Thank Salazar he couldn’t hear himself. Thank every god there ever was. “ _Je te_... I want you.” His voice might’ve been deep. “F-fuck me.”   
  
Harry’s lips moved against his collarbone—smiled. _There_ , he was saying, or at least thinking. _Was that so hard, love?_   
  
It was hard. It was an ordeal; humiliated, deaf, helpless and laid bare, Harry Potter’s thick cock shoved up his bum. Every chosen centimeter of him burned. Because Harry was pushing in, and it was the most indescribable pleasure he’d ever experienced. Laced with pain, and the torture of what shouldn’t be—he was a Malfoy, damn it, and Malfoys didn’t fancy it up the arse. But he did; Lords and Ladies and Gods, he fucking did.   
  
“Sweet gods, please,” Draco mumbled, lips working against his husband’s scalp. He found the shell of an ear and took a nibble. Anything to distract from the bloody girth. He might have been shaking. “Fuck... Harry. Harry.”   
  
Harry bit him back. Bit at his chest, down his shin still raised over the man’s shoulder, nose nudging at his sock. A hot flash of magic later, Draco’s sodden athletic socks were ripped off his feet and flung clear across the room. His mind imagined the splat. Yet Harry drilled him into the tile just as the socks hit the other side. He probably grunted. Maybe groaned. Only Harry knew.   
  
And suddenly that was okay. He opened his throat, unaware of the desperate sounds he was making—because he couldn’t hear himself, couldn’t hear anything. He was gone to it; to the silence, the heat of Harry against him and the steady hum of blood in his veins.   
  
  
  
  
  
He felt strong—powerful. As though nothing could stop him from having what he wanted. Draco fell against him, a whimper-mewling mess, shivering, unwound and undone.   
  
He pressed his face to the curve of Draco's neck, pulled as close as possible, pressing forward with everything he had. Draco was pinned against the wall. He seemed to love it, squirming the way he was, unconscious and needy, trying to get more. Harry obliged, thrusting up with his hips. Draco melted, giving over his weight.   
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Harry hissed. He couldn’t help himself. It was ingrained, burned into his body, that when having sex with Draco in the shower, one should only speak Parseltongue. And filthy Parseltongue at that. Draco was letting it all out—it was only fair that he should, too. “ _Fuck_ ,” he mirrored. “ _Love your legs around me, love it when you scream for me. Fuck-fuck-fucking God damn it, yesssssss_.”   
  
Gravity worked to their advantage, pulling Draco down, driving Harry's cock further inside him with each go. Skinny legs shook, vibrating against his hip and shoulder, struggling to hold on. Harry redoubled his grip, bruises already forming under his fingers.   
  
The harsher he gave, the more Draco seemed to take, scraping his back against the wall—climbing the tile, sinking back to become one with the grout. A flat, blonde-haired stomach shook, arse and tailbone bouncing, long hands splayed out against the wall like a welcoming flag. The wizard could barely keep his balance, held entirely by Harry’s mindless strength.   
  
He felt the urge to be vicious—to see blood, taste it sharp at his lips, to feel something snap beneath his hands. And Draco would let him; would welcome it, even, because nothing was wrong, forbidden, fucked up. Rough sex in this ruddy Provence loo was the single rightest thing that ever was.   
  
But Draco should come first. Clearly. It was the least he could do, really. He wrapped a hand to the base of Draco’s long prick and let the jostling fight of their bodies do the rest.   
  
“Gods... Gods!” Whimpering sounded like war cries in his ears. Pure, tight. “Merlin-Mordred-Beelzebub- _fuck!_ ”   
  
He slammed forward, tense and breathing ragged through clenched teeth, taking his last before he exploded. It was impossible to last with Draco squirming, begging, moving on him like....   
  
Draco was choking—Harry’s shoulder laid into the long stretch of his pale neck and driving, cutting off what little air there was to be had. He hadn’t noticed. Or perhaps he no longer cared.   
  
“ _Come_ ,” he commanded. And Draco did.   
  
  


~ * ~

  
  
  
  
Draco eyed Harry suspiciously over their pancakes and coffee, eaten from the foot of their bed, gazing into the fireplace. Eventually the pureblood broke down and asked—or pointed out the obvious. He was sexed-out and sleep deprived. Wit could go fuck itself.   
  
“Yer wearin' robes.” It wasn't quite a question.   
  
“Yeah,” Harry nodded slowly, chewing and swallowing. “I usually spend Christmas with the Weasleys. They invited us, if you'd like to go.”   
  
“You mean they invited _you_ ,” Draco snipped. “And you refused—stubborn git that you are—to put in an appearance without me.”   
  
“Bang on,” Harry nodded solidly. “The Weasleys are like a second family to me, Draco. I, um... I think I want to see them, but not if it upsets you. I'd like them to see you: to see us together, to know.” He reached out, palm up, asking for Draco's hand. It was a long, silent moment before that pale, clammy palm caressed his own. “No one would be unpleasant to you on Christmas. Not even Ginny.”   
  
“Not with _you_ around,” Draco rolled his eyes, annoyed.   
  
Harry gave his husband's hand an ardent, heartfelt squeeze. “Then I'll never leave your side.” And he smiled that Wonder Boy smile of his, the one no one in their right mind could say no to.   
  
Draco considered this offer, licking at a last drop of syrup clinging to the fine white scruff at his upper lip. His tongue gave a second swipe, catching the last traces of sticky maple sweetness. Draco had a sweet tooth; he was like a niffler for sugary things. Harry put his thumb in the swath of syrup left on his plate, pressing the pad of his finger against Draco's lips until it was admitted to the warmth of the man's mouth. He sucked greedily, rolling his tongue.   
  
Plied by syrup, the pureblood pulled away to speak.   
  
“Only on one condition.” He spoke with authority—no longer the cunning tongue of a Malfoy, but the strength and self-assurance of a Potter. It was clear he'd been mulling this point over for some time, waiting for the right time to bring it up.   
  
He held Harry's gaze, announcing, “I want to meet the muggles. Your family. The... Dursleys.” It took him a moment to recall their names, like he'd suppressed the surname along with his hatred for those who bore it. “I need to see these... people.” From the curl of his lip, the set of his jaw, it looked as though he'd rather call them swine. Or worse. It looked like he'd hex them seventeen ways from sundry. “They're my family now, too, same as your Weasleys. We should pop by to give our regards. I insist.”   
  
Harry was apprehensive at best—Draco in the same room as the magic-hating Dursleys? They'd want to wring his neck for being so plainly different, so filled with everything they hated—entitlement, wealth, magic, pride. And Draco would want to visit the same harm to them—a full Dark disembowelment for locking his husband in a dank, dusty cupboard; for teasing, beating and belittling him—for denying him the knowledge of his birthright. It would be nothing short of a bloodbath before Aunt Petunia could put the kettle on.   
  
“I dunno...” Harry spoke gently.   
  
“I'll mind my manners,” Draco assured him.   
  
Harry snorted. “It's not you I'm worried about. You can defend yourself—they can't.” He indicated Draco's wand with his eyes.   
  
“I promise not to strike the first blow. But if that mentally deficient cow of a cousin a’ yers comes at me—”  
  
“I'll snag you 'round the middle and Apparate out,” Harry finished for him. “We don't need to cause any trouble. It’s Christmas.”   
  
Draco folded his hands in his lap. “Well, we picked up an extra bottle a' that tawny port, yeah? Put a bow on it an' I'll put some clothes on.”   
  
  
  
  
  
Draco did a Side-Along Apparition to one of the Public Apparition Points in Working. From there, they made quick business of catching a taxi to Little Whinging. Draco wore his red coat and Harry his leather jacket with a tatty sweatshirt underneath, their wizard's robes shrunken down and shoved in their pockets for the muggle duration of the trip.   
  
It felt odd to be back here, driving past the snowy playgrounds and old haunts of his disgruntled, unknowing youth. Dudders had chased him into that alley, there, and beaten the living tar out of him.   
  
He'd climbed that oak tree to escape Dudley's gang not a year later. Over the years, he'd gotten good at scrambling up trees, drainpipes—whatever was at his disposal. He'd climbed his way into a few rubbish bins as well. They passed his primary school, the car park full of snow as the children and teachers were on holiday. Draco sat beside him in the taxi's back seat, staring resolutely forward, his pointed face schooled into the cool lines of his Malfoy Mask, not letting any thought or emotion dribble out to the surface. Any onlooker uneducated in the ways of Draco would have thought him calm.   
  
Their driver had the radio on, holiday carols drifting softly into the back seat. Harry tapped his trainer-clad toe until Draco's hand alighted on his knee, squeezing. The Gaunt Ring had moved back to his right hand, his wedding ring now occupying his left, unconcealed; its muted silver looked just right against his skin. Harry glanced up to his husband's guarded face. Draco looked more like he was attending a funeral or an execution than a family affair. Harry bet his own expression was equally grim.   
  
He stopped tapping his foot—it was the least he could do.   
  
Harry paid the driver, opening the door and offering Draco his hand, sliding the blonde out of the long leather seat and out into the crisp air.   
  
Number Four Privet Drive was exactly as he'd expected it: neat and Surrey and utterly boring, hydrangea bushes and tree limbs sagging under the weight of sticky, late December snow. The drive and walkway had been shoveled sometime the day before, with a bit of new snow gathering overnight, no footsteps yet to disturb its perfect white fall. The light of a Christmas tree winked at them from the front room; the electric, multicolored flash of muggle holiday lights wound around its branches. The sight made Harry miss Hogwarts, miss candles and faeries and magic.   
  
He took Draco's hand in his and made his way to the front door.   
  
  
  
  
  
Draco rang the bell.   
  
He wasn't sure what to expect. But he hadn't in his wildest imaginings predicted _this_.   
  
The muggle house was small but clean, well maintained, the walk recently tended and the interior politely furnished if his glimpse through the large bay window was any indication. He braced himself, not allowing pleasantries to lull his mind into submission. Evil lived here. Just as Harry embraced the darkness of his family—of the Blacks and Malfoys, of Grimmauld Place and the Manor—he too would embrace the darkness which lurked in Harry's family tree: these people. _These people_.   
  
He relaxed his jaw, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to relieve the tension he'd allowed to build there. He fought the urge to roll his shoulders as he did before a Quidditch match. A steadying breath was all he could afford, the flaring of his nostrils the only permissible outward sign of his ire.   
  
This had to be done—if only to settle his own mind, his own heinous curiosity. These muggles were his kin now, the same as the Malfoys became Harry's the moment they put ink to parchment and said their vows. It was already done. Now they would deal with the consequences.   
  
There was a flutter of movement beyond the door. Footsteps—several pairs, varying in weight and cadence—the sound of a muggle television announcing adverts to the tune of carols, a cup of tea set down, voices.   
  
Beside him, Harry took a steadying breath of his own. He gave Draco's hand a final, sweaty-palmed squeeze before releasing it, loosing his phoenix feather wand from his breast pocket and sliding it under the ratty, torn up cuff of his sweatshirt's right sleeve, a flick from reach. Draco's hand slipped to his own pocket, fingering his weapon concealed there, fingers wrapping the familiar hawthorn handle. The curtains covering the door's side window parted, revealing a pair of brown eyes in a blubber-fat face. The curtains snapped shut not a second later.   
  
“Mum!” the alarmingly fat fellow screamed for his life. Cousin Dudley, was it?   
  
Draco kept his face calm but pleasant as the door opened. Warmth hit the exposed skin of his forehead and cheeks, a stark transition from the morning chill.   
  
“Happy Christmas!” Harry chirped nervously beside him. Draco held out the bottle of wine, its cheery red ribbon snapping in the breeze.   
  
The woman before them was frail, horse faced and snow-pale. Her brown hair had been pulled back in a wispy bun, fluffy slippers on her feet and a dressing gown worn over a muggle tshirt and faded flannel pajama bottoms. She had a kitchen apron clutched in one hand, as though she'd been about to start a proper English breakfast.   
  
From the looks of it, she was the only body in the house who could do with a bit of feeding. Both men behind her were comically and morbidly huge, respectively. The younger sported a petrified look in his beady eyes—the older's equally beady gaze narrowed at the sight of wizards on his doorstep, big hands balling into fists as he trundled down the staircase. Each wooden step creaked under his immense weight, jowls quivering with the heft of him. The buttons of his pajamas threatened to burst with the huffing and puffing of his blubber-heavy chest.   
  
Draco's first thought was that Harry looked nothing like these ugly muggles. Must've been the Potter genes his spouse had inherited, or recessive ones from his mother's side. His second thought was that this was shaping up to have been a rather shite idea, indeed.   
  
Draco didn't so much as let his eyes widen. He was well aware the expression made him look like a house elf.   
  
“Happy Christmas,” he repeated woodenly after Harry, straightening his arm, thrusting his offertory bottle of wine at the unresponsive muggle woman before him.   
  
“Wot's the meaning of this?” the older man blustered, pounding his way to the front door.   
  
“Christmas, Uncle Vernon,” Harry replied, brimming with false cheer. His tone went cheeky, almost as though it were second nature to taunt this bull of a muggle man. “Comes at the end of December—every year, near as I can tell. 'S awful cold out. You should invite us in. Before the neighbors see.”   
  
That last sentence acted as a kind of passphrase on the big man. Like one of Hogwarts' hidden passageways, he stiffened, shifted his massive weight and swiveled open, allowing them into the modest little cottage. Harry shut the door behind them.   
  
Draco considered the fat man again, now brushing snow from his and Harry's shoulders in the little foyer. There was no way his Harry was a blood relation of this man. Beneath layers of muscle and—mostly—flab, the frame was all wrong; however, he could see the narrowness of Harry's chin in the woman's worried face, sense the ancestry of his husband's quick, birdlike movements on the Quidditch pitch in the quivering of her narrow limbs. The woman, Harry's aunt, was the true relative in this house.   
  
He couldn't imagine Harry's life growing up here. The wallpaper was floral and stale, dated, distinctly unstylish. The furniture was neither old nor new, utterly lacking in any sort of statement other than “I am muggle: watch me die of a compunction of old age, heart disease and lack of taste.” The floorboards were older but well cared for, looking recently waxed under the entryway's garish, holiday-themed rug.   
  
The five of them were smashed in tight in the tiny space—the two big men, two small wizards and rather bony woman. Were Draco of the claustrophobic persuasion, he'd be experiencing a definitive difficulty breathing right about now.   
  
As it was, he undid the buttons on his new coat, holding out the bottle of wine once more. Let it never be said a Malfoy—or Malfoy-turned-Potter in his case—arrived without a hostess gift. He waggled the offering until the ribbons snapped merrily, flicking the muggle-furnace-heated air. No one moved to take the gift from his hands. All eyes were on Harry Potter.   
  
“ _Your meaning_ ,” the fat muggle seethed. “You said we'd never see you again, boy.”   
  
There was a meaning behind that _boy_ , a suggestion of things Draco didn't dare let loose from his subconscious lest they run wild. He would go for blood. He would kill these muggles where they stood. He'd never killed before but with these people, these excuses for relations-in-law, these blights upon the human race, he thought he could manage an _Avada Kedavra_ for the ages. He stowed his rage, watching the Dursleys—his in-laws— as they glared as one at Harry.   
  
“It was my idea,” Draco chimed in when the edged silence became more unbearable than the crush of bodies in the small foyer. “Holidays, family....” Harry was on the balls of his feet, bouncing, ready to sprint, duck, or Apparate away. He was sliding his wand from his sleeve in anticipation of an all-out brawl.   
  
Draco went on, false cheery. “Seemed the thing to do.”   
  
“F-family,” repeated the obese young muggle. Dudley, Harry's bully cousin. As it was, the blob of a boy was tiptoeing his way behind the safety of his father's bulk, backing into what appeared to be a parlor. The muggle teen kept an eye on both Harry and Draco: he watched their hands, clasping wands still concealed. This muggle had seen magic, then, and had the good sense to fear it. The uncle would be given reason soon enough if Draco's gut had its way.   
  
“Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Dudley.” Harry met each of their faces in kind. “I'd like you to meet Draco Malfoy.” He gestured to the pureblood wizard at his side.   
  
Said wizard cleared his throat, shooting Harry a half-smirking, half-pained look.   
  
Harry gulped. “That is... I mean... Draco Potter. We're only married since last week. I forget.”   
  
Not surprisingly, Vernon Dursley about exploded on the spot. Puce-faced, fat finger pointing, he spluttered, spat and cussed violently.   
  
“Arse bandits,” Cousin Dudley mouthed from behind his howling father. “Bloody poof. I knew it.”   
  
Aunt Petunia dropped her apron. It fluttered to the floor without anyone taking note.   
  
Uncle Vernon quit his howling mid-homophobic-slur. Draco had a wand to the muggle's flabby throat.   
  
“That's quite enough,” the pureblood hissed through gritted teeth. “One more curse out of you, muggle, and you'll be hearing one of my own. I doubt you'll fancy it any more than I've taken to yours.”   
  
Aunt Petunia let out a tiny wail from behind her hand. Dudley was shaking, about to wet himself with terror. That was much better, Draco thought.   
  
“We are... family,” said Draco; carefully, playing the volume of his voice like he did his piano, plucking the strings of fear in the Dursleys' minds, strumming accompanying cords to his lilting, deadly tenor. “A few minutes of your time, perhaps a cup of tea—perhaps something stronger—and we'll be on our way.” He stowed his wand in his pocket, stepping boldly into the parlor. He pushed the bottle of port against his cousin-in-law's bulk. “Lovely sitting room you have, here.”   
  
Let it not be said that Malfoys-turned-Potters could not flatter, blandish or cajole the skin off of an angry Ashwinder when they found it worth their interest. It was with such an understanding that Draco newly-turned-Potter plopped himself in an armchair by the electric fireplace, conjuring himself an extra cup and pouring from the tea set on the coffee table at his feet. His husband, chewing the side of his lip, shuffled into the room after him.   
  
Draco conjured a second tea cup from thin air, noting as he floated it over to Harry that both cups bore a lopsided amalgamation of the Black, Potter and Malfoy crests. Usually when he conjured cups, they came with the Malfoy insignia. Funny. Even his magic wasn't sure who he was anymore.   
  
The Dursleys sat as one on the sofa, leaving Harry to perch on the footstool of Draco's armchair, wanting to be near him. The brunet put sugar and cream in his own cup before adding just a dash of cream to Draco's. He still made his tea by hand, silly wizard. You could never really take the muggle out of the man, once it had taken root.   
  
Uncle Vernon's slimy eyes darted to the liquor cabinet in the corner. Draco couldn't blame the muggle for wanting a drink. Though it was barely half nine, the situation nigh demanded one.   
  
“I'll take a bourbon, whisky, whatever you've got,” Draco flipped a dismissive hand, sending the mountain of a muggle off to fetch his drink. He waved his wand over Harry's cup, dispersing a splash of Amaretto.   
  
Dursley gawked at him.   
  
“I don't take orders in my own house, _boy_.” It was unclear whether that appellation was aimed at Draco or Harry.   
  
Wonder Husband shot to his feet, his errant magic catching his spilled tea cup in a perfect Stasis Charm mid-tumble. The cup froze a hands-breadth from the ground, almond-and-cream-speckled tea droplets preserved exactly as they had fallen, as though a muggle film had been put on “paws,” as Harry called that button on the VCR. “Pause” would have made far more sense, but that was muggles for you.   
  
Harry was on his feet and brandishing a knuckly finger at his relation.   
  
“You don't call him that,” Harry growled from somewhere eons-deep in his chest. “You don't call anyone that—especially not him.” There was a faint crackling sound, an almost-hissing, like when the muggle television back at their chalet powered on and he was touching a finger to the screen. He realized it was the sound of Harry's magic, buzzing in blue lightning streaks around his fist. His family recoiled, a tear slipping down his aunt's colorless cheek.   
  
“You n-n-need a wand to do magic,” Dursley managed. The threat was gone from the hefty man's stance, leaving a soluble fat mess in its wake.   
  
“A wand?” Draco simpered, licking at the rim of his tea cup, the liquid still too hot to sip. “Not always. The most powerful amongst our kind have command of their gift without a conduit. Harry's become rather talented. You should see him kill.”   
  
That was a bold-faced lie. He had no idea whether or not Harry had killed anyone. There were rumors about Professor Quirrell, of course, back in first year; nothing Harry would ever confirm. But in that moment, seeing Harry that way... Draco believed it. For the first time, it was real; not just a passing fancy, death, but flesh and blood, bone and gore and piercing faithless screams. He'd always thought of Harry as Bumbling Saint Potter, Gryffindor Prince, couldn't tie his own shoelaces without Dumbledore's help so what could he do with an Unforgiveable? Draco was seeing a new side of Harry—the sword tip of Potter the Protector, Harry the Brave, Harry the Rash and Unpredictable and Just. He had no doubt this Harry would kill for him—would bring down armies before they laid a finger to his beloved.   
  
And it turned him the fuck on. Draco crossed his legs, gingerly, gingerly, so as not to attract attention to the rapid erection tenting his trousers.   
  
Harry opened his fist. There in his palm, the lightning snicked and glowed, leaving dark shadow-traces of itself, tricks of the early morning light. He breathed and the light went out, disappearing back into himself, burrowing under his skin. Draco suspected that magic was what he often smelt on his lover's skin—that nutmeg, rum and cardamom hit which set his own nerves on fire.   
  
Harry growled at his stunned relations. “Draco is my husband. I love him. And I frankly don't care what you think about that. He's my partner and you'll respect him. Us. Or I'll let him draw his wand and do his worst.” Harry's gaze settled with each member of his muggle family, assuring himself of their absolute, _bona fide_ terror before continuing. “Draco was a Death Eater. You know what that is, right?”   
  
The woman, Petunia, looked like she knew but feared to say. Vernon spoke up.   
  
“Of course, yes,” he bristled through his mustache. “A Death Eater is a follower of Lord, uh, Veldersnot.”   
  
Draco nearly spat tea out his nose.   
  
Harry took a very deep breath, barely holding back the first grunt of a surprised little snicker. The slightest tinge of pink appeared, sitting high on his cheeks. “So close,” he teased with mock sincerity.   
  
Draco got the feeling this was the most honest conversation Wonder Husband had ever had with his relations—the first time he'd ever held the upper hand and knew it, caressed it... fucked it, using his power to its full and frightening advantage. It suited him.   
  
Draco recognized the blunt, commanding expression as it settled over Harry's features. Meanwhile, the muggles cowered.   
  
“Voldernort.” Dudley corrected his father piously.   
  
Draco rolled his eyes, taking a wary sip of his tea. “Not quite.”   
  
Harry's cheeks were bright from containing his laughter.   
  
Draco straightened his face with some difficulty before continuing. “Being a Death Eater means I could kill the three of you twenty different and unbelievably ghastly ways in naught but a heartbeat. You wouldn't get out a single peep, let alone a scream.”   
  
Draco allowed that statement a moment to settle. His gaze drew back to Harry, an unintended smile quirking his lips. “And being married to him,” Draco inclined his head regally, as though referring to a Prince in their midst, “means I could just as easily get away with it.”   
  
He stood. “Harry dear, I'm sure you'd like a moment to catch up with your aunt. Uncle Dursley, perhaps you could oblige me with a tour of your delightful home?”   
  
The overlarge man's knees knocked together as he pushed himself to his feet; he wasn't about to deny Draco's request, knowing he was one off-color remark away from a rather painful and undignified death.   
  
Harry bent to retrieve his teacup from its impromptu Stasis Spell, using the angle of his torso to fix Draco with a confused expression.   
  
“Why?” The Boy Who Lived mouthed.   
  
Draco simply patted his husband's arm before following Dursley's rotund backside through to the kitchen.   
  
  
  
The big muggle was clutching the gifted bottle of port wine in his fat fingers, assured it was as equally muggle as himself by the feel of it under his spongy digits. Draco cornered Vernon Dursley against the stove, setting down his tea cup to regard the mustached man with both hands on his narrow hips, pushing back the fall of his lovely red coat.   
  
“What's your purpose here?” the muggle demanded, recognizing his back was to the wall; or rather, stove. “Kill me if you like, but I'd at least like to know why first.”   
  
Draco's reply came through gritted teeth. “Much as I would enjoy slitting your throat, Dursley... my earlier ovations were not ungrounded. I've come to offer an olive branch—though you scarcely deserve it.” He had to resist spitting. His diction was cutting as it was, his eyes steel. Draco drew his wand, flicking it in a practiced manner which slid his coat from his shoulders—the muggles had yet to offer to take it—and unbuttoned his left sleeve, exposing the Dark Mark.   
  
“You understand what a Death Eater is. But do you know this? Our sign?”   
  
Dursley shook his head, jowls wobbling. The man's beady eyes were fixed to the tattoo on Draco's forearm.   
  
“This,” Draco pointed with his wand tip, “is the Mark of the Dark Lord. Memorize it,” he commanded. “Because, should you ever set eyes upon a person bearing this sign, they are surely about to kill you.”   
  
“So you're the lenient type, then,” Dursley joked under his breath. “Lucky me.”   
  
Draco clanked his wand tip against the metal band of his wedding ring, muttering, “This makes me soft, yes. But not daft.” Draco re-buttoned his shirt sleeve with a flip of his wand. “One day, perhaps soon, the Death Eaters will come for you and yours. It's only a matter of time. I suspect you're low on the Dark Lord's priority list, but mark my words: He will come.”   
  
Vernon Dursley swallowed visibly—even through the rolls of his neck, an Adam's apple quite clearly bobbed. “And then what?” Draco waggled a brow at him as though it were obvious. “Escape.”   
  
Dursley fixed him with a critical expression—the big man clearly wasn't keen to cross Draco, yet had no idea how to address the wizard's statement.   
  
“And how do you propose we do that?”   
  
Draco tapped his wand against the wine bottle as he had done against his wedding band. The glass made a pleasant little sound, muffled by Vernon Dursley's portly fingers clutching at its neck.   
  
“This,” Draco carefully intoned, “is what wizards call a Portkey. It is a means of transportation—instantaneous, from one location to another. This particular Portkey will take you to our home. Mine and Harry's. I'm going to set up a ward around your property, key it to the magic in my Mark, and then link it to this Portkey; so that, should any bearing this Mark save myself cross that ward, the Portkey will activate. You will have precisely three minutes to lay hands to it before it activates. Do you understand what I'm telling you?” Draco paused. The muggle man looked about to faint.   
  
“That... that this _thing_ can take us away—Dudley and Petunia and I—if those Death Eaters set foot on our lawn.”   
  
“Precisely. You must be touching the Portkey when it activates—a fingertip is enough, but it's better with a firm grip. Three minutes.”   
  
Dursley nodded numbly, clutching the port wine to his chest with renewed vigor.   
  
“I suggest you carry the bottle with you, just to be safe,” Draco offered. He shifted his wand to his right hand in order to take up his tea, needing a swallow.   
  
Dursley's eyes followed his hands as they moved the tea cup to his lips, eventually focusing on Draco's face. The muggle's lips moved silently, walrus mustache shifting, yet no sound was produced. Draco took another draw on his tea.   
  
“Why?” Dursley got out at last. “Why are you doing this for us?”   
  
Draco took a deep breath. “Honestly? Not one bloody clue. I've been imagining, with escalating vigor, the methods by which I might end your life. Since August. Filleting was a favorite. There's a spell which skins a man alive—I've always wanted to try. Not sure if I could cast it. Weak stomach, you see,” Draco gestured casually with his tea cup. Pronouncements of torture and death were best delivered, father had once said, with a stone face and the coldest of manners. It felt effective, the way Dursley went white as the snow in their cottage's backyard. “Turns out I'm not built for torture, giving or receiving.”   
  
Dursley eyed him carefully, noting the reference to homosexuality yet still too frightened for his life, it would seem, to make reply.   
  
Draco finished his tea, Banishing the cup. He then pressed his wand tip to the Dark Mark beneath his shirt sleeve, preparing to incant the intricate spells to create a gossamer-thin ward, clued to the _Drengr Leita_ aspects of the Mark and linked to his magic already inside the Portkey. Making it virtually undetectable would be the hardest part. He couldn't have the Death Eaters catching wind of his magic and disabling it. Whether a residual Malfoy instinct or a budding Potter family trait, he would not accept defeat, even in this.   
  
He gathered his focus, pooling all his energy in the cavity just above his eyebrows—proof that the casting of great magic was a cerebral activity, not for the weak of mind. But the Mark itched under his skin, like spiders with needles for legs creeping up and down the black ink, making him shiver. He wondered if it was the magic of the Mark or his own unease, his insecurities rearing from their carefully crafted cages. He'd never cast spells on the Dark Lord's Mark before. To be honest, he wasn't even sure it would work. But he had to try.   
  
His voice came very quietly, his eyes shut tight. He could hear corpulent muggle Dursley breathing in the still air, afraid to move a muscle, afraid of setting Draco off.   
  
“I suppose I'm showing you what my own family would never grant me—pity, Uncle Dursley, though you certainly don't deserve it. For the things you've done to my husband, you deserve the slow and ugly death the Dark Lord's followers would surely grant you.” The corner of his mouth twitched, neither a smile nor a frown. He did his best to ignore it. “You're lucky Harry's changed me. Happy fucking Christmas.”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
They caught a taxi to London. Draco first surmised they might be paying a call to Dmitry Ionesque and Nebojsa Radic, spending their holiday in quiet company at Grimmauld Place, tending to an injured brother. However, the course of their travel turned quickly to another equally familiar part of London.   
  
Draco's hand tightened in Harry's. The Chosen One used that death grip to prize his pureblood from the cab several minutes later. He was all but wrestled up to the derelict storefront.   
  
“What's this about?” Draco demanded, wrenching his hand away to fold his arms across his chest in a stubborn display.   
  
Harry reached for his elbow.   
  
“No!” Draco insisted, sidestepping. He made it all of two paces before Harry had his back shoved against an impossibly dirty shop window.   
  
Harry came close. Draco turned his head away, gazing off down the street.   
  
They were outside St. Mungo’s—St. Bloody Mungo’s, where Harry had delivered his mother... _their_ mother, Narcissa Malfoy, no more than a few days ago. Draco didn’t want to think about it, let alone see her. Knowing was grievous enough.   
  
“I won't,” Draco told him firmly.   
  
“Because you're scared.” Harry said it because Draco couldn't. His inability to accept the emotion didn't make it any less present, any less real. He could feel his joints locking up just thinking about it.   
  
He watched the muggles going up and down the thoroughfare, round and round the roundabout; car horns honking, the sound of bells and holiday tunes in the air, echoes of laughter and young voices bouncing down the buildings, hitting them in distortion. Everything was fucked.   
  
It was Christmas and bloody fuck, Draco didn't feel like dealing with any more reality today. Half of Harry’s relations had been draining enough. He couldn’t take more—Weasley Christmas, for shame!—let alone the remnants of his own shattered family tree.   
  
“Family,” Harry said simply, breath a warm slide over Draco's chin. “Like you said. Seems the thing to do.”   
  
Try as he might, Draco couldn't keep his voice from shaking. What issued from his mouth hardly sounded like himself. “I don't want to see her. Not if she's... like you said. She's not even there—not really.”   
  
“She's still your Mum.”   
  
“Fuck off! You don't have a mother, poor wittle baby, so you cozy up to everyone else's, hoping they'll love you,” Draco mocked. His expression soured, cheeks pinching as his tone slipped to one of censure. “Too bad for you my mother's incapable of loving anything except herself.” A simple shift in Harry's jaw stopped Draco short, before he could put himself in any worse a position.   
  
Harry's entire body vibrated at a high frequency—tense and alert, about to rocket forward and silence Draco with fists and magic and hot-running, copper-flavored blood if he didn't find the sense to shut his sodding gob. It was a frightening, coiled calm. Harry blinked steadily, several times before making his reply.   
  
“You're emotional right now, and I know that being a right pissing cunt is your way of dealing with your fucked-up shit. So I'm going to do you a solid and let that one slide. What you said about me, and about your Mum.” He raised his brows in warning, glasses fogging they were pressed so close. “Check your mouth before you let anything like that slip in front of her. She's... well, she's not right. I've seen that much. And I figured if I was this worried about her, you'd be fretting yourself sick by now.”   
  
Draco wet his lips. “Thank you fer... considering my feelings. But I'd rather not see her, if it's all the same. We can still make inquiries with the Healers... but I jus’.... I can't...” Draco's arms went limp at his sides. His vision wavered. He wasn't really seeing the street anymore, or Harry, or anything. It was all a blur as his attention turned inward, attempting to sort himself out. He came back baffled. “I don't want to see her; not if she's as bad as you say. I... don't know how....” His head hit the dirty window with a _thunk_.   
  
Harry ran a soothing hand down his shoulder, rubbing in an absent pattern. “Okay. I won't make you visit her if you reckon you're not ready. But she's been alone since I brought her in. And I'm such a stonking bleedin' heart and all,” he rolled big doe eyes at himself, “that I can't stand the thought of her being alone on Christmas. Ten minutes, I promise. Can you stand around and look inconsolably bored for ten fucking minutes?”   
  
Draco rolled his eyes, too. “Blow me.”   
  
Harry smirked. “If you're good.”   
  
  
  
  
  
The lifts were under maintenance. Rather than wait, they took the stairs.   
  
Harry removed his jacket, pulling a set of shrunken navy robes from the pocket. He unspelled and donned them in a single movement—fabric fanning out as he took the stairs at a respectable pace—shrinking his leather jacket into his robe pocket before they’d made the landing.   
  
Draco might make a proper wizard of him yet. He was growing unreasonably fond of the thought.   
  
And so Draco was peeling off his heavy red coat, not minding at all where he was going, as they emerged in the Janus Thickey Ward to the sound of Monitoring Spells and vintage Wizarding Wireless Specials.   
  
“Harry! Fancy bumping into you here!”   
  
Fuck and double fuck. Neville Longbottom.   
  
Harry and Cauldron Bane shook hands, exchanging hearty slaps to the shoulder and other such Gryffindor-secret-handshake nonsense. Draco wrestled himself from his coat sleeves, offering a nod.   
  
Longbottom had the good grace to pretend Draco wasn't there. He addressed Harry, and Harry alone, with the usual Gryffindor camaraderie.   
  
“Really, mate. What brings you up here? I thought you'd be at the Burrow by now.”   
  
“I know,” Harry offered. He proceeded to lie his handsome face off without so much as blinking. “I've got a couple of Auror friends up here. Couldn't stand the thought of them spending Christmas alone. Had to stop by and give my regards.”   
  
Longbottom moved anxiously, fingers tapping the sides of his legs in a regular rhythm. “Of course.”   
  
Cauldron Bane was nothing special, but he knew when he wasn’t fucking wanted, Draco had to give him that. Already, the third wheel was moving towards the exit. “I should be going. But good to see you, Harry. You too, Malfoy.” He paused, ears rising slightly as thoughts churned between them. “Er, is it still Malfoy? Or....” Longbottom waggled his eyebrows, indicating their clandestine marriage earlier in the week.   
  
“Still Malfoy for now,” Draco shrugged, flipping his jacket over his arm. He prayed to Salazar there were no red fuzzies on his jumper. “Until we go public.”   
  
“Well that'll be interesting.” Longbottom half-smiled in commiseration. “Wonder how McGonagall plans to deal with the Howlers. Folks aren't likely to keep quiet once word about the two of you gets out.”   
  
Harry snorted. “We'll think of something, I'm sure. Ta, mate.”   
  
A warm arm ushered Draco down the hall.   
  
He swiveled to look at Harry as they walked. “What, pray tell, is Longbottom doing in the Janus Thickey Ward on Christmas?”   
  
Harry’s face betrayed no emotion as they walked. “Your aunt put his folks here. Permanently.”   
  
Draco flinched. “Aunt Bellatrix does love her _Cruciatus_.”   
  
“Got that flip out of your system yet?” Harry muttered from the corner of his mouth. His green eyes flicked forward. A Healer in ill-fitting white robes was marching towards them, clipboard in hand and a stern look on her face. “This is your mother's attending Healer. Mind your mouth, brat.”   
  
Draco harrumphed, adding a sardonic, “Yes, sir.”   
  
Harry gave Draco's shoulder a parting squeeze before lowering his arm, extending his hand to the Healer in greeting.   
  
“Mr. Potter!” She sounded surprised. “I wasn't expecting to see you so soon.” Her eyes darted between the pair of them. “Or on Christmas morning, for that matter.”   
  
“Well,” Harry shrugged away her concern with a handsome flick of his brows. He could be bloody bewitching when he wasn’t trying. “My interest in Narcissa's case is more than just professional, obviously. This is my best mate, Draco. Narcissa's son.”   
  
The Healer pursed her lips, offering Draco a sympathetic expression. Draco shot Harry a look. _Best mate?_ Fucking Gryffindors. Next they’d be posing in front of a Quidditch pitch for _Witch Weekly._   
  
Harry continued, “Draco, this is Healer Stanek, head of the Trauma Division. She's been overseeing your mother's case personally.”   
  
Draco offered his hand automatically. “Glad to know she's in the best of hands.” The words felt hollow, but he choked them out nonetheless.   
  
Harry didn't waste a moment. “How is she doing?” he asked the Healer.   
  
He spoke to the head of the division as easily as any of his Gryffindor chums. It didn't hurt that he was sincere in his care for the patient... and sincerely fit, filling out his robes in every necessary way, just a trace of stubble surrounding his lips. Draco watched them helplessly. “Any improvement? Anything at all.”   
  
It was a combination of Harry's power and charm which the Healer responded to, Draco thought. She was excited to tell them that his mother's local awareness was improving—that she could discern more of where she was, and responded to her environment—but people and time were less fixed.   
  
“What do you mean?” Harry interjected. “Does she recognize anyone yet?”   
  
Healer Stanek chewed her lip. “Mrs. Malfoy understands that we're Healers, yes. But anything more complex is difficult. Portions of her brain affecting both short term and long term memory were damaged—and the lack of medical treatment for a prolonged period after her injuries were sustained has created some complications. But I have confidence that, with enough cognitive therapy, she could regain much, if not all of her memory.”   
  
Numb, Draco nodded.   
  
“Mr. Potter, if you wouldn't mind assisting me with a small test,” Healer Stanek continued, holding out her arm. Harry fell into stride beside the older woman, Draco a few paces behind but within listening distance. “You mentioned that, when you found her, it was unclear whether or not she recognized you.”   
  
“Yeah. She called me 'Auror' a few times, so maybe she thought I was my father. I look a lot like him.”   
  
Draco had seen a picture of James Potter—displayed on a chest of drawers in Harry’s bedroom back at Grimmauld Place—and the resemblance was true. But Draco thought, more than anything, that it was Harry’s energy which others responded to. It was clear when he meant no harm; that his heart was soft and good, though the rest of him could be menacing at times. That aura made him an Auror—a protector of the disadvantaged and upholder of the law, committed to his beliefs, his cause. Everything that was pure, wholesome, Gryffindor. No wonder Mother had called him ‘Auror.’ It fit.   
  
Nodding, Stanek held the door for Harry and then Draco. She led them down a plain side hall Which smelt of Mrs. Skowers, black tea and tinned biscuits.   
  
Draco listened with half an ear as his mother’s Healer and Rescuer continued their conversation.   
  
“I'd like to see how she responds to you in a more temperate environment—now that she's settled and comfortable, she may be able to bring back more. If nothing else, it could be a good gauge of her retention for more recent information and events.” Stanek's gaze fell back to Draco, trailing behind. “And you're welcome to see her as well, Mr. Malfoy. Though I might recommend one first, and then the other, so as not to overwhelm her.”   
  
“Is she still nervous around people?” Harry asked.   
  
Draco found himself walking more slowly down the hall, drifting to the side of the corridor which smelled more of coffee than fake lemons and ammonia. His fingers traced the white wooden chair rail, falling further behind.   
  
Vaguely, he heard Harry explain that he would be making arrangements on Draco's behalf, as he wasn't feeling quite up to it, all things considered.   
  
Draco focused his gaze on a rather ugly vase stuffed with conjured flowers. Idly, he spelled their petals through every color of the rainbow, one flick of his fingers at a time, practicing his wandless magic. It would take him a long while to catch up to Harry, it would seem. He’d best get started.   
  
Healer Stanek ushered Harry into a small room before fixing him with a stern look.   
  
“Mr. Malfoy appears... rather out of spirits.”   
  
That was putting it mildly, Harry thought. He knew seeing Narcissa might not be a great idea: he knew it, but he couldn’t help himself. Both of their biological families were pretty broken now. They had each other, of course, but it should have felt better to reach out and reconnect with their blood.   
  
Honestly, it felt like shite. Harry wanted to crawl to one of Mrs. Weasley’s sofas, Summon a Butterbeer and die.   
  
Healer Stanek fixed him with a look. The woman knew Draco was unstable—could tell, likely, by his vacant gaze, by the way nothing outwardly affected him, by his retreat, his silence. Stanek regarded Harry as one would Hades or Charon, a guardian of hell not meant to walk the surface. Then again, people always looked at him funny.   
  
“Draco's... not quite himself either, with all that's going on.” Harry's fingers itched to lodge themselves in the back pockets of his denims. It was something he did when feeling nervous or awkward. He swallowed and forged ahead; arms stiff at his sides, chin high. “So I'm looking into things with his Mum. He's given me an idea about her wishes. I can get you paperwork saying as much if you need it.”   
  
“Hardly worth your bother,” Healer Stanek brushed his offer aside with a flick of her clipboard and a small shake of the head. “I understand perfectly. The two of you make a very handsome couple.”   
  
Harry blinked. “Sorry?” He prepared to draw his wand. And he didn’t know why. This woman meant him no harm. “Did Healer Purlish tell you, or...?”   
  
Stanek rolled her eyes at him. “The ring on your finger, Potter. It wasn’t there when last we spoke.”   
  
Harry swore under his breath, casting a hasty Concealment Charm over the silver band.   
  
“Are congratulations in order?”   
  
Harry nodded awkwardly, stowing his wand. He couldn’t very well hide the truth now. “Yeah. I guess. We’re on honeymoon, actually.”   
  
Stanek smiled knowingly. “That would explain your partner’s gait.”   
  
Harry felt his cheeks turn bright red, blood whistling in his ears.   
  
“Um... _Narcissa_ ,” he redirected awkwardly. “Is she much improved?”   
  
“I don’t think it would be unreasonable for you to see for yourself.” Healer Stanek waved her wand across a wall—and it dissolved, acting much like a muggle one-way mirror, allowing them a view inside the room next door.   
  
His trained eyes scanned the space. It was as simple and utilitarian as everything else on this floor of St. Mungo’s. A bed, a lamp, a dresser, table and chair—all plain and white. Clean. Sterile. Bright. And upon the chair sat the unmistakable figure of Narcissa Malfoy, idly braiding the long fall of her lovely blonde hair. It was more white than blonde, Harry realized. He could see it in the light, now that Mrs. Malfoy too was clean and cared for.   
  
Her bearing lilted to one side, shoulders unsure. He only saw half her face. With her head bowed, he couldn’t make out much of her expression. She appeared almost sleepy, her attention lilting between the task of braiding her hair and staring at a random point on the table. Her sour smirk was gone, replaced by lines and a certain womanly charm Harry had never before seen in her. There was some of Narcissa in Draco—the eyes of the Blacks, playful banter and a barking laugh.   
  
Most of what he loved in Draco was now gone from Narcissa. She was a husk propped up against the table, fingering the shadows of her former self.   
  
Healer Stanek cleared her throat. “If you would be so kind as to indulge us, Mr. Potter, my colleagues and I are curious as to the depth of Mrs. Malfoy’s perception as well as retention. I would be interested to know whether or not she recognizes you as The Boy Who Lived... as her rescuer... or at all.”   
  
“You mean, she doesn’t....”   
  
Harry spun around at the sound of his husband’s voice.   
  
Draco looked so small, standing there in the doorway, his red coat slung over one arm, mindlessly toying with one of the golden buttons; fingers lily-white against the rich hue of wool.   
  
He was so slight, so small—though no more than three centimeters shorter than Harry. Draco was... different. He was special; delicate and sensitive, like his mother. The world affected him differently. He felt more strongly than most. It became clear he didn’t know how to deal with his situation and, as a result, had shut down completely. And that was Harry’s fault, for dragging him in here. It had been a horrible idea—the Dursleys, Narcissa, even Christmas at the Burrow... all of it. Who was he to say what was best for Draco? He hardly knew what was best for himself. He bowed his head in shame.   
  
Draco spoke carefully. “Go on, then.” His sharp chin jerked in his mother’s direction, never quite looking at her. “See if she recognizes you.” _Better you than me_ was written plain as day across his stark white features.   
  
Harry mouthed wordlessly, stuck between an apology and an appeal to Apparate away—to say “fuck it” and go back to France, to stay there and bugger each other’s brains out until the end of time. Or they could just hold hands and drink themselves new. They could spend the rest of their lives trying so desperately to forget. Anything was better than this. His tongue failed him.   
  
His silence was misinterpreted as assent. Healer Stanek’s hand on his shoulder moved him away, Sidestepping through the wall and into Narcissa Malfoy’s hospital room.   
  
  
  
  
  
Draco watched as Harry wandered into the sterile white beyond the wall. The navy color of his robes, combined with his broad, steady bearing left him looking like a Hit Wizard from behind—the sharp fall of fabric from his shoulder could kill. The image wasn’t far from reality, and it scared him. Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets, trying mightily to look away. But he couldn’t.   
  
It was a fucking train wreck in muggle slow motion, and he had to watch.   
  
Harry was wearing his shirt—the black one with the embroidery. His robes were unbuttoned and you could see the dark fabric peeking out when he turned. On Draco, the muggle garment was sophisticated, an understated piece: on Harry, it made him look like a gentleman. Handsome. Refined. A proper wizard. Perhaps even a proper husband.   
  
The lights were too bright, making shadows across Harry’s face where there shouldn’t be—lines and frowns and sadness in the frankness of his features. Things which weren’t there, Draco told himself.   
  
Watching Harry through the barrier was like a muggle film; none of it real.   
  
He reached a hand to Narcissa, settling on her shoulder. She hadn’t noticed him enter. He spoke gently to her, in his unassuming way, conjuring a chair and seating himself at an angle. He slouched, leaning forward to catch her every word. Strong fingers pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.   
  
His mother nodded. Her lips hardly parted as she spoke, hands cradled in her lap, eyes fixed upon her knees. She was so frail, so fragile. Pale blue hospital robes washed out her skin, highlighting the streaks of white blooming in her hair. She was a wraith—a shadow of herself. Draco didn’t want to believe.   
  
This wasn’t how his mother spoke to Harry Potter. She should be shouting, throwing hexes at him for sneaking Aurors into her home... for all but handing Malfoy Manor to the Ministry. Her nose would be in the air, eyes of fire, hands balled to fists, pink in her cheeks as she spat, berating him. This docile, childlike creature was not his mother. This was what was left of her.   
  
It wasn’t fair.   
  
He wanted his mother. He wanted her back. Not this.... Not this.   
  
His throat tightened. What would she say to Harry, if she could? And to him? What would she think of her dear son, of the way he’d run off into Potter’s arms the moment his heritage and responsibilities became too much for him to bear? Would she understand? Or would she scold him? His mother had held on, after all. She’d been alone in the end; had remained loyal all these years... and this was what she had to show for it. This quiet madness. All of what she was and had been, slipping away. Gone.   
  
He wondered if she might ever speak to him again, if he would ever know her thoughts.   
  
“I’m sure she’s missed you,” Healer Stanek suggested from beside him.   
  
Draco’s hands were damp yarns in his pockets when he drawled, “Is she capable?”   
  
They both observed Harry as he put his hands over Narcissa’s. He was too good.   
  
“It’s hard to know how much the mind and heart are connected,” the Healer offered him, willfully misinterpreting. Kind of her, too. “But I’d like to think that, even if there’s nothing left of a patient’s mind, their loved ones remain in their heart.”   
  
Draco licked his lips, tempted to quip, “if she ever had one.” Instead, he kept silent. Harry had already cautioned him against these little “outbursts.” So Draco would hold his tongue, just this once. For his mother was gone, and it was improper to speak ill of the dead.   
  
  
  
  
  
“Quite well, thank you,” Narcissa told him. The slightest smile curled her lips.   
  
“I’m glad,” Harry replied; earnest, he patted her hand beneath his own. She allowed it. That alone told him she was not herself. He had to wonder where the real Narcissa Malfoy had gone, and for Draco’s sake, if she would ever return.   
  
Harry removed his hand, settling the excess of his robes across his thighs. A flicker of red caught his attention.   
  
It was Draco’s coat. He’d stepped through the barrier, which appeared to be a solid wall from Mrs. Malfoy’s side. Draco deposited his coat on the bed, approaching his mother from behind. Harry watched his husband over Narcissa’s shoulder.   
  
They were both so lovely; regal and proud, once. So full of life and passion, with their formal educations and fancy parties, wild sex, music and magic. While he was locked in a cupboard, they’d lived. And it broke his heart that two such creative and vibrant individuals could be taken down like this—reduced to shells of the souls they once were. Because no one understood them; no one was there to shelter them, to love them or take joy in the tender and fragile nature of their hearts.   
  
They were pale, pale shadows amongst all this light.   
  
Draco reached for his mother—a tentative hand, shaky. His skin was bloodless, eyes wide in a sort of pantomime horror. They were both bleached as ghosts in the clinical lights. Narcissa's long blonde hair washed down her back, Draco’s in his eyes.   
  
She glanced back. “Oh, do I know you?” Harry dared to hope. Narcissa’s cool brow rose. “Mister...?”   
  
A long stream of air left him. Nothing replaced it.   
  
“This is my husband,” Harry offered, “Draco.”   
  
“That's a lovely name,” Narcissa replied. Idle, her fingers drummed against the table. “You know, many members of my own family are named after constellations. Did your parents have the stars in mind, or the ferocious beast?”   
  
Harry gave his heart permission to sink. He’d come out to the Dursleys, subjected Draco to more trauma than any counseling could correct, and to top it off—Narcissa Malfoy didn’t recognize her own son. Worst Christmas ever.   
  
He glanced up at Draco, reaching for the wizard’s hand. Their palms slid together, fingers falling into place.   
  
“Come on,” he offered quietly, defeated. “We can go now.”   
  
“Wait.”   
  
Harry chewed his lip. “What is it?”   
  
Draco’s chin jutted in his mother’s direction. “Look.” And, when Harry didn’t understand, “Her hands, twit.”   
  
It took him a moment to recognize the motions out of context. But he knew that movement, the rhythm and arch of slender fingers, their dance over and through one another. Narcissa was playing an invisible piano against the table. Draco squinted, trying to discern the tune she played. Distress forgotten, his head was at her shoulder, crouching, looking on.   
  
He hummed several notes in her ear. She kept on, as though the music she heard in her head overpowered her son’s voice, or mingled with it. Her fingers continued, mapping out the melody. Slowly, Draco’s forehead came to rest upon her shoulder. He quit breathing.   
  
Healer Stanek motioned to Harry through the wall. He rose, doing his best not to disturb the blondes, making his way back to the hidden partition leading out of the room.   
  
“She’s been drumming her fingers since she arrived,” the Healer explained. “We’ve all wondered at the tune. She doesn’t seem to know.”   
  
Harry shrugged. “Doesn’t have a name as far as we know.”   
  
“Sentimental value?”   
  
Harry considered. Knowing the weight Draco assigned to the notes, how he played the song only when he thought no one was listening—and his mother, too, had turned to that piece in the darkest of her hours. It had lilted in the back of Draco’s memories, through barren nurseries and spats and torture-screams. It meant something, to both her and Draco.   
  
“It’s special to them,” Harry conceded. “I don’t think we’re meant to understand how.”   
  
Healer Stanek scribbled on her clipboard with a short quill.   
  
Harry cleared his throat. “Do you think Narcissa’a memories were spelled away; I mean, to cover something up? Or was it accidental, a side-effect of the torture?”   
  
Irene Stanek’s round face pinched positively square, until she resembled an old pug which used to live on Magnolia Crescent. When she opened her mouth, there was a great crack. Narcissa let out a wail.   
  
“Kit! My Kit!”   
  
Harry swung around. The little house elf was there, doll dress pressed and silken flower on her head, eyes flashing between her Mistress and her Master. She couldn’t seem to figure out who to respond to, and so idled between the two, twisting the hem of her little dress between her fingers like a child.   
  
Draco’s hand stayed protectively upon his mother’s shoulder, the other going for his wand.   
  
“Why did you abandon Mother?” Draco demanded of the elf. Apparently he knew her well. “I should flog you myself.”   
  
Narcissa’s eyes widened. With venom, she whispered, “You leave her alone.”   
  
Harry re-entered the white room and this time it was Kit’s turn to jump.   
  
“Harry Potter, sir!”   
  
His hand was at his hip, pushing back his robes, hand moving instinctively toward his wand. “Why did you leave Mrs. Malfoy here?” he asked, gaze slipping briefly to Narcissa. “After you begged me to save her, you off and disappear. What am I supposed to think?”   
  
Kit hung her head in shame.   
  
Draco’s hand still rested at his mother’s shoulder, casually smoothing her braid. He regarded the house elf with his head canted, hair falling over his eyes. “Clothes,” he observed. “My mother freed you?” Morose and possibly ashamed, Kit nodded.   
  
“To what purpose?”   
  
_Can’t somebody free a slave without an ulterior motive?_ Harry thought to himself. Then again, Draco and his mother were Slytherins. And purebloods. He wasn’t expected to understand their culture. So rather than jump to judgments, he kept silent and listened.   
  
Kit’s reply was a squeak. “Kit’s magic, sir.”   
  
“House elf magic,” Harry recalled, “is very different from ours—some would argue more powerful. They can get around a wizard’s spells. I’ve seen it.”   
  
Kit glanced back at Narcissa. Harry took the queue, casting a rapid, wandless _Muffliato_. Draco recognized the spell immediately. “She can’t hear you now,” Draco told the elf. He squatted down, elbows resting on his knees, staring at Kit with menace. “Tell us everything this instant, or so help me....”   
  
Kit sniffled. “Young Master was... dying, Master. The Mistress made me.”   
  
“Made you what?” Harry and Draco snapped in unison. Kit flinched.   
  
“Mistress knew the young Master would not seek aid on his own, would not go to Harry Potter for help... would rather die.” Draco snorted. “Mistress’ wand was snapped. She found clothes for Kit in the attic, set Kit free to heal the Master, to... to plant seeds in his head.”   
  
Harry thought he could hear Draco’s teeth grinding. Veins were visible at his wrists where he’d rolled up his jumper. His cheeks were regaining some color, though stained and splotchy.   
  
“My mother asked you to modify my memory?” he asked through gritted teeth.   
  
“Yes, Master,” Kit nodded apologetically. It made her ears flop. The little flower headband slipped, falling over her eyes. Instinctively, Harry reached down, righting it back on top of her head. Her green eyes were damp and startled. “Mistress wanted young Master to rise in anger. _If he cannot think straight, Mistress said, he will be doing the right thing. He will be going to Harry Potter, go for help_. Kit planted the seeds, and they grew with his healing. Young Master rose and wrote his letter; Kit delivered it.” She shuffled her feet. “The Mistress made distraction, and young Master made escape.”   
  
Draco’s cheeks were pink, incensed: his eyes were weary. “And when the Death Eaters realized Mother had facilitated my exodus....” He drew a single finger across his throat.   
  
Harry had a sudden vision of the last time Draco had made that gesture, alone in their bed, the first time they’d been together. His throat had been too sore to talk, and so he’d pulled a pale finger across his neck, miming the trouble Harry would be in when his friends confronted him. Over his adventures in homosexual buggery. That seemed a lifetime away. Their lives had been much smaller then, so much more contained. All of this was too much for one lifetime.   
  
“Mistress told Kit to run,” the tiny house elf whimpered. “But Kit stayed, hid in the catacombs to tend the Mistress. And then Harry Potter came.” “Don’t treat him like some fucking hero,” Draco murmured. His voice only shook slightly. “Goes right ter his head.”   
  
Draco licked his lips. He focused on blinking, breathing; snark and pomp and inappropriate jokes because it kept him present, kept him from slipping into realms of thought he wasn’t ready to tread.   
  
That his mother had sacrificed herself for him... it was beyond belief or understanding. All this time he’d thought her heartless. He’d thought himself abandoned, down there in the catacombs.   
  
But she’d worked and plotted and schemed like a true Slytherin, planning his escape. She even manipulated him to get her way. In a sick way, he was proud of her. She’d schemed to the bitter end, knowing her actions would likely cost her her life.   
  
Harry squeezed his hand. “She did it because she loved you,” he murmured. “She knew Voldemort would kill her and she did it anyway. Just like... like my mum.”   
  
Draco’s lips parted. It was a long time before he made words. They were limp.   
  
“Lift the spell,” he said. Beside him, his mother’s fingers drummed a silent tune against the table. Harry flicked a hand, ending his charm. Narcissa glanced between them, her watery blue eyes settling on Harry. Her fingers stilled.   
  
“You look tired, James. I fear I’ve kept you too long from your lovely wife.” And she smiled kindly.   
  
Harry looked at Draco rather than his mother-in-law when he answered. “I don’t have a wife, Mrs. Malfoy.”   
  
A moment passed between them—looking at one another, damp threatening Harry’s eyes, Draco’s throat tight. Then Draco managed, “Do we still have teh go ta the fucking Weasleys?”   
  
Narcissa tutted mildly. “Language, sir.”   
  
Harry couldn’t help a chuckle at the indignation on Draco’s face. There was no one in his life to call him out for his language—a bad habit which Harry himself encouraged. Maybe there was something left of Narcissa after all.   
  
“Yeah, I guess. Molly will be having kittens if we’re not there in the next hour or so. We should go.”   
  
Harry rose to his feet. In that moment, he towered over them all.   
  
“It was nice seeing you, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said with a smile. “Happy Christmas.”   
  
  
  
Draco licked his lips. “I need a cigarette,” he said.   
  
“Now?”   
  
The wizard nodded.   
  
Harry sighed, patting his pockets. “Can’t smoke in here, have to go outside,” he muttered. “Muggle entrance.”   
  
It didn’t take them long to navigate the sparsely populated halls, delivering themselves to the same stretch of dirty abandoned shop windows on the muggle side of London. Harry slid out of his robe, removing his shrunken leather jacket from a pocket before trading the garments. He glanced up and down the street, minding the muggles. There was nothing open down this way, so no one passed by.   
  
He reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, producing the last of his smokes. Draco plucked them from his hand, turning away. Quickly, he lit up with the tip of his wand, tucking the little cigarette box in his own pocket for safekeeping. A cloud of smoke drifted away in the wind.   
  
Draco puffed, silent, until the black-papered cigarette was gone. He lit a second.   
  
“Two fag kinda day, huh?” Harry commented, leaning against the building.   
  
Draco didn't even pretend to laugh. It was a horrible attempt at a Yankee joke to begin with, but Harry was trying to make conversation, trying to help Draco take his mind off things. He puffed on his cigarette, staring at nothing, slim fingers twitching in the cold.   
  
He should really button his coat. But all he had a mind to do was smoke.   
  
Harry leaned closer against the cold. “Wonder how Dmitry and Nebojsa are doing,” he mused. “Should we drop by and see them?” The pair were camping out at Grimmauld Place for the holiday, tending to Misha, the Serbian wizard still recovering, himself.   
  
Draco breathed—a smoke monster, whipping up a tiny storm around himself. He looked fierce as any fairy tale dragon, great jets of cigarette smoke shooting from his nose as he snorted, incredulous.   
  
“I’m sure they’re busy fucking. Leave them be.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure you’re right.”   
  
Cigarette number three.   
  
Harry quickly became transfixed, watching the way the smoke curled—fell from the full wall of Draco’s lip, from the pink curves and peaks, leaking down his neck. Harry’s mouth was open before he knew it, catching smoke, catching Draco’s lips. He drew it from the man’s lungs—pulling it out.   
  
Smoke rose from their mouths, cigarette and breath in the cold air.   
  
Harry’s glasses began to fog.   
  
“You shouldn’t chain smoke,” he muttered, Draco’s lip held between his teeth.   
  
Draco chuckled. “Piss off.”   
  
Then, when the pureblood was least expecting, Harry Apparated them to The Burrow.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Draco produced his fourth cigarette, flinging the butt of his last into the snow, still smoking. Harry took this fresh one away before the blonde could light up.   
  
“Do you really hate the Weasleys that much?”   
  
“Despise them,” Draco spat. “Gimme my cig.”   
  
Harry took his elbow, holding him back. Snow was quickly soaking their trouser legs, drifting down around their ears and shoulders as it fell from an overcast sky. Draco's eyes reflected the bleakness of their surroundings in an alarming way. Harry squeezed. Snow swirled up between them as the wind picked up.   
  
“How can you?” Harry demanded, his expression frank. “After Molly was nothing but kind to you back at Grimmmm-hmmm-hmmm-oh-you-know-where!” he swallowed angrily, pressing on. “She coddled and cared for you like one of her own. I think she may have even come to love you. And you still hate—” “That's exactly it,” Draco interrupted weakly, grey eyes fixed to the whiteness of the ground—looking at the snow in great piles, the way it hung on branches, blanketing the dead grass of the garden, looking anywhere but at Harry. “I'm not accustomed to the idea... this _unconditional_....”   
  
Harry nodded soberly. “You don't know how to let people love you. How to accept it. Let me tell you something, prat.”   
  
Draco looked up, automatically on the defencive.   
  
But Harry didn't say anything more. When Draco's mouth opened in protest, Harry surprised him with a kiss. He pulled back slowly, a smile spreading across his face, lips as red as his cold nose.   
  
“Deal with it,” he grinned, and dragged Draco into the collapsing, dilapidated structure that was The Burrow.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Mrs. Weasley engulfed him in a hug as soon as he’d passed the door frame. She brushed snow from his hair and shoulders, fussing. Draco hung back, a step behind Harry; waiting, watching with whitewashed eyes and arms made of stone, hanging heavy and immobile at his sides. He shied away when it was his turn to scurry past Mrs. Weasley, barely accepting the motherly pat she laid upon his upper arm. He removed his coat in an effort not to make eye contact, knocking snow from the ink-black fur.   
  
Harry knew that blank look, the way Draco distracted himself; disassociated from his own body and surroundings, silver eyes never settling, mind never really engaging. He was nervous. And too stubborn, too proud, to show it clearly.   
  
Harry extended his hand, waiting until Draco’s own was firmly in his before starting toward the Weasley’s sitting room. He could do anything with Draco by his side—holding his hand. Their fingers fit together, palms pressed, their thumbs intertwined and playing a little game of Who’s The Top.   
  
“You’re just in time for supper,” Mrs. Weasley told them, levitating several pots from the stove. “Everyone’s by the fire, dears. Go on. I’ll be along in just a mo’.”   
  
Draco’s eyes went to the healthy supply of liquor decorating the long kitchen table. There was champagne under Cooling Charms, bottles of red wine breathing, white wines with their peach and parchment labels and swirled golden writing—and even a few interestingly shaped bottles of spirits. One was blue and smoked faintly, the label made of appropriately scorched parchment. Draco’s fingers itched against Harry’s own.   
  
Harry muttered under his breath, tugging Draco from the alcohol as one drags an untrained mule. “We break the news first. Then we can drink our faces off. Not before.”   
  
“Speak fer yerself, git.”   
  
“C’mon,” Harry urged, bumping Draco forward with his shoulder. “Let’s get this over with.”   
  
“We’re honestly doin’ this?” Draco whined. “Announcing ourselves? The whole bit?”   
  
Harry’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile. “You wanted me to come out to my biological family,” he said in monotone. “Might as well finish the job.”   
  
Draco let it drop after that. He peered around as Harry guided him to the living room. His silver gaze hovered at the magical clock, all nine hands of which pointed with spiders’ webs toward “Mortal Peril.”   
  
Mrs. Weasley had long wanted to add a clock-hand for Harry; the twins had talked her out of it, arguing that until Voldemort was dead, Harry’s would be permanently on “Mortal Peril.” It would seem he’d caused that state to befall the Weasley’s clock even without a hand of his own. The sight put a lump in his throat.   
  
Draco snuck his thumb on top of their pile of fingers, giving Harry’s a squeeze of triumph before they entered the living room.   
  
He didn’t bother looking at anyone. He knew who-all would be there: Bill and Fleur, Charlie, Percy, Fred and George, Ron and Hermione, Remus and Tonks, Mr. Weasley, and of course Ginny. Where they stood in the room made little difference. He could protect himself if any of them went for his throat... so long as they didn’t all come at him at once.   
  
Mrs. Weasley breezed in behind them carrying a bottle of wine in each hand, glasses on a levitating tray behind her. The tray settled itself atop the wireless, and Mrs. Weasley cast two noisy Corkscrew Charms.   
  
Draco’s palm began to sweat the closer they got to the fireplace. Harry stopped directly in front of the mantle, swinging Draco around so they stood shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow, hip to hip. A small part of him wanted Draco’s knees against his, interlocking and holding him up. But then it would look as though he were using the pureblood as a shield, and that certainly wouldn’t do.   
  
They were looking at him. All of them, staring at him and Draco. He looked like a prat, walking in and not saying anything to anyone. Had they spoken to him? They must have. He took a breath so deep his lungs shuddered.   
  
“So, um....” That sounded weak. Bollocks. He swallowed, rolling his shoulders back. He could do this.   
  
He yanked Draco forward, not letting the blonde disappear into the defunct floo, as much as he seemed to want to in that moment. With Draco secured beside him, he started again.   
  
“Right. We have an announcement to make.” Everyone looked his way—Charlie, leaning against the back of his father’s armchair, Bill and Fleur from beside the bookshelves, the twins draped over the banister with Firewhiskys, Ron in the doorway, lanky arms folded across his chest. Ginny glared daggers at them from the sofa, her mouth a thin line painted brittle and jagged across her face. She was still lovely. He still cared for her. It was terrible, to see her this angry, but she would survive. It would make her stronger. Like working through his own bullshit had hardened him, taught him, rearranged him enough that he could be with Draco. Someday, Ginny would be just as deliriously happy.   
  
He squeezed Draco’s hand. “Rather exciting, really...”   
  
“Out with it!” Fred teased.   
  
“Hear hear!” Tonks agreed.   
  
Harry smiled at their teasing. “Right, then. Well... we’ve gotten married.” He lifted Draco’s hand still in his, showing the silver band on the pureblood’s finger. “Surprise.”   
  
The Weasleys sitting room exploded in sounds—not all of them pleasant.   
  
Tonks’ Auror training allowed her to contain Remus, who looked about ready to launch himself at Harry for a good throttling. Harry and Draco’s wands rose and fell as one, Draco prepared to cast right-handed, and Harry left. Bill and Fleur exchanged knowing looks. Between Fred and George, Harry suspected galleons would change hands. Charlie grinned faintly, his cheeks pink. Mrs. Weasley squawked. And Mr. Weasley’s mead slipped from his hand with a _crack_. Hermione Banished the liquid and broken glass. Ron silently waved his wand, replacing his father’s drink with a fresh one. Mr. Weasley hardly seemed to notice.   
  
And then Ginny. Her features flashed between tears and hardness, exquisite pain and a tempestuous rage. Her hands balled up at her sides, propelling her from her seat. She was gone, down the hall and slamming the bathroom door before anyone could be after her. It sounded vaguely as though the family clock had its glass cracked as she stormed by.   
  
Percy Weasley awkwardly rubbed his hands together. “Well then,” he rocked on the balls of his feet, the first one to actually speak. Remus’ noises didn’t count. He was barely snarling, contained in Tonks’ firm grip, teeth snapping. It was the full moon in two days’ time, so Harry was willing to cut the man a fair amount of slack.   
  
“Shall we open some champagne?” Percy was summarily ignored.   
  
Harry gave Draco’s hand a single, solid squeeze before releasing him. He leaned. “I might go have a word with Gin.”   
  
Draco’s nose wrinkled. “Bring me back a shot.”   
  
“I meant Ginny.”   
  
“I know tha’.” Draco stuffed his hands in his pockets, whispering, “Fine. Go. Leave me here to the ginger horde.”   
  
Harry pointed to the sofa. “Sit,” he commanded. “You can’t get into much trouble if you just sit there and smile.”   
  
Draco mumbled from the side of his mouth—mostly for his own benefit, “That you could bid the same of your friends.”   
  
“I won’t be gone more than ten minutes,” Harry reassured him. “Just sit tight ‘til I get back. Here.” And Harry stretched out an arm, silently and wandlessly summoning both a bottle of liquor and a glass from the kitchen. Several heads turned. Harry poured a healthy portion of mead into the glass, passing it off to Draco before laying hands to his shoulders, planting his rear end to the sofa cushion. It gave a disturbing amount beneath him, until Draco had the feeling of being swallowed whole by Weasley kitch. He breathed his honeyed wine as Harry stepped away... taking the bottle with him, the clever sod.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Harry made to follow Ginny down the hall. It was Mr. Weasley who intercepted him, a lanky arm blocking the seventeen-year-old’s path.   
  
“A word, Harry,” he offered quietly. “If you wouldn’t mind.”   
  
Harry looked after Ginny; the bathroom door was still shut, the sounds of her moving about passing to his ears down the hall... medicine cabinet opening, an ampule—likely Calming Draught—and her nose blown repeatedly into a bit of loo roll.   
  
Harry returned his attention to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Molly now standing beside her husband, the tassels of her shawl twisted up between her fingers.   
  
“Alright,” Harry nodded. And back into the kitchen they went.   
  
Mr. Weasley ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Harry, we mean this in the nicest possible way,” he sighed, wrapping an arm around his wife while fixing Harry with a fatherly expression. Beneath his arm, Mrs. Weasley’s lips pinched out of existence. “What the bloody hell were you thinking? Hmm?”   
  
“You’re seventeen, dear,” Mrs. Weasley reminded him. As though he needed reminding. “Did you truly think this was a good idea?”   
  
Harry took a deep breath. Nerves clogging his airways, the oxygen hardly reached his head. “I, er, didn’t think much at all, honestly.”   
  
“Well there’s the problem!” Molly threw her hands up. Mr. Weasley tried to settle her.   
  
“Let the man explain himself.”   
  
“ _Man?_ ” she repeated, flabbergasted. “He’s just a boy!”   
  
“A married boy,” Mr. Weasley corrected under his breath, “who is of legal age and capable of making his own decisions, however much we might disagree. Hear him out, Molls.”   
  
Mrs. Weasley shot her husband a dangerous look, but said nothing more.   
  
Harry cleared his throat. He looked to his trainers as he spoke—to the floor and the worn baseboards, scuffed by the feet of generations of Weasleys. You could only see evidence of smoke damage if you squinted, back in the corners where Mrs. Weasley’s Cleaning Spells hadn’t the strength or the care to tread.   
  
“I wanted a family—a proper one,” he admitted. “And no offense meant to you, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, because you’ve been so unbelievably wonderful to me. I guess, with what I’ve gone through, family is more important to me than others my age. Your spouse is the one family member you get to choose in life. I realized that Draco’s situation leaves him with no one to fall back on. He doesn’t have anyone. That’s a frightening place to be. I’m an orphan, so I can relate,” Harry half-shrugged. He was mindful to keep his hands out of his pockets for once. “Draco’s rather short on friends, if you haven’t noticed. I’m all he’s got now. And I couldn’t bear the thought of what might happen to him if something were to happen to me. If I die in the war, or if... well, you know how it was the last time.”   
  
Harry left unsaid the details of his parents’ deaths. The Weasleys already knew that his father died protecting his mother, and his mother fell to save him. That was Harry’s blood—to give anything and everything for love. It was understood that Harry would do anything for Draco… including die for him if need be. He was too much like Lily and James; too filled with love.   
  
“Draco has nowhere to live without me. He doesn’t own much more than a trunk full of clothes and school books,” Harry kept on, his throat tight. “I wonder if he’d be able to find work, with the Dark Mark and all.” _If_ Draco could work: _if_ Draco could drag himself out of bed and keep living in a world without Harry. He always tried not to think of that possible outcome, the same as Draco. “I worry about how others would treat him, what people might say or do behind his back. I don’t want him to have to go through that alone. Ever.   
  
“So the easiest way to make sure he was taken care of was to marry him. That way, no matter what happens to me, I know he’ll be alright. I know he’ll have a home and people to love him and take care of him... even if that’s not me.”   
  
Mrs. Weasley was crying silently. She swept forward in a rush, engulfing him in her shawl-covered arms. “Oh, Harry!” she breathed against him. “You’re too young for all this, you know.”   
  
Mr. Weasley’s hand was on his shoulder. “But if you truly… well, if you love him. Merlin knows there’s nothing we can do to stop you. So long as this is what you want.”   
  
“Believe me, Mr. Weasley; there’s nothing I’ve wanted more in my life.”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
The twins were looking at him. As though he wouldn’t notice their identical gazes trained upon his person. The stocky one stole glances too. The pony-tailed one was too distracted in conversation with Lupin and Nymphadora to pay Draco much mind. Weasleys, Weasleys everywhere.   
  
Draco buried his nose in the glass of mead Harry had fetched him.   
  
Fleur Weasley nee Delacour took the sofa cushion beside him, a glass of champagne in her delicate hands. She looked lovely as ever. With her calm features and fall of long blonde hair, it took a moment for him to realize she wasn’t a younger incarnation of his mother; a good spirit set down beside him to bring comfort to the damned. Her movement was refined, effortless, modest. She was a pureblood witch of the highest caliber, groomed for a very different life. They had more than a few things in common in that regard. Draco hoped her fate in this war might be kinder than that which had befallen his dear mother.   
  
“Eet will get better,” Fleur told him softly, looking at her hands—at the wedding band on her graceful finger. “They did not care for me ei’zer, at first.”   
  
Draco sipped his mead, murmuring, “Small comfort, that.”   
  
“ _I know our situations are different,_ ” she offered, slipping into her native French. “ _But give it time. Be happy. You’ve found each other, in spite of all these terrible happenings. That’s enough_.”   
  
Silent, Draco nodded. Honeyed wine slid down his throat. On an empty stomach, he was rapidly approaching a tipsy state. At a Weasley soiree. The thought induced several rapid swigs.   
  
“ _Donc, mon ami,_ ” Fleur mused, glancing back toward the kitchen where Harry had disappeared. “ _Who proposed to who?_ ”   
  
Draco fortified himself with another hearty swallow. “ _Harry. To me._ ”   
  
A smile turned the side of her mouth. “ _Did he get down on one knee?_ ”   
  
Draco shrugged. Mead swirled in his glass, the last dregs of liquor sloshing with bark-colored flecks in the bottom of his glass. “ _He’s Harry Potter. I made him fucking beg_.”   
  
Fleur blushed a bright pink, but she was still smiling. It reached her eyes this time. “ _As he should!_ ”   
  
“ _The turn-coat disinherited son of a convicted Death Eater—oh yes indeed_ ,” Draco sneered, rolling his eyes, “ _I’m such a catch_.”   
  
“Hey,” a familiar voice sounded from behind their perch, making him jump. Harry had snuck up on them. “That’s the man I love you’re talking about.”   
  
Draco wrinkled his nose. “Shut it, Wonder Boy.”   
  
Fleur looked between the two of them. Eventually she settled on addressing Harry. “Yoo speak French?”   
  
Harry shook his head, hair feathering inside the rims of his glasses before he brushed it away. It was getting awfully long again. “Not as such. But I know when he’s taking the piss out of himself for laughs.” Harry leaned down, a hand on the back of the sofa, putting his face near Draco’s. “I still have to talk to Ginny. Will you be okay?”   
  
Before Draco could whip up a witty retort, Harry cast a wandless charm, refilling Draco’s mead. He ruffled blonde hair, cupping the back of Draco’s neck before pulling away. “Play nice while I’m gone.”   
  
Draco bared his teeth, watching with tense muscles as Harry disappeared around another corner—perpetually chasing after his ex-girlfriend to offer his... Draco wasn’t sure, exactly. Apologies? Excuses? Harry and the Weasley girl had hardly spoken three words to one another since their days at Grimmauld Place. He couldn’t imagine what manner of long-brewed unpleasantness might pass between them now. Instead, he dove back into his glass, eager for escape.   
  
Fleur was smiling at him—openly now, as he gazed after Harry. “ _You’re so mean to each other_ ,” she chuckled.   
  
Draco had a quip ready. “ _We’re like dogs_ ,” he told her. “ _They communicate primarily by biting one another, you know. It’s considered a sign of affection in certain situations_.” A particular design of teeth currently adorning Harry’s backside came to mind, followed quickly by the Glamour’ed trail of bruises Harry had left up and down his own ribs. He felt them whenever he breathed deep, as Harry did whenever he sat. No wonder the man had spent half the day on his feet. They were bitten and bruised, dragged from their beds to be paraded before this lot.   
  
He swallowed his mead with renewed vigour.   
  
Remus Lupin was eyeing him from across the room, distrust squinting the fellow’s graying features. The twins were whispering between themselves, knowing looks exchanged with as much weight as words. They soon took up their youngest brother Ronald by the pits of his arms, hauling him into a nearby hall. Weasel King treated Draco to a particularly bemused look on his way out.   
  
Draco sneered back. They didn’t have to like him: Harry was all that mattered. The rest could go stuff themselves.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Fred opened the refrigerator. “Out with it, little brother,” he said casually, retrieving a bottle of milk. He opened it and drank. Mum hated it when they did that.   
  
“Out with what?” Ron held his arms at his sides, palms up, innocent.   
  
Fred laughed. “We know that look.”   
  
“Like you really need to shit,” George teased.   
  
“So just say it,” Fred shrugged. “You’ll feel better.”   
  
Ron leaned against the sink, stuffing his hands in his pockets. The kitchen table stacked with alcohol was looking pretty tempting. Hermione would likely throttle him if he came back with liquor on his breath, but maybe it was worth it. Charlie could help talk her down.   
  
“Fine,” he sighed. “It’s Malfoy.”   
  
“Wot about ‘em?” George nicked the milk, taking a swig.   
  
“He’s... I dunno, exactly,” Ron swallowed thickly, eyes traveling to the ceiling. He exhaled slowly, chest deflating. “Possessed?”   
  
Fred’s eyebrow went up—just the one. “Yeah? I was gonna say ‘happy.’”   
  
Mouth full of milk, George nodded.   
  
“But he’s too bloody calm,” Ron protested. “I know he’s a blue-blood ponce who never shows a feeling unless it’s distaste, but... if _I’d_ just gotten married, I’d... well, I dunno know how I’d be, exactly,” Ron let his hands flop against his thighs, exasperated at his own inability to communicate his thoughts in any coherent manner, “but... not like that. Malfoy’s always been a twitchy ferret-faced bastard. But now he’s with Harry, it’s as though he’s a different person. And we’re all supposed to pretend it’s fine?”   
  
George gestured with the milk bottle. “Love brings out the best in people?”   
  
“Or maybe he’s in a better mood now he’s finally had a decent shag,” Fred offered.   
  
Ron flinched. “Eugh. I dunwanna think about that, thanks.”   
  
“Seriously, though,” Fred continued. George slid the milk back in the fridge. “Consider it. Malfoy isn’t trapped by his family’s stupid traditions anymore; doesn’t have to worry about an arranged marriage, being auctioned off to the highest bidder, expected to fuck some ugly pureblood bint who doesn't give two straws about him until she's up the duff. Instead he gets to be married to Harry, who's handsome and charming and—we hear,” Fred winked, “a real winner between the sheets. Of course Malfoy's happy! He's getting laid! Fantastically, rottenly well-shagged. And, after this silly war’s done, he’s set for life.”   
  
George stepped up to Ron, a hand on his hip, the other palm-up, offering his opinion like an invisible platter. “Plus, for all that’s wrong with Draco Malfoy as a person, he seems to genuinely fancy Harry. He shows excellent taste. And Harry's smitten.”   
  
“So get the fuck over it, little brother,” Fred finished. “Since it looks like they’ll be togeth—”   
  
_CRASH_.   
  
“Merlin’s arsehole!” Startled, his brothers swore in unison.   
  
Ron recognized the sound of glass breaking. Instinct—and six years spent chasing after Harry-Potter-related shenanigans—had him running into the hall, toward the sounds of chaos, to investigate.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Harry was staring at a door again. A grown man—and arguably one of the most powerful wizards alive—staring at a door; transfixed, frozen to the spot with trepidation and fear. It was becoming a trend.   
  
His entire world was uncertainty, never knowing what the night or the darkness or, in this case, the other side of a door might bring. Everything was hiding, just out of sight, waiting for him to stumble his way in to yet another ambush. So the doors in his life helped—entire walls, buildings and castles erected between himself and that which he’d rather not face.   
  
Except now he had to open one. And probably get a Bat Bogey Hex to the face. He deserved it.   
  
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a private word with Ginny. It had to be that summer, back at Grimmauld Place. He probably told her off for picking on Draco, or refused one of her many offers of getting back together. He couldn’t even recall. He’d let his obsession with Draco consume him, just like at Hogwarts. Except this time, unbeknownst to him at the time, his prick had become involved.   
  
That didn’t excuse his behavior towards his ex in the least. He was a shit person. No wonder she hated him. He hated himself a little.   
  
He knocked softly.   
  
“Gin?”   
  
Her response was a damp, “Sod off!”   
  
“Look,” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I’m really—”   
  
“I said _sod off!_ ”   
  
He leaned against the wall, tempted to slide to his knees. As though his pleading would make a lick of difference, on bended knee or otherwise. His shoulders still slumped. “Then I’ll just apologize through the door and be on my way, yeah?”   
  
“I...” Ginny’s voice wavered a moment. “I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”   
  
Harry started. Why wouldn’t she want to hear him say he was sorry, to hear him grovel a bit? Weren’t people obsessed with being right? Or at least, being told they were right? It seemed to be the basis of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon’s marriage, at least. Draco loved being told he was right—adored it, _lived_ for it. He fancied it even more when Harry was wrong. Perhaps he was getting Ginny and Draco confused.   
  
Harry tried again. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Gin. That was never my intention. Ever. I hope you understand that.”   
  
Something slammed. “Stop it.”   
  
“I still care for you.”   
  
“I said _stop!_ ” Another slam. It sounded as though she’d opened the window for fresh air. Wind whistled through the gaps in the cabinets.   
  
Harry dry-washed his face with his hands. Words came out of him as pleasant and controlled as vomit. “I blame myself for us not working out. You did nothing wrong, Gin. You were great. I was distracted, and I never paid enough attention to you. I was inconstant, and selfish, and probably dishonest at several points. Especially once Draco came along. I only—”   
  
_CRASH_.   
  
Definitely glass breaking. Harry’s reaction was both instantaneous and utterly muggle.   
  
“Ginny! Are you okay?” he spun, pounding a fist on the door. A second later, Ron, Fred and George were running out of the kitchen, joining Harry in the narrow hall, scrambling on heavy feet with wands raised.   
  
“Wot was that?” Ron asked.   
  
Harry shook his head, gesturing. “I dunno. But she won’t open the bloody door.”   
  
“Here,” Fred offered, shoving his younger brother aside. George pulled Harry back by his shoulder as his twin blasted the door open by its hinges. Sparks flew, along with a small amount of plaster, splinters, and dust.   
  
Mrs. Weasley’s squawk of annoyance could be heard from the other room, but no one came to intervene. That was The Burrow for you. Arthur’s voice could be heard a second later, humdrum and nearly bored, advising, “Put it to rights when you’re done, boys.”   
  
Ginny sat on the rim of the bathtub, cradling a hand against her breast. There was blood on her, trickling down her wrist, staining her blouse. Harry’s eyes flew to the cracked mirror above the sink. Had she punched it?   
  
“Gin!” Harry and Ron were in sync, reaching for her. She hissed at Harry, allowing Ron to swoop in and heal her hand.   
  
“Fucking hell,” Fred muttered, shaking his head.   
  
“I bloody love Christmas,” murmured George. “The family, the alcohol, the breaking of Mum’s nice things.”   
  
Harry knelt down in the doorway, ducking his head in the hopes of catching Ginny’s gaze. He spoke softly. “Thanks for sparing my face.”   
  
She wouldn’t make eye contact. “Just get out. You’ve done more than enough,” she huffed. Ron ran a soothing hand down her arm. “Go back to your fucking husband and leave me alone. That’s all I want.”   
  
Harry opened his mouth to protest.   
  
Ron glanced back over his shoulder. “Best do as she says, mate.”   
  
George offered Harry a hand to his feet. He took it reluctantly, shooting the top of Ginny’s head one final, lip-biting glance.   
  
“I _am_ sorry.”   
  
Her bowed head betrayed nothing. “I know,” she whispered. “But... _please_. Fuck off.”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Harry's return was met with raucous laughter. Charlie, Fleur, Bill and Draco were in stitches—and Draco appeared to be their less-than-humble leader. He'd managed to get his hands on a bottle of champagne and was waving it around. A giggling Charlie refilled it with a charm to Draco’s delight. His smile lit up the room brighter than the enchanted Christmas tree.   
  
Ron had followed Harry back. He leaned, getting his mouth closer to Harry’s ear. “I think your husband's tanked.”   
  
Harry rolled his eyes, smiling. “Give him a break.”   
  
Hermione drifted over to join them, one eye trained on Draco. She bit her lip in bona fide concern. “Harry... he's pretty drunk.”   
  
It took a lot to get Draco truly ripped. Harry wasn’t worried. “We're on our honeymoon,” Harry shrugged. “Let him enjoy it.”   
  
“You took him _away_ from the honeymoon,” Hermione corrected, grinning, “to attend a family function. With his in-laws. Good job, Harry.”   
  
“Very romantic,” Ron drawled, imitating Draco fairly well. He was smiling too.   
  
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Harry hung his head in mock-shame. “I'm an idiot. And a shit husband. Shut up.”   
  
Hermione laughed.   
  
Harry rose to his own defence and botched it. “This isn't the worst thing I've done to him today.”   
  
Beside him, Ron made a noise like a grindylow stuck in a toaster oven.   
  
“Not... God, no,” Harry stuttered. “I'm not bringing up our sex life for... Jesus, Ron. Would you stop making that noise?” He said it before Hermione did. “I took Draco to see his mother.”   
  
“You found her?” Ron was shocked and genuinely intriuged.   
  
“Where is she?” interrupted Hermione.   
  
“Sharing a room with Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom,” Harry said cryptically. “I was the one who found her—had to fight Draco's dad to get her out of the Manor in one piece. She’s under Ministry protection now.”   
  
“Oh my God,” Hermione gasped.   
  
“She’s lost her marbles, then?” inferred Ron.   
  
Harry nodded—sober, but wishing he wasn’t. “Pretty much. She didn’t recognize me. Or Draco.”   
  
Hermione made a soft sound in her throat, something between pity and real empathy. “Oh my God,” she repeated, muggle-cursing. “No wonder he’s drunk,” she added in an understanding whisper. The way she looked at Draco softened—her brows curling under, mouth loose, almost muttering soundlessly as she considered his drunken carrying-on in an entirely new light.   
  
Ron looked ill. One of his big hands covered his stomach, the other migrating to Hermione’s back. “I couldn’t imagine… if _my_ Mum… I’d be a damn wreck. How’s he holding up?”   
  
Words could not describe how much it meant to Harry to hear his friends’ concern for Draco—that they recognized Draco had feelings, as much as the Slytherin part of him tried to hide them for his own protection. They were worried about him. They acknowledged what he was going through and—even though they hadn’t said it out loud—Harry knew his friends would do anything to help Draco through it.   
  
Harry let out a long breath. “Narcissa was the mastermind behind Draco’s defection.” Ron and Hermione both stared at him, so he explained. “She convinced the Death Eaters to let her nurse Draco after he was tortured. They’d broken her wand, so she freed her house elf to alter Draco’s memory, planting the seed that he ought to run to me—which believe me, he's well fucking steamed about—and then she stood guard and covered his tracks while he ran. When the Death Eaters realized Draco was gone, they tortured her.”   
  
“Brutal,” Ron muttered. “And brave. She probably thought she'd lose her head. Maybe lose her son, too. Memory modifications are tricky.”   
  
Harry nodded. He and Ron understood a fair bit regarding the delicacy of Memory Charms after their experiences with Professor Lockhart second year.   
  
“His mum’s actions and the memory charm explain a lot though. Why he was so nutters when he first showed up—and why his marbles seemed to even out the more we were around each other. His mum... she wanted this to happen.”   
  
Ron squinted. “Mrs. Malfoy wanted you for a son-in-law?”   
  
Harry almost laughed. An intimacy with him was likely the last thing Narcissa Malfoy would want for herself or her son… if she were in her right mind, anyway. People tended to throw their scruples out the window when their loved ones were in danger. And that was exactly what Narcissa had done in the end. She sacrificed everything so that Draco could have a chance at a normal life.   
  
Cheerless, Harry shook his head. “No but... she trusted me with his life. Deep down, she knew exactly the kind of man I am. She sent Draco to me, knowing I wouldn't have it in me to turn him away. Narcissa... she sacrificed herself, just like my mum did, so her son might have a chance.” Ron and Hermione were looking at him, open-mouthed and gob-struck. He chewed his cheek, thinking. There were too many thoughts in his head. “That means something. I just don't know what yet.”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
It was perhaps the most awkward family dinner on record. At least, that’s what Harry hoped. Because if things with the Weasleys had ever been this tense, it was news to him.   
  
At one point, Charlie blurted out, “I’m gay!” His father patted him fondly on the arm, with a muttered, “We know, Char. Pass the rolls, please.”   
  
“Was just trying to lighten the mood,” Charlie whined.   
  
“Maybe Harry can find you a boyfriend,” George chuckled.   
  
Fleur’s eyeballs were about to burst out of her head. Harry was sure her conservative pureblood family would never discuss a thing like this at the dinner table—where one put one’s cock and such. It simply wasn’t talked about amongst polite company, or over meals. Mrs. Weasley chewed her lip when she wasn’t shakily lifting her wine glass to and from her mouth. Mr. Weasley’s cheeks were approaching a Gryffindor maroon in color. Remus put down his knife and fork, folding his arms over his chest as though preparing for some particularly tall tale told by a Hufflepuff second year. Harry felt his own face heating. Perhaps it was the mead.   
  
Hermione poked Ron in the arm repeatedly. Ron swallowed visibly. He spoke to his gravy-soaked plate. “But Harry’s not really gay... right, Harry?”   
  
Draco nodded passively. “That’s true.” He turned to Harry, expectant.   
  
Bollocks.   
  
Everyone wanted to know what Harry Potter did with his todger—it was a ruddy mess. And the attention was solely because he was with another bloke. His marrying any woman on Earth would not have garnered this level of scrutiny. Straight couples weren’t questioned, nigh-on interrogated like this; even Fleur, whom Mrs. Weasley hadn’t fancied much, had been let off the hook once she demonstrated her love for Bill. Yet Draco Potter would never be granted the same courtesy no matter how many times he might prove himself sincere. He and Harry would be forced to justify their relationship over and over again. _Ad nauseum_. This was only the beginning. His only real choice was to let go of his useless frustration on the subject and get over it.   
  
Harry searched for the words... for a way to turn the question away from his genitals, and toward the true substance of the matter.   
  
“I’ve never been keen on chaps. You all know that. But there’s a first time for everything. And I expect our horizons, our estimations of ourselves and such, ought to change over time. That’s how we advance, how we go about learning new things and becoming better people for it. I was a bit prejudiced and sensitive toward the subject of homosexuality as a whole, seeing that calling someone ‘gay’ is a common insult for muggle kids. Hermione will back me up there.” He inclined his head down the table. His friend stared blankly back at him, nodding minutely. It was the best she could do given her own limited comprehension of his feelings.   
  
He kept on, “Growing up, my cousin Duddley and his mates constantly accused me of being queer. I don’t think I’d ever allowed myself to consider whether or not I actually was. There were a lot of misconceptions holding me back, and I reckon I was too busy outright denying it to work out what I really thought. In the end, I do honestly prefer women,” he shrugged. Down at the other end of the table, Tonks and Ginny exchanged an indiscreet high five. Harry had to clear his throat, staring at his plate in an attempt to hide the blush threatening to bloom across his forcibly serious face. “Draco is… a bit of an aberration for me—a surprise hinkypunk in my otherwise very straight cauldron. It took a while to get over the shock, myself; we toed around it for weeks and weeks— _years_ , maybe—before I figured myself out. I’m damn lucky he didn’t give up on me.”   
  
Beside him, Draco scoffed. His tone was playful. “Oh, so _I_ was the aggressor?” Harry turned bright red. There was little he could do to hide it at this point. Everyone was staring at him. Heat suffused his face. “No,” he corrected softly. “In the end, it was me dogging you into it.”   
  
Harry remembered—vividly—pinning Draco against a wall wearing nothing but a towel and telling him in no uncertain terms that nothing short of a relationship would satisfy him. He’d talked for what had felt like forever, convincing and cajoling, not taking no for an answer. It hadn’t been a matter of ‘gay’ or ‘straight.’ From the first, he’d known that he wanted Draco; his creativity, his stubbornness, his vulnerability, and the childlike joy of his soul. _That_ was who Harry fell in love with. Draco’s physical package, though attractive in his own right, had well and truly been an afterthought. He’d wanted Draco’s mind—and Draco’s strikingly reconstructed heart—in his life. For as long as Draco was willing to stay. As it turned out, that would be forever.   
  
His persistence paid off in the end. He and Draco were Married now: capital M. Official. Harry had gotten what he wanted: love, commitment, and a family of his own. They were all sitting around this table, asking him about his marriage because, deep down, they cared. They pestered him because they wanted to make sure he was happy. And he was. So deliriously happy he could scream.   
  
He was staring at Draco like a mopey love-sick fool. And Draco—though red in the face at having his sex life discussed in a room full of Weasleys over Christmas dinner—had never looked so smug. Harry suspected that for the first time in his life, Draco was legitimately happy… and proud of the choices he’d made for his new life.   
  
“And look at the pair of you now,” Charlie smiled broadly, gesturing between them with his ale. “A right happy couple. Cheers!”   
  
Harry’s friends and family were forced to raise their glasses. Beneath the table, Draco put his palm to Harry’s knee.   
  
“Spiffing dodge, Wonder Boy.”   
  
And it was true. He hadn’t given an answer one way or to the other as to his being gay, straight, or somewhere in between. Because there really wasn’t an answer. His world had become so much more than the stark variables of black or white. Everything blended together—a swirling silver to match Draco’s eyes.   
  
Harry cracked a grin. “I try.”   
  
  


~ * ~

  
  
  
  
They’d Apparated back to the chalet only to have sex on the living room floor. Thank God for Cushioning Charms.   
  
Draco sighed beside him, a sweaty cheek pressed to the floor. Harry could still hear the rapid bump of his husband’s heart beating in time with his own. It was strange how they would sync-up with one another—strange and wonderful, breath and blood and hearts working together like one single person separated only by skin. Draco was a part of him now, as much as his hand or his heart. Harry’s hand stretched the distance between them, stroking the long column of his husband’s spine.   
  
They’d used that spell again… a Legilimens of the body, so to speak. They’d cast it on each other, listening with feral instinct as the other inched closer and closer. The only words spoken had been Draco’s; a growled warning for Harry to keep his magic in check and not blow out the windows of their little cottage. They’d have to explain themselves to the muggles in the morning, which would take precious time away from their usual morning ritual of blowjobs and languid shower sex.   
  
Harry listened to Draco’s body as he sighed; lungs creaking, bones settling into the carpet, muscles uncoiling as he came down from the high. Silver eyes fluttered open.   
  
“I think it’s time you told me,” said Harry.   
  
Draco blinked. “Told yeh what?”   
  
“Where this spell came from. Most spells have an incantation—this one doesn’t. Why?”   
  
“It’s…” Draco considered, features slowly shifting against the threadbare carpet. Harry was reminded of all the times they’d gone to the floor of Grimmauld Place. Having sex in weird places was a forte of theirs; cupboards, hallways, showers, locker rooms, loos, alleyways, on broomsticks… they were amassing quite the list. The living room floor of their honeymoon suite was rather benign by comparison.   
  
Draco let out a noisy breath. “I dunno. It’s mine—my spell. I invented it. Never thought to give it an incantation,” he shrugged, shagged out and careless. “I never thought I’d share it with anyone.”   
  
That was a loaded statement. Draco rarely opened up his mind. It had taken a combination of his torture, recovery, and Legilimens at first, to bring them close enough for any real intimacy. Now they had this unnamed spell—a balance to tapping into one another’s minds. Their thoughts were so open now, so free, that they’d taken to listening to one another’s bodies, interpreting every quiver, every pulse, they knew each other that well. It was a gesture of ultimate trust that Draco had shared this creation with Harry. He treasured it all the more.   
  
Draco was squinting—not seeing anything, really, but the jumble of memories living in the dregs of his mind. “When I misbehaved as a child, mother would take my wand. She’d leave me in the nursery with the house elves. I suppose, had I made an incantation, the elves might’ve been able ta guard against me.”   
  
Harry spluttered, “You used it to listen to the house elves?”   
  
Draco had his eyes closed. His face was peaceful, serene, when he said, “I would choke them with magic. I used the spell to be sure I didn’t kill them. Father would have been… displeased.”   
  
“You choked your house elves? You tortured them?”   
  
“For attention, yes.”   
  
Hermione would have been mortified. And as a begrudging member of S.P.E.W., Harry himself was on some level disturbed. Maybe, for a magical person, beating up your house elves was the moral equivalent of a kid frying ants with a magnifying glass? To Harry and Hermione, it seemed cruel, twisted… immoral: but the magical community, for their own reasons, saw it differently.   
  
Harry thought there had to be more to it than mere juvenile violence—some reason why Draco’s young mind had put two and two together and arrived at the conclusion that torturing the staff was the best way to cry for help. Then again, most cries for help came in the guise of self-destruction. Perhaps wizards lashed out at the creatures around them the same way depressed muggles mutilated and punished themselves. Draco would have been taught that, as a pureblood, he was more valuable than the house elves. Hurting himself would have caused more serious reprimands, while hurting the house elves got him the attention he wanted without serious repercussions.   
  
“Why choking?” Harry asked.   
  
Draco’s mind wandered. Somehow Harry could feel it through the spell, could feel his brain literally reaching back through clouds of memories, digging and scraping until he landed on something tangible.   
  
“Once, when I was small—an’ no, I don’t recall precisely how old—I broke something my mother loved. An instrument or an antique mirror, or… tha’ part’s fuzzy. Father was furious. Tha’ much I know.” Draco was somewhere deep inside his mind, prying out the memory one detail at a time. Harry wasn’t about to interrupt. “My father choked me with magic. I remember being so desperate fer air, my vision thinning an’ evenythin’ slowin’ down. I didn’t fight him.”   
  
Harry tried not to think about his own past—Uncle Vernon’s belt and Aunt Petunia’s inhuman coldness. Days spent without food or sunlight or human contact, only darkness and insults shouted through a locked door. He wanted to focus on Draco’s pain instead of his own. Draco felt it more acutely: this was his own father who had hurt him, not some distant relation. And it had been done to him maliciously, with no thought of helping or saving him by stamping the magic out of him. Harry’s aunt and uncle had, in their own fucked up way, sought to help him. Lucius had only wanted to harm his son out of some sick emotion Harry could never bring himself to understand.   
  
He kept touching Draco’s spine. He could feel in his own mind how calming the simple gesture was. He knew Draco didn’t want him to stop. Draco wanted him as near as possible. So Harry scooted his naked arse across the floor until he and Draco were pressed together from shoulders to toes, the blonde half-squashed under his weight. Instead of complaining, Draco squirmed closer still.   
  
Only then was he able to finish his story. “Mother found him at it. I remember because she was more frightened than I was. Even as a child, I knew tha’ what he did was an expression a’ power as much as rage. After tha’ day, I started chokin’ things when I was upset. I’d hold my breath when I didn’t get what I wanted. I choked the house elves. I choked my tutors. When mother took my wand, I learned ta do it wandlessly. At school, I choked Vince and Greg in fits of rage—over you, of course,” he sighed, breath ghosting warm over Harry’s face.   
  
So Draco had had a kind of inherent magic as a child, too. The same as Harry’s magic had inexplicably landed him on roofs and grown his hair back in a single night, Draco’s rage had pinched windpipes and stolen breath from lungs. And he’d honed that power into a spell without a name, a support system to further his aims without killing his target. That was something Harry had never accomplished. His ability to pull himself out of razor-sharp scrapes was still a great mystery. Where he was still raw, Draco had learned to control himself, channeling his power into repeatable, reliable results.   
  
“The Slytherins used to say you were scary when you were angry,” Harry observed. “Now I know why.”   
  
Draco nodded slowly. “I don’t think I wanted to kill anyone, though. I learned heartbeats an’ rhythms. I learned when ta stop. Jus’ in time.” His eyes blinked open, round as silver sickles. “Do you think tha’s fucked up?”   
  
Harry forced himself to smile for Draco’s sake. “Probably. Good thing this marriage has room for all our oddities.” He sighed, giving Draco his weight as a comfort, squishing him just enough to know he was loved. Violently. “You get off to choking and being bit. I like it up the ass and have been known to hide in cupboards.” Those admissions made Draco smile. “I think we're the only wizards fucked-up enough to understand each other.”   
  
“I think yer right.”   
  
“Ooh,” Harry’s smile got cheeky. “That must've hurt.”   
  
“Not as much as one would think,” Draco pressed against him, a warmth of ribs and thighs so familiar and right against Harry’s own. “I don't mind so much when yer right. Yer bein’ right is part a’ wha’ got us together.”   
  
  


~ * ~

  
  
  
  
Having already premiered his perfected pancake recipe, Harry took a foray into waffles. They sat in the sunroom the next morning, chewing.   
  
“Draco, I’ve had a thought.”   
  
“Don’t worry, love,” the pureblood drawled. “It’ll pass.”   
  
Harry put his fork down. “I'm serious. It’s about the Death Eaters. And Voldemort.”   
  
At that, Draco set his fork down, too. “I've told ya everythin’ I know,” he said quietly. “If ya doubt me—”   
  
“That's not...” Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair, elbows thunking to the table before he leaned forward, starting again. “It's a philosophical thing.”   
  
Draco rolled his eyes, muttering, “Even worse.”   
  
Harry stared him down. “You told me Voldemort hates gays; and yet most of his followers are purebloods who, you tell me, have probably messed about with someone of the same gender... and maybe still do. You insinuated that Snape potentially being bi or whatever would help him as a spy: so does that mean the Death Eaters are a bunch of closeted hypocrites, all stuffing each other the moment Voldemort leaves the room?”   
  
Draco gave an involuntary snort at that mental image—black robes, white masks, cocks whipped out and sucking each other off, Wormtail or some other lackey at the door serving as a lookout. It was frightfully near to the truth, all things considered.   
  
“The pieces don't connect,” Harry was saying. “How can the Death Eaters be radically anti-gay when a portion of them _are_ gay, and the majority of them don't particularly give a shit?”   
  
Harry's hand returned to his hair. It stood on end between his fingers, like spikes jutting from a warrior’s helmet. He was reasoning it out for himself. Draco let him speak.   
  
“Tom Riddle was raised in the muggle world. He wouldn’t have heard anything positive about gay people and sexuality, given the social climate in England back then. Really, Hogwarts would have been the first place he might’ve met an openly gay person. Dumbledore, maybe, or a fellow student. You'd think someone might've pulled him aside and told him it’s accepted, that it’s okay, the way you did with me.”   
  
Draco sighed. Suddenly, his breakfast seemed a lot less appetizing. “It’s true,” he offered. “Many a’ the Death Eaters are open to sex with all types, much like yerself. But this is kept far from the Dark Lord’s sight. His politics are strictly and violently anti-homosexual. It has more to do with continuing the tradition of our kind, which is only possible if we have children. Homosexuality isn't discussed. There is protocol in his presence; reverence, silence, obedience. I’ve heard stories of his torturing followers for standin’ too close ta one another. ‘Forging alliances,’ he calls it. It... wasn’t tolerated. My father warned me endlessly about...” he winced.   
  
“Keeping in the closet,” Harry inferred. His hand snuck across the table, reaching for Draco.   
  
Sober, the blonde nodded. “Precisely.” He refused Harry’s hand. And Harry knew why.   
  
Harry thought back to that summer—to a conversation he and Draco almost had. One which hinted at the inner workings of the Death Eater sects. Harry suspected that sex played a large role in Death Eater culture—that the type of intimacy forged behind closed doors, whether romantic in nature or strictly physical, could not help but bleed over into those political and social “alliances” which the Dark Lord deliberately put down. Alliances were forged in secret, then; between the sheets. Like Lucius Malfoy selling his son’s virginity to seal a business deal with a known Dark family. And everyone involved, save for Draco, had been perfectly fine with it. That had to be the norm within Death Eater circles. Simply the way they did business. Sex was currency; and perhaps it was your magical abilities which determined your level of attractiveness rather than physical features which could easily be altered by magic.   
  
Draco was powerful; gifted, even—magically as well as mentally. He would have been sought after for those reasons alone, let alone his physical beauty. But Draco hadn’t been the only genius among the Death Eaters.   
  
Harry wondered, then, if Severus Snape had really fucked his way through the ranks. If Lucius had done the same. And then Draco was called upon to fill his father’s shoes. That was what he’d meant about his mother not possessing the “necessary proclivities.” Draco refused to let his mother go to bed with a hundred Death Eaters to keep them afloat after Lucius’ imprisonment: so Draco had whored himself in her place.   
  
One sacrifice for another it would seem. Draco slept with his father’s friends to preserve his mother’s pride—and she turned around to wound his, enlisting Snape to fight her son’s battles for him should he fail. Never mind that the quest to assassinate Dumbledore was completely unreasonable. Draco was sixteen at the time and utterly unstable; he’d just fucked and sucked his way through a line of strange perverts old enough to be his father, sneaking from bedroom to bedroom like a war camp whore. Well, perhaps there had been a woman or two in there. And others his age, too—fit ones like Philippe Didier. It didn’t matter so much. Draco liked sex, and probably found a certain pleasure in exceeding his father in skill and reputation. Sex had been the easy task—when it came to assassination... well, Draco should have stuck to cunnilingus.   
  
When Draco was dragged back to the Death Eaters at the end of sixth year, defeated and crushed, his mother took pity on him and set him free. Her sacrifice had cost her everything, it would seem. She now sat in the Janus Thickey Ward, neighbor to the Longbottoms. And Merlin knew how long she would be there. Her mind might never come back. Draco had to miss her.   
  
That was why he didn’t want Harry’s hand. No one, no matter how beloved, could replace his mother.   
  
Still, Harry kept his palm outstretched. “I’m sorry to even bring it up.”   
  
Draco looked miserable. He nodded. “I know.”   
  
“I’m just trying to understand what goes on, so I can piece together some sort of strategy to bring it all down. Anything could be of use, even if it seems trivial. Or painful. I’m trying to figure things out.”   
  
Draco’s fingertips were cool, tracing a vein through Harry’s wrist. He wouldn’t make eye contact.   
  
“Yin and yang,” Draco said simply. “Dumbledore an’ the Dark Lord. From wha’ I understand, they never got on. Likely started at Hogwarts.” Draco shrugged a single shoulder. He was squinting, thinking. Pretty soon his tongue would dart out to wet his lips. “The Dark Lord has devoted his life to bein’ the antithesis a’ that old codger—hateful, cold, violent and unforgiving. I suspect, had Dumbledore taken a wife an’ fathered children, the Dark Lord might’a started buggerin’ his followers in the streets just ter drive the message home.” Harry laughed. He caught Draco’s chilly fingers, giving them a quick squeeze.   
  
Draco took a deep, reflective breath. “It’s not really about the philosophy at all—it’s about condemning someone or something as a whole, without consideration a’ the merits of its many parts. I know it doesn’t make much sense but... really, the Dark Lord’s a bit of a nutter.”   
  
Harry sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from howling at the understatement of the century. “Yeah. A bit. So was Dumbledore, though.”   
  
Draco mock-gasped. “You dare speak ill of your sacred Dumblepotts?”   
  
Harry shrugged. “You know, muggles have a saying that there’s a fine line between genius and madness.” He looked long at Draco, considering the truth of that statement. “Hard to know where exactly that line falls.”   
  
  


~ * ~

  
  
  
  
Their New Year’s Eve dinner was interrupted by frantic knocking on the front door of their challet.   
  
Draco eyed the door, sipping from his wineglass. “I miss owls,” he muttered. Then, considering more fully, “But not the droppings.” He wiggled his fingers, giving Harry his permission to open the damn door. “Go on Chosen One, let’s hear what’s wrong with the muggles.”   
  
Harry checked his wand in his pocket, casting a quick spell to be sure it truly was muggles on the other side. Realizing it was Benoît and Ines, their hearts beating a frantic rhythm, he ripped open the door and gestured them in.   
  
The couple stood on the stoop, snow in their hair, their eyes red, shivering. They refused to step inside to warm up.   
  
“ _Emeline is missing_ ,” Ines told him in a rush. “ _We cannot find her anywhere_.”  
  
“ _She’s fond of Draco_ ,” added Benoît. “ _We thought she might’ve come here_.”   
  
Harry spun to look at Draco. Wineglass frozen before his mouth, Harry watched as Draco weighed his baser instincts with the situation at hand. Sure, Harry sort of wanted to stay where it was warm and dry and bright. But there was a five year old girl lost in the snow, and they had magic—fucking magic—which could find her and bring her home safe to her family. What were they waiting for.   
  
Draco took his wine in one long swallow, laying the glass back on the table. Silver eyes met Harry’s. A slight shiver from the snowy night moved Draco’s shoulders. His eyes never wavered. In an instant, they decided to use their gifts for the greater good.   
  
The pureblood nodded once; curt, succinct, his eyes glowing faintly from the light of the fire, hair a blond-gold halo around his head. “Okay, Godrick,” he intoned. “Let’s go.”   
  
Harry’s brow scrunched. “Thanks, Salazar.”   
  
Bundled up in their winter gear, they trudged out into the night with the panicked parents. Harry quickly suggested they split up to cover more ground. A silent Point Me spell performed in his pocket told him Emeline was somewhere out in the woods. He suggested he and Draco search there while Ines and Benoît double back and re-trace their steps. He wanted the parents far away from himself and Draco—and from the magic they were undoubtedly about to perform.   
  
Ines protested, but Benoît was able to convince his wife. “ _Harry has military training, remember? He’s the best person to find her_.”  
  
Draco elbowed him in the ribs as the couple departed.   
  
“The woods,” Harry offered without preamble. “Can you run?”   
  
Seeing the worry in his husband’s brow, Draco rolled his eyes and nodded. They took off at a jog, following the tug of Harry’s phoenix feather wand from his pocket.   
  
The last time the pair of them were scared and alone in the woods together, they’d been first years serving detention. How much had changed. They led very different lives six years later. Smetimes Harry thought he was a very different person than he’d been when he started Hogwarts. Back then, he’d allowed the decisions of others to shape his life; now he took charge. Now it was his choices which drove his actions.   
  
He glanced back, slowing down, giving Draco a chance to catch up. The pureblood trained on a broom in the winter but wasn’t accustomed to the rough terrain and knee-high snowdrifts. The moment they wee out of sight of the muggles, Draco had begin melting the snow with bursts of flame from his wand, making it easier to keep up with his husband—making a mud path as well, which they could use to trace their way back to the cottage later. Harry would have to replace the snow so the muggles who tended the estate didn’t become suspicious.   
  
Over and over, Harry performed the Point Me spell. After what felt like an eternity, but was in truth around fifteen minutes, he and Draco found Emeline lying at the mouth of a shallow cave.   
  
Dropping to his knees, Harry checked the child over. She had a pulse and was breathing, but shallowly. Her skin was cold and clammy to the touch, her libms stiff. Draco stood over him, muttering “ _Lumos_ ” with his wand aloft so Harry could see what he was doing.   
  
He looked up at Draco, squinting against the light. “What do you think? Enervate?”   
  
Draco nodded emphatically. “Should do it. But…” and he bit the side of his lip, his shoulders rising. “Her memory.”   
  
“Right. Shit.” Harry scooped Emeline off of the ground and into his arms at least, wanting to get her warm as quickly as possible. She weighed nothing. He held her in one arm, his wand in the other, casting a quick Heating Charm.   
  
“I can Obliviate her,” Draco offered.   
  
“Probably for the best,” Harry agreed. For all his work in America, his experience with memory modification was still dodgy. He didn’t want to risk damaging the mind of a young child.   
  
Harry kissed Draco’s cheek in the blistering cold, holding the girl tight to his chest.   
  
“Give her a clear memory, Draco. A nice, normal, muggle one. You know—the opposite of us.”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
They Apparated to Paris later that night—mostly because they could. After the fright of searching for Emeline, and the overwhelming emotion of her parents when she was returned, it seemed a good idea to run away and get fucking blitzed rather than deal with everything.   
  
Harry popped a bottle of champagne. Just because.   
  
They’d need to go in disguise. Draco took up his roost, preening before the bathroom mirror, once again darkening his hair and shaping himself a perfect, scruffy little goatee—the way he’d looked when they’d gone to the muggle clubs in London, dark and dirty and masculine. It made Harry want to pinch his cheeks. He made such a ruggedly boyish man when he tried.   
  
They were a far cry from their first adventure together—Draco fixing Harry’s hair, criticizing his clothing choices… not so subtly eyeing his body. Gods, they’d been so fucking obvious. No wonder Ron and Hermione wanted to kill them. They each had to get their heads out of their own asses in order to see what the hell was happening. As soon as they gave into one another, their lives started.   
  
Hoping to amuse Draco with his own disguise, Harry attempted a similar spell to lighten his own hair. He went too far, landing somewhere between honey blond and Draco's platinum. The pureblood git laughed so hard that Harry kept it, charming on several tattoos and facial piercings to go with—the result of which rendered him unrecognizable, save for his trademark glasses and lightning scar.   
  
They wandered the streets of Paris, Harry in his plaid shirt and too-tight khakis and Draco bundled up in Harry's leather jacket, arms around one another, dipping in and out of bars and discos as the night wandered by and the new year rang in.   
  
They paused at a concert hall, patrons congregating outside with ripped clothes and wild haircuts, covered in tattoos and piercings, cigarettes in hand. English rock in French accents blared from within the walls, rattling nearby street lights. Harry raised his eyebrows at Draco.   
  
“Sold out,” the pureblood translated, indicating the marquee above.   
  
“'S a shame,” Harry shrugged.   
  
Walking on, Harry stopped at the corner, music still vibrating the pavement. He’d caught sight of a couple in the theater's alley, a man and woman. Harry didn't have to strain his ears or squint through the dark to know what they were doing. He knew what sex sounded like. And this pair was enjoying it.   
  
He turned back to Draco with a smile on his face. “Remind you of anyone?” He waggled his eyebrows. Just then the woman moaned loudly, punctuating his point.   
  
Draco's hands were shoved in his jacket pockets for warmth. He banged his hip against Harry's. “You're as much of an exhibitionist as I am, Wonder Boy,” the pureblood shot back. “Admit it: you fancy it.”   
  
Harry leaned close, mumbling in the man's ear, “I like having you. Anything else is just a bonus.”   
  
Before he knew what was going on, Draco had his wand out and was dragging Harry by the front of his shirt into the darkened alleyway.   
  
The muggle couple glanced up—and Draco's spell was away. The Memory Charm hit them in a burst of yellow-orange light, dissolving like a puff of smoke. A second later they smiled and returned to their previous activity. With renewed vigor, now that they had an audience.   
  
Harry found himself slammed against the nearest wall, Draco slithering down to his knees.   
  
“S-should we be doing this?” Harry mumbled, hands fisting in his husband’s darkened hair, doing his best to hold the greedy git in check.   
  
Draco dropped the zip on Harry’s trousers and shrugged.   
  
“How much have you had to drink?” Harry wheezed.   
  
Draco brushed his concern aside. “Wine with dinner, a few ales,” he answered, detached. “I'm hardly drunk.”   
  
Harry's eyes were glued to the pink wetness of his husband’s mouth, tongue darting out to rub against his lips, licking them, excited by the danger and the wrongness of it all. His breath was a cloud escaping his nose, pink flush on his cheeks. Big elf-like eyes—silver rimmed in black—peered up at him through the dark.   
  
He was beautiful.   
  
He groped at Harry—just right, firm and insistent—earning a long, tortured moan for his efforts.   
  
“Ahhh-hhhh-ha.... fuh... quick about it, then,” Harry agreed. He couldn't help himself. His jaw went lax, falling open, eyes eager to examine the back of his skull. His lashes fluttered before dropping shut. He was gone. “'Fore we get caught.”   
  
  
  
  
  
The muggle couple darted back into the concert, holding the door for Harry and Draco. The woman said something to Draco in French, touching his arm. Draco replied, smiling briefly. Harry and the fellow exchanged nods, going their separate ways once inside.   
  
He and Draco jumped around on the dance floor, grinding their hips and screaming along with the crowd. Draco mouthed the lyrics when he knew them, and snogged Harry senseless when he didn't. Harry got snogged more and more as dawn approached.   
  
A man in the bloke's loo sold Draco an alarmingly large bag of marijuana. It had to be charmed just to fit in his pocket. Harry suspected there might have been a _Confundo_ involved. Overall, they both considered it a highly successful start to the new year.   
  
  


~ * ~

  
  
  
  
“I know that face.”   
  
Draco’s eyes widened, mock-innocent. “I have no idea what face—”   
  
“What’s that in your hand?” Harry interrupted, pointing to Draco’s closed fist—where he was admittedly concealing a potion vial, but he hadn’t wanted Harry to know that quite yet. Nothing escaped the man’s notice these days. Bloody Yankee Hit Wizard training.   
  
Draco came to stand in front of Harry, who sat on the edge of the bed pulling his shoes and socks off. The wizard could make brushing his teeth look sexy without even trying. The careless blasé of Harry’s body language—which had once driven Draco mad with hatred for the simplistic, pedestrian nature of that muggle-reared body—now made his prick alarmingly hard. Draco watched a muscle in Harry’s forearm flex as he flung his sock across the room into the dirty clothes hamper. Still a muggle at heart, throwing his clothes around instead of using magic.   
  
The mundanity had become an integral part of Harry’s charm. Fist fights and manual labor made Harry who he was, and there was no reason to pretend it wasn’t true. Harry’s physicality was brutal at times. But fucking sexy. He was at his core a man of few words, a man of action, a soldier. And Draco, who had always struggled to set his desires in motion, had found a grudging admiration and respect for that quality. Perhaps one day some of Harry’s gumption might rub off on him. Perhaps it already had.   
  
Draco opened his hand in Harry’s face, letting him see the potion bottle he’d been hiding, unsuccessfully, in his fist.   
  
“Found it in yer bag,” he explained. It was Fred and George’s gender-swapping potion—the one which had caused so much trouble back at Grimmauld Place. The one that gave him a magnificent pair of tits… and earned Harry a bloody lip from Draco’s right cross. That potion was trouble in a bottle.   
  
Harry looked up at Draco, over the rims of his glasses like Madame Pince. His face was neutral, mildly curious, his brows rising ever so slightly. Draco could read the invitation to go on as his husband continued to strip, working his belt buckle loose.   
  
“I thought… er,” Draco mumbled, his nerve abandoning him. “You might….”   
  
He stopped making sense when Harry reached a hand behind his neck to casually pull his shirt over his head. For weeks Draco had been starving, deprived of simple moments like this. They were always whipping their cocks out in cupboards, or falling into bed in the dead of night. Always Harry would steal off in the morning. Always leaving Draco to wake up in a cold, empty bed. As though Harry were a figment of his imagination and Draco was in truth alone in the world. The last time they’d had nights like this—washing up for bed like a regular bloody couple—had been back at Grimmauld Place. What felt like another lifetime ago. Before the war, before everything had come crumbling down.   
  
The sight of Harry James Potter liesurely taking his clothes off was a mirage, too good to be real. Any moment now the Death Eaters would break in and kill them where they stood… or at least those were the images Draco’s brain invented when left unchecked.   
  
Harry looped his finger into Draco’s waistband and tugged him closer. “Honeymoon schenanigans, Draco.” He jutted his chin towards the potion. “Which of us is gonna be the bird, then?”   
  
The Boy Who Lived guessed it in one. Draco rolled his eyes. “You, stupid,” he shot back. “I wanna turn you into a girl. And fuck you.”   
  
Behind his glasses, Harry’s eyes brightened. His tongue snuck out to lick his lips. Without missing a beat, Harry said, “I think I’d like that.”   
  
Draco was beginning to understand that, as much as Harry enjoyed this recent exploration into being a top, he still really got off to being stuffed—preferrably as rough as possible. Which thankfully was a service Draco was well-equipped to provide.   
  
“Women have twice as many nerve endings between their legs, you know,” Draco added. “You’re gonna love getting pounded as a girl.”   
  
Repeating it, that Harry Potter had just agreed to swallow a potion and temporarily become a woman for him, did very funny things to his blood pressure. Currently it sang in his ears, simultaneously running to pool between his thighs. A few more seconds and his boner would be visible through his trousers.   
  
Harry snorted—not the reaction Draco had been hoping for. He stood up, his hand still holding Draco’s trousers, getting in his face, keeping him close but not quite touching, their noses a scant few centimeters apart. “Somehow I think you’re gonna love it more. It’s something new at least.”   
  
His green eyes closed briefly. He was so close that the ripple of disturbed air from his eyelashes tickled Draco’s own cheek. An inhale, steady and filling his chest, breathing Draco in. Then, off-handed, Harry volunteered, “I’ve never fucked a woman before.”   
  
“Excuse me?” Draco spluttered.   
  
Harry’s mouth turned up in a smile. “You’re the only one I’ve been with.”   
  
Draco couldn’t believe his ears. Harry was totally unselfconscious about it, almost banal. He reached for the potion in Draco’s hand.   
  
Draco took a step away, questioning, “But… wha’ about tha’ muggle girl? With the tattoos… from the bar… wha’ was her name again?”   
  
“Heather,” Harry supplied. “We fooled around, but it stopped at oral. You’re the only one I’ve been inside.”   
  
It took a stunned moment for Draco to wrap his mind around the idea; that Harry Potter, the Harry he knew—the leader, the fighter, The Chosen One—had only ever been his.   
  
It was an idiotic notion. Childish. To be proud of only having fucked one person on the entire planet. Sodding Gryffindors! Sex was a reflex, like drinking to slake a thirst. His entire life Draco had viewed the activity as akin to scratching an itch—fulfilling a need, nothing special.   
  
That was before Harry. Because Harry had ruined him. After having meaningful, emotionally-invested sex with Harry, he could never be satisfied with the mindless fuckery of his previous sexual conquests. For Harry, this intense connection was all he’d ever known. This relationship, and the mind-numbing bliss they shared when they fucked, was his baseline.   
  
Harry Potter was one lucky bastard.   
  
Draco ducked away, closing his fist around the potion phial, using one finger to point back at Harry. “We can’t have that,” he waved his finger inexactly. “No, it won’t do. Harry Potter has to fuck a bint. I mean,” he paused dramatically, pitching his voice to a sarcastic, breathy whisper, “you’re The Chosen One. We can’t have you walking around full-poof, never had yer todger in a woman—no, it won’t do!”   
  
Harry closed his eyes, laughing uncontrollably, following Draco as he backed across the room. “But I’ll still be fucking _you_ ,” Harry insisted, “and you’re very much a bloke. What’s the difference?”   
  
_Because you deserve the chance to be with a woman_ , Draco thought rashly. Harry deserved to lose that last vestige of conventional virginity. Harry _was_ straight, more or less. He ought to have sex with a woman at least once. And Draco wanted to be there, to do it with him. What more perfect time than their honeymoon? It would be so cliché. They’d both be virgins. Screwing for the first time as man and wife. But he’d never say that out loud, and never to Harry. Not without Veritaserum and a Death-Eater-quality beating.   
  
Draco squared his shoulders and offered instead, “The entire world already thinks I’m Harry Potter’s bitch, anyway. Why the hell not? Indulge me.”   
  
“I won’t argue with you,” Harry shrugged. “Either way I’m getting laid. Give us the potion, then.”   
  
Draco opened his palm. “Make me pretty,” he advised. “ _Not_ ginger.”   
  
Harry chuckled. “But what if I enjoy ginger?”   
  
Distracted, Draco completely missed the subtle reference to Harry’s ex. Incensed, he withdrew his hand and spat, “Nobody _fancies_ ginger. Don’t be daft.”   
  
Instead Harry egged him on, edging around an armchair to catch him at another angle and get the potion from him. Harry’s instincts were a hunter’s, tracking him across the room even as they laughed. The git teased him,“What would you do if I made you ginger?”   
  
Draco darted around the armchair too, exclaiming hautily, “I’d divorce you!”   
  
A snort of laughter only slowed Harry for an instant. He’d always been fast—faster than Draco on the ground at least. Only on broomsticks or on their backs were they evenly matched. Draco was starting to doubt the _on their backs_ part, as Harry was gaining on him unabashedly half-undressed.   
  
“You’d leave me?” The Chosen Cunt pouted. “Over one ginger minge?”   
  
The bastard wasn’t even winded, keeping pace with Draco’s every move, steadily backing him into a corner.   
  
“Yes darling Gryffindor. We all have our limits. I draw the line at ginger.”   
  
Out of nowhere Harry lunged, tackling him; taking him to the floor in less time than it took to get a lung full of air. They landed on the carpet with a hard thump. Draco couldn’t catch his breath. Harry had winded him, cinching his diaphragm on the way down and then pinning him, his arms behind his back, a knee in his tender side keeping him down—helpless. If it wasn’t Harry he’d have screamed like a bloody girl.   
  
Harry had always been strong. Now he was deadly. His reflexes told the story for him. A second later he realized how unforgiving his grip was, how nasty that knee to the ribs was, and he let up the pressure just enough for Draco to drag in a breath. Still, he didn’t let go.   
  
“Yeh could make me anythin’ in the world,” Draco wheezed. He wriggled even though it wouldn’t do him any good. Principle of the thing. If he stopped fighting Harry would get bored and stop pushing the boundaries. It was always better when Harry pushed. So Draco shoved back. “Any bint you’ve ever wanted, any fantasy... and yeh’d go ginger?” He twisted his face into one of disgust.   
  
The idea of bringing a female body into their bed fascinated Draco. The last time he’d had tits went down as a wank for the ages. He’d always been attracted to the physicality of women—their soft skin, their curves, light voices, the way they sighed and melted into a pile of limbs. Women could do things which men simply couldn’t. And he wanted to see what Harry would do with that; how he would react, what would turn him on.   
  
He’d meant it when he told Harry to make him beautiful. He wanted to be attractive—to be Harry’s fantasy, whatever that was. But also to be turned on by his own body again instead of hesitant, nervous, below-the-surface fretting over his sinewy limbs and ugly scars.   
  
Harry wormed the phial out from Draco’s fist—using a vicious trigger point on his upper arm until his fingers went numb, then prying it away. Once he had it he sat himself straddling Draco’s hips, releasing his arms. Draco lay there, prone and conquered, watching Harry’s face as he uncorked the potion and pulled out his wand.   
  
“Honestly,” Draco pleaded. “Make me ginger and I promise I’ll kill you in your sleep.”   
  
Wand-tip to his temple, Harry summoned the first memory which would make up the woman Draco would be for the next six or eight hours. He pulled one silvery thread of memory after another; taking his time, building exactly the woman he wanted, down to the sound of her voice and the length of her fingernails. The whole time Harry silently stared Draco down, daring him to make a single comment about red hair and call to mind a Weasley in the middle of memory extraction. Draco understood the very real danger and kept his gob shut.   
  
Finally Harry was finished. He handed the potion over—his sexual fantasy in a bottle, ready to come to life.   
  
Draco downed the brew, trying not to breathe for the acidic taste. He was able to get Harry off of him with a plea that he wanted to watch the transformation of his body in the washroom mirror. Harry didn’t press the matter, nor did he follow Draco into the WC—aligning well with Draco’s impulse to re-emerge in a moment, naked, as his husband’s ultimate fantasy in the flesh.   
  
Ensconced in the bathroom, Draco pulled his shirt off, anticipating the moment that a mighty pair of bristols would emerge from his flesh like Mount Kilimanjaro bursting through the clouds. The glorious moment never came. In fact, he almost missed it.   
  
Draco glared at the little mirror over the sink, waiting for the moment his body began to shift. The results were oddly disppointing. No big tits. No swaying hips. No killer ass. He looked, if anything, like a tomboy-ish Luna Lovegood, a highly androgenous but passibly-female-when-naked version of himself. His hair hadn’t changed at all in color, and was only longer, wavy, brushing his shoulders. His eyes and nose remained exactly the same, though his face became smaller, his lips fuller and darker. His skin was his own—pale, damaged. Harry had the nerve to keep every last one of his scars. The git had put them back from memory; the white gash at his hairline, the slashes and burns over his neck and collarbones, the great Sectumsempra swipe now cutting over his left breast, making it a pathetic mangled handful. Even the big coral-colored patch of ill-grown skin covering his ribs remained to mar his flesh. Harry kept every freckle, his birth mark, his fucking Dark Mark… everything.   
  
Draco ran a hand down his new body; he was beyond petite and approaching fae in proportions, not much over six stone and well under five feet tall. With a waist and hips so slender his trousers began to slip. He kicked them off along with his pants, examining a pair of slender, pale legs ending in equally tiny feet. At least that much was feminine.   
  
Harry would be larger, more male compared to this body, able to pick him up with one arm and manhandle him around the bed. He wondered if Harry would still fight him, looking this way. If Harry would shove a girl the way he did Draco in his normal male body; wrestling him to the gound, holding him by his throat until he gave in. It was one thing to fight when they were equally matched—like this it would be vicious, entirely one-sided. Would Harry have it in him to push around a woman, even with Draco inside?   
  
Something told him Harry was too much a Gryffindor to bruise a lady. Another part—a hopeful one—thought Harry would stick to what he knew his partner liked, regardless of the gender he inhabited for the night.   
  
Draco emerged from the WC with far less extravagance than he’d imagined. Instead of swishing his hips, breasts on display, he covered his insignificant chest with his Marked arm, inching out from behind the bathroom door.   
  
Harry sat at the edge of the bed in nothing but his plaid boxers with the freyed-out, elastic-exposed waistband, a rip forming at the side from overwear. Boxers which Draco had stolen months ago and made his own. Harry had taken them back for a few days, reviving them with his scent before he went away again.   
  
Draco tested his new voice with the first thing to come to mind.   
  
“Yer sure yeh wouldn’t prefer bigger tits?”   
  
Fucking Potter had exaggerated his ruddy West Country accent! He had the uncouth drawl of a muggle girl raised in one of the cottages outside Devizes. Certainly not the voice of a Malfoy.   
  
Harry smirked—not so much as glancing at the tiny tits he’d made, the wanker. “I’m sure.”   
  
“I can spell ‘em bigger if—”   
  
Harry stood. And that action alone stopped Draco’s breath. Harry seemed tall now—taller than him, broader, so much more powerful. His voice shook the collar bones of this miniscule new body. “Draco. Stuff it about the fucking bristols. They’re exactly what I wanted.”   
  
The naked pureblood let out a derisive snort.   
  
“I don’t want a sex doll,” Harry told him, stepping close. Warm hands settled at his hips, no longer narrow but rounder, soft, feminine. He was so small under Harry’s hands. This was how everyone else saw Harry: dominant, commanding, strong and capable of anything. What a difference a few centimeters made. He was seeing Harry with new eyes.   
  
“I want you,” Harry told him. “Just you. You’re my fantasy—have been for a long time.”   
  
“But… I’m not me,” Draco whined. “I’m a girl.”   
  
Harry snorted. “Yeah, and?” Then, his arm closing around that slight waist, muscles flexing, “Act like one.”   
  
The kiss came down hard, biting, no different than they’d kissed before. Harry was just larger, more consuming. His lips were thicker, his tongue heavier, sweeping into Draco’s mouth to test the feel of his teeth, his tongue, the roof of his mouth. Harry tipped that new blonde head back with a handful of hair and dove in.   
  
Harry seemed to like what he’d made. Muscles flexed around Draco like a cage of flesh and bone, trapping him against Harry’s body, now much harder by comparison. Draco thought he could melt into this—heat and hard flesh, the scrape of chest hair against his nipples, enclosed in Harry like an owlet under a wing. He mewled; a soft, sweet, uncontrollable sound, and let Harry do as he would.   
  
Sensing his surrender, Harry lifted him by the ribs, not even grunting with effort, the sinew of his muscles showing as he lifted this much smaller body up and onto the bed. He set Draco’s rear end on the edge of the mattress, fists at either side of slender nude hips, hunched over him as he sat. Warm lips traced the familiar line of an old burn scar trailing over Draco’s collar bone—Harry’s mouth now larger, hotter, his teeth a true danger as they grazed this too tender flesh. A red welt formed almost immediately as Harry’s teeth suckled his neck, grazing over where an Adam’s apple used to be, pressure and the touch of Harry’s shoulder against his sternum pushing him back to the mattress.   
  
Offhandedly, Harry waved his fingers, shutting off the overhead light and illuminating the electric lamp beside the bed—clearly an American trick. Draco shivered at the zing of magic over his skin, salivated at the first beads of sweat blooming over Harry’s skin, so close to Draco’s mouth he could all but taste him.   
  
Draco gave a listless buck of his hips, for the first time unsure of what this body needed. He had no cock to rut against Harry’s. He settled for inching his way down the bedding until his mound made contact with the middle of Harry’s thigh. He ground himself, looking for relief. Instead that carnal circular motion only increased the pressure but did nothing to stem the ache.   
  
Harry took his leg away, instead resting the bone of his knee just above Draco’s pubic bone. The pressure was mind-numbing; his back arching, fingers flying to twist his nipples, smashing his breasts together in echo of the unrelenting force Harry exerted on his new, foreign organs.   
  
Haunches shaking, he realized the insides of his thighs were already slick. A puddle beneath him on the sheets stood as evidence.   
  
Harry hummed his approval, licking a hot stripe up Draco’s neck, ending with a nip to his ear, speaking softly but darkly. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re good an ready before I fuck you, luv.”   
  
All Draco could do in reply was groan.   
  
Harry bit his earlobe, teasing a bit with his tongue, testing every inch of new flesh he’d made. Mercifully he removed his knee. The pressure of that knee stayed with him, like smashed biscuit dough having lost its rise. Even as Harry pulled away Draco felt a shadow of the weight of him, his muscles still seizing, organs tensed as though Harry’s weight were still on him without even being touched.   
  
Harry knelt beside the bed and nudged his thighs open, sliding off the bed to the floor… the better to look between his legs. Curious, Draco sat up and looked too.   
  
Harry had perfeectly replicated the color of his pubic hair. From memory. And there was a fair amount of it, trimmed for ease of acces but not nearly so bare as Draco would have liked. Were it up to him he’d have been bald. But as he was realizing, this was Harry’s dream, not his. And Harry Potter’s dirtiest fantasy involved a miniscule androgenous blonde with a Westie accent, a collection of swirling scars, and more pubic hair than tits.   
  
“ _You know I like to watch_ ,” Harry hissed. “ _Touch yourself. You’re already wet_.”  
  
Which was glaringly obvious. Damp curls clung to his thighs the further he opened them.   
  
Harry’s eyes flashed, breathing visibly—drunk on that first soft whiff of pussy. Draco groaned. He could smell it too, mixing with the first beads of sweat on his new skin. Being wet felt like wearing damp denims for skin; he couldn’t escape the source that made him sticky, hot and cold at the same time. He was pinched, stuck inside of it, trapped.   
  
Harry parted him. Hot breath met his inner folds, making his throat dry even as he threw his head back against the bed, gasping for breath. It was true about women having more nerve endings. He hadn’t accounted for what that would actually feel like. The sensation of Harry’s breath alone was making him wetter. Muscles he couldn’t recall the names for rolled in a constant pitch, echoing that damn pressure Harry had put on him… a dull ache which spread throughout his pelvis: tightness, muscles curled, not knowing how to release.   
  
“ _Touch yourself_ ,” Harry repeated. He took Draco’s hand, drawing it down his body, minding the curves.Harry placed his two fingers to either side of his lips, resting a moment before guiding them up.   
  
Draco’s eyes shut after that. The most seemingly simple action sent shivers through his body—because Harry was directing it. Because Harry’s face was only a few centemeters away, his own breath picking up, his chest rumbling low, resisting the urge to do as he liked.   
  
“ _I’ll use my fingers_ ,” Draco suggested, “ _if you use yer tongue_.”  
  
Permission was a dangerous ticket to grant Harry Potter. Draco ought to have remembered that. Harry had been holding back. He shouldn’t have issued that challenge. Gone were his inhibition, those Gryffindor niceties. Harry’s mouth was loosed upon him, an onslaught. Try as he might, he could not process what was lips, teeth, tongue, fingers… his own, Harry’s. He couldn’t tell. Every sensation was too new. Harry acted on brutal, violent instinct. Even his stubble was like knives, totally new against virgin skin. Surely, Harry would devour him.   
  
In an instinct to protect himself from overstimulation, Draco’s thighs began to close. Harry pressed them out again as though his full anxious force were nothing, pushing him wider than before, his tongue—if that was his tongue—delving deeper.   
  
Draco shook. This was a side to Harry he’d seen increasing glimpses of in the last few months, an inner animal hinted at but never experienced fully. He was so turned on he could scream.   
  
“ _Don’t fight it_ ,” Harry told him. “ _You can come as much as you want_.”  
  
He could, he realized. With Harry’s mouth and fingers working him, orgasms were in ready supply. Harry used every spot Draco would have gone after himself, and a few he didn’t know existed—which Harry presumably found by sheer gut instinct, hetero-virgin that he was. He had no problem interpreting the female anatomy. With every guess he was exactly right; the pressure, the speed, the alternating rhythm. Draco didn’t have to ask for a thing—only to whine and pant and urge Harry on with language a deaf man could understand.   
  
Harry rolled Draco to sit on his face, smothering him in hair and thighs and wet sex all over his chin in an instant.   
  
Draco was gone, chaining more pleasure than he’d thought possible—clenched tight to bursting, sweat gathering at his tailbone and rolling between his breasts. He grabbed his nipples, twisted and arched back as the muscle spasms overtook him, letting Harry’s hands clamped over his arse keep him upright.   
  
He’d never felt so drunk, so high on sex, in his entire life.   
  
He didn’t have his breath—it was gone, stolen, belonging to Harry now. Gasping was what he was allowed, the shallowest suggestion of getting his bearings. He couldn’t breathe as Harry manhandled him onto the bed, face down on his knees. Harry had to rearrange his forearms, pillowing his head on them. He could barely fucking move.   
  
Harry’s thick fingers curled in the hair at the back of his head, holding him still as an even thicker dick—still in his boxers, the git—pressed against his sensitive arse. And gods, his cunt was so fucking swollen. The press of Harry’s shaft alone had at least a stone’s worth of force. His eyes watered, a tear slipping down his arm. Pulling on his hair, Harry increased the pressure until his back arched, forcing him to take more.   
  
Draco gasped again. It was all he could do. Now, Harry was using him as his play-thing—teasing him with dick, slapping his ass, giving more physical restraint than Draco had imagined the Golden Boy of Gryffindor had in him. He pushed Draco face-down into the bed, holding him with his arms back, nearly dislocating his shoulders, making it harder still for him to breathe.   
  
The next time Harry pressed against him, the stupid boxers were gone. Draco yelped—actually cried. It was happening, that skin-on-skin slide of soft wet pussy and hard cock. Draco saw sparks in his vision, backing himself up into it as best he could, begging with the swaying of his rump no matter how badly his shoulders hurt. His entire body ached with a pain he hadn’t known before. Something inside him was empty—was caving in, and he needed Harry’s stupid cock to prop things up before they collapsed and crushed him.   
  
Slowly, so slowly Draco started screaming into the sheets, Harry ran his prick over Draco’s arsehole, parting the folds of his slick pink labia but not quite pushing in, not giving Draco what he needed. What he begged for. Harry chose hurting him instead, pushing him a hair away so that he had to ramp up the pressure on his arms just to keep in contact with Harry’s dick, which was what they both wanted in the first place.   
  
When he was sure Draco was crying—when he sniffled and snorted against the sheets but continued to squirm, showing Harry just how much he wanted it—he was released. Draco sagged to his side and Harry let him fall, using a forearm to roll him to his back, then gathering his legs into a convenient, manipulatable packet as he saw fit. Draco’s knees were inserted at either side of his chin, his driping wet gash on display between his thighs.   
  
Come ran down his crack, over his buttocks there was so much of it. The sheets were wet beneath him and it was mostly him, not Harry’s sweat. His husband had barely started to work and Draco was already made of putty.   
  
Harry licked him—one long slow swipe of his tongue, caressing his swollen lips while utterly ignoring his multiple openings. Harry sucked the very tip of his clit, touching nothing else, then backed away, surveying.   
  
A deep growl vibrated the air all around them. Harry’s bright green eyes fixed between his legs, nostrils flaring, still licking the flavor from his lips. His hand flew, slapping that poor sodden pussy—needing to feel the sticky juice fly between his fingers as he smacked it, earning a startled shout from Draco.   
  
“Sweet Salazar, you beast!”   
  
Harry bit the back of Draco’s thigh. A solitary finger traced the line of his gash, root to tip, the way he sometimes traced the scar running the length of Draco’s cock. “Again?” he asked.   
  
Draco whimpered in the affirmative. And Harry slapped him again.   
  
“Yes.” And again. “Yes!” And again, more rough than before. “Please! Harry, just fuck me. Fuck me… _please_.”  
  
Harry traced his slit again, the wetness clinging to his fingers. Even Draco’s come didn’t want to let him go.   
  
“Do you think you’re ready to be fucked?”   
  
He didn’t wait to find out, grabbing Draco by the ankles and forcing his legs apart, positioning himself between them. It might’ve been combative, if only Draco had the desire to fight back. As it was, his inner masochist wanted to see just how far this torture would go.   
  
“Please…” Draco whined, utterly undone. “Take me….”  
  
Harry adjusted Draco’s legs until they wrapped around his torso—knees not quite up to his armpits, but hugging his torso, pressing on the sides of his ribs, holding close. With firm hands on Draco’s shoulders, he realized what Harry was up to. His husband had put him on his back. Of course, when the time came to actually get his dick in a woman, Harry Potter the consumate Gryffindor would go for the missionary position.   
  
Draco rolled his eyes until he felt Harry at his very slick, sore opening. Missionary might not have been the worst of Harry’s ideas after all. Draco’s female body was petite: Harry’s cock was not. Although not as long as Draco in his normal state, Harry was deceptively thick... not unlike his social persona, Harry The Bumbling. This incarnation, Husband Harry, had it about right to get Draco on his back. He felt an unknown muscle below his diaphragm begin to drop, settling back against his tailbone. He’d have a few precious centimeters to offer Harry now that he’d decided it was time to penetrate.   
  
“Look at me,” Harry growled, holding his face. “I need to see your face when I’m inside you.”   
  
Harry was at once the same and utterly, incomprehensibly different. Something changed. Perhaps because he was thrusting into a woman for the first time. Magic charged his voice like static electricity. Both their bodies buzzed with it. The world fell away as Harry thrust his way in on one unforgiving buck of his hips.   
  
There was no point in denying it: Harry Potter was straight… and made for pussy. From the slight upturn of his cock to the curl of his lips and curve of his hips, he was meant to screw women. And it showed in his face—all through his body. The instant he was in, he knew. No need to guide or suggest. Harry grabbed Draco by the hip and dove in, fast and hard—a man in a way he’d never been before that moment.   
  
Eyes wide, Draco screamed right in his husband’s face. “Gah! Yeh fuckin’ bastard!”   
  
Harry The Idiot had given him a hymen to go with his nubile virgin body. If he wasn’t momentarily shocked by the pain he might’ve been angrier. But all he could feel was tender burning—the ripping of flesh that was decidedly feminine, a pleasure-pain he’d never known possible. It rendered him incomprehensible… and then vehement.   
  
“Yer such a fuckin’ idiot, Potter.”   
  
Harry had the nerve to wink at him. “I know.” And he brushed his lips to Draco’s. Supported on his elbows, close enough to touch without crushing Draco with his weight—now three or four stone heavier. They were connected at mouth and groin, an equally lush, wet contact. He sucked Draco’s lower lip into his mouth, sultry, working the flesh between his teeth as a lethargic little distraction.   
  
It took a moment for the pain to pass. Slowly Draco’s body adjusted. Tensing muscles relaxed, uncoiling, releasing their death grip on Harry’s poor prick.   
  
Hovering, Harry raised his eyebrows. “Stop?” It was the only word he got out, frozen on the precipice. It took control not to tip over, not to start moving—pounding like he wanted to, like his body was built for. The way they both liked. He was giving Draco a chance to back out.   
  
“Yer a cunt,” Draco articulated through clenched teeth. Now the shock and discomfort had passed, he had the wherewithal to be incensed about the hymen again. “That bloody hurt. But no. Don’t you dare stop.”   
  
Harry pulled himself half-way out, pushing up on solid locked arms, straightening so they could both witness the biblical smear of virgin blood on him as he pulled out. There was a fair bit of it. More than Draco had expected. A thick lymph of red-tinged come coated the head of Harry’s cock, stuck in the ridge where his head met the shaft, and extended like a tiny massacre an inch or so lower. A battlefield of the dick.   
  
Draco couldn’t help the jab that fell out of his mouth. “Yeh’ve fucked a virgin now. Does it make ya feel like a man?”   
  
Harry knocked his hips forward—the same short burst of casual energy as closing a kitchen drawer with his hip, except he was bashing the tender ripped mess of Draco’s innards rather than an innanimate object. He knew it too. That show of brute force was a part of who he was. When challenged, Harry always rose to it with stupidly ready vigor.   
  
In contrast his lips made a slow exploration of Draco’s, barely skimming, tasting, licking at his breath like a fine meal set before him. This was his treat. He’d found a way to hurt Draco and pleasure his own perverse, squishy deamons at the same time. He was enjoying it.   
  
One soft press of lips, meaningful, as his dick found the last bit of resistance—found Draco’s cervix and bore down. “Don’t be daft. You always make me feel like a man.” He paused, wheels turning in his mind. “Better than a man. Like a wizard.”   
  
His hands lit up, crackling against Draco’s tender skin, raising bumps like cold and electricity all in one. The shot of magic was exactly the balm he needed to endure as Harry laid into him for real; thrusting the way he wanted to, the way his body was built for. Sheer power, overwhelming force. The hand closing over Draco’s neck was instinct, too. Harry was _not_ afraid to hurt a girl, just as he wasn’t afraid to hurt Draco. They’d wounded each other enough over the years. This was the good kind of hurt. One they could share, giving and receiving in kind.   
  
Draco found an impetuous, yearning sound in his throat, living just beneath Harry’s hand. Harry brought this out with his magic, his kissing, his sex. Even with his dick inside Draco he could still make him desperate, make him keen and thrash and fight. His teeth sunk into Harry—any part he could get, in a vain effort to give remotely as much as he was getting.   
  
Harry was relentless, choking and pressing and confining enough that Draco bit him for real, breaking his skin. He sucked, pulling at Harry’s blood, that strangely familiar taste. He’d never wanted to see another person bleed before. But he was bleeding and it was only right that Harry shed a little blood, too.   
  
Harry noticed and hardly slowed. Green eyes flickered to the bloody bite on his trapezius, lingering over the silky red cast of Draco’s teeth. He snapped them at Harry, half threat and half serious. Harry had girth—his prick wasn’t exactly comfortable, and the pain was far from receded. He wanted Harry to know it.   
  
A drop of blood trickled down Harry’s collar bone. Draco’s tongue darted out, belying his not-so-secret desire to lick it up. Harry removed his hand from Draco’s throat to get closer, bringing that drip of blood tantalizingly close.   
  
“Heal it,” he commanded. “Unless you fancy spelling blood off the sheets again.”   
  
They were both rather adept at that spell. More-so because Harry stumbled home injured from a fight these days. But there had been a time….  
  
Draco closed his eyes, focusing, forcing his concentration into the lips which weren’t between his legs. He commanded the magic through his mouth; expelling soft light with a hint of spark, healing Harry with the touch of his mouth rather than his hand as he usually did. Harry shuddered against him, mindlessly swelling with pleasure—his chest expanding with his prick—shocked by the very new property of that known kiss against his body. Draco licked and kissed the wound away, Harry’s skin knitting back together beneath his tongue as Harry’s prick slid almostly drunkenly in and out of him in what his subconscious recogized as a perfectly irrational 4/6 time signature.   
  
Thick fingers curled into the hair at the back of his head, holding him there. That was all the approval he needed, but Harry went further.   
  
“Good. Nice an’ relaxed… but still tight. That’s it. Now wrap your legs around me,” Harry said, grabbing Draco’s much slimmer thigh and tipping it up around his waist before he had a chance to follow through with the order on his own. Harry had a thought in his head and was eager to execute it. Draco lifted his other leg, locking his ankles.   
  
The second his heels touched Harry’s back, his body jerked from the navel. It was the familiar, nauseating jolt of Apparition. Harry had done a Side-Along with no warning. They landed on the other side of the room, Draco’s back dropped against a wall with teeth-rattling force. It would have been rude if it wasn’t so fucking hot. That was the raw p¬¬ower which Harry could control, wandless, his prick hard and in a woman for the first time. It didn’t matter, he was that good. He didn’t even lose momentum, driving into Draco even as they landed, slamming his little body with enough force to shake the plaster wall.   
  
A painting swung off its hook. And Harry’s magic caught it with an instinctual, wordless spell, freezing the frame before it could tumble to the floor. He didn’t want anything interrupting his shag.   
  
He had Draco by the little tit he’d made—the scarred one, torn up and closest to his heart. Harry pinned him to the wall, thrusting hard enough to flatten Draco’s tailbone against the old plaster and hold him there. Every move pushed him, jostled organs, threatened bruises which would last for days. He could barely catch his breath. Harry’s hand was like a vice—like he could literally rip Draco’s heart out if he tried. Blunt fingernails dug into his skin.   
  
Harry’s mouth traced a biting path up his throat, nudging his chin up, cutting off his whimpering by straining his lyrinx. Harry’s teeth once again closed over his throat where his Adam’s apple would be, as though searching for some vestige of his masculinity. It wouldn’t be the first time Harry’s teeth closed over his neck to shut him up. Like animals, Harry had learned to control his lover with thinly-veiled physical threats and occasionally outright violence. Using his words was a courtesy not always extended. It appeared that when it came to women, Harry would lose his ability to speak altogether, resorting to this carnal, visceral method of communication. He drilled Draco hard against the wall, holding him steady with rocking hips and two big flexing arms tough as steel.   
  
A hard forearm snaked around Draco’s waist, securing his weight before Harry pivoted, launching them back to the bed. Three staggering steps and he dropped onto the mattress, directly on top of Draco, an echo of the way they’d wrestled to the floor half an hour ago. Except this time Draco had zero chance of defending himself. It was unfair the way Harry overpowered him—controlled him, manipulating this foreign body with an utter lack of anticipated Gryffindor civility. Once Draco got over how fucking infuriating it was to be dominated this way, he could appreciate how stupidly hot it was. No longer equal in size, Harry didn’t have to try very hard to get everything he wanted.   
  
At least the landing was softer this time. Draco dragged a pillow under his head. His hand free, he carded petite-knuckled fingers through Harry’s dark hair, curling strands around his fingers to tug, encouraging the things Harry did with his tongue to Draco’s rather sensitive tits. Sincere sweat gathered under his fingertips; Harry was putting in his best efforts. Draco brushed it through, smelling the salt of Harry on the air mixing with the spice of his magic.   
  
Harry had never worn cologne: he didn’t need it. His sweat, even stale, made Draco hard. Now that same scent made him wet, a sticky-bloody mess for Harry to drive into.   
  
A growl rumbled at the back of Harry’s chest, somewhere between his shoulderblades, a sound much bigger than he had a right to be. His body hard, hips snapping again and again, doing what had in a matter of minutes become as natural as breathing.   
  
This was… _breeding_. Draco had never experienced it before. But he was, if temporarily, a woman, and Harry was going to get him up the duff. It was right there in his eyes; in that insistent, steady motion of his hips, the way he licked at his lips over and over, intent on the sight of Draco’s face, pounding closer and closer to the point of no return. This was surely what it felt like to conceive a child. The heat of magic was both palpable and extraordinary. Like nothing he’d ever known.   
  
“Er,” Draco squeaked out. “I canna get knocked up like this… right?”   
  
“Hmmm,” Harry hummed passingly. The cunt.   
  
Draco clarified, “Up the duff.”   
  
“Ah, yeah,” Harry murmured, picking up speed. His eyes drifted closed, head back, working to hold himself off, to let the tension build, carrying the cliff of his inevitable orgasm higher and higher, never knowing when he might fall. “Hell yeah. Let’s do it.”   
  
Instinctively, Draco punched whatever he could reach. It happened to be the hard crease of Harry’s rib cage. He hurt his hand: Harry didn’t seem to care.   
  
“No we certainly shall _not_!” Draco insisted. But Harry wasn’t listening to him. Draco protested with violence; he thrashed and kicked and bit. Harry continued drilling the squirming little body beneath his own, sinking teeth into a tit and laying his weight down in a painfully tight press of thighs, hairy chest and fucking verve. Draco gasped for air. “Don’t you fucking dare… Wonder Boy… I’ll fucking kill you… get me pregnant… kill you….”  
  
Something flashed before his eyes—a streak of light, all silver and blue and bright. Then another, racing in the opposite direction. Harry’s magic was hovering over his skin, holding him down as much as the man himself was. And Draco’s own strange power came out to play. Though there was nothing to heal, that pale light leaked from his own skin, sinking into Harry with an aching slowness that made him shudder. The light lived under his skin, radiating both in and out of him with the pace of his breath. He glowed—more than sweat, more than male beauty. He was alive with magic. Crawling with it, bursting to let it out.   
  
“Stop that,” Draco hissed, suddenly filled with an unnecessary quantity of something like fear. He suspected that, woman-bodied as he was, there was an escilating probability that he could, just maybe, get pregnant. It was almost a certainty if Harry’s unpredictable sorcery got involved. The man was a sap if ever there was one, and the idea of their making a baby seemed to get him harder than ever. Draco made his mind known between increasingly thudding thrusts, “Bad. Stupid idea. Don’t.”   
  
“I… I want to,” Harry murmured, teeth parting from the mound of tit to trace up Draco’s neck, knowing the precise location of each scar and nipping all the way. Then he was panting against Draco’s mouth, on the cusp, eyes screwed shut. “Please.”   
  
He knew what Harry was asking for. It had very little to do with the fantasy of coming inside a woman. His roots were in wanting that quintessential, hum-drum sort of life with Draco: a life where they could choose to have a child and not worry about the war, about consequences outside of themselves, thinking only of their own happiness and the possibility of starting a family. Harry wasn’t imagining a pregnancy with this fantasy feminine Draco; instead he was caught up in the dream of a world where their love for each other was the only thing that mattered. And they could manifest it in more than lights and magic locked behind closed doors, conjured in secret, but out in the open for everyone to see.   
  
“Don’t.” Draco forced himself to swallow. “We don’t know wha’ would happen.” An understatement if there ever was one. In all his research Draco had learned nothing of the eerie blue light glowing under his lover’s skin. He knew less than nothing of his own strange powers. More than not knowing what would happen if Harry came in him now, like this, female-bodied as he was, he objected to the melding of this new magic which was still too much a mystery.   
  
“Plea… _uuuuurgh_.” Harry sucked in a moan, and it was too late. He shot rough and fast, a load Draco felt settling into his guts like a small, spitting cauldron of burning tar.   
  
“Damn you, Potter.”   
  
  
  
  
  
It was quite the relief when Draco shifted back into his own body the following morning.   
  
Harry had woken him up shortly after dawn—going down on him, burying his stubbly face deep to lick come and blood from the folds of Draco’s temporary sex. His body began to shift, and by the time he came Harry had a familiar, well-loved cock pressed to the back of his throat.   
  
Critically, Draco looked himself over; poking his wand in every divot which felt even vaguely off-kilter, secretly suspecting that the Chosen One had somehow snuck a uterus into him while he wasn’t looking. Every spell confirmed—he was very much a man, and very much not pregnant.   
  
When Draco took second helpings of croissant with breakfast, and Harry suggested he might be eating for two, the Chosen One was all-but backhanded across the room. Harry, _quel un con_ , enjoyed it immensely.   
  
  


~ * ~

  
  
  
  
On their last night in France, Harry let Draco smoke him up. They had nearly enough pot for an army… which was about a week’s worth for a Malfoy, but Harry didn’t know that. He lay on the floor of their little sun room, staring up through the glass roof, mesmerized by eons of stars beyond. They seemed to dance, swirling in time with his thoughts. Draco found a guitar in the study and commandeered the nylon strings, attaching them to a board to make a crude version of an instrument he called a zither. He stretched the board across his lap, narrow fingers plucking from the strings a haunting Eastern melody.   
  
“You know... I fucking _love you_ ,” Harry admitted.   
  
Draco snorted. He looked away. “I'd gathered as much.”   
  
Harry thought about rolling over to look at Draco. But colors were shooting across the sky, and his brain and body were disconnected, like his spine had been cut. He gazed up at the night, eyes wide.   
  
“No! I mean... I hated you once. But now I love you. More than anything. Isn't that funny?”   
  
Draco pursed his lips. “Boy, I wouldn't ‘a given you the last a’ the bag if I knew yeh'd go philosophical on me. _Merde_.”   
  
Harry rolled onto his stomach at last—and the world lurched with him. He pressed his cheek to the cold tile floor.   
  
“What were you expecting?”   
  
Draco shrugged. Several notes rang out from his fingers; quiet, unfamiliar chords which clanged like the night.   
  
Harry patted around, producing the now nearly empty plastic bag and shaking it before the blonde.   
  
“'S enough fer three whole joints here... maybe two....” Harry was bullshit-guessing. He had no clue.   
  
Draco shrugged, another round of foreign string-notes shooting from his fingers. “Nah. Yeh have it.”   
  
Harry sat up. “Take it back to Hogwarts with you,” he suggested. “Charm it to look like something else an’ sneak it past Filch. Shouldn’t be hard,” and he winked—that devious, stupid Wonder Boy Chosen One wink which he’d probably shot to Weasley King and Encyclopedia Granger a thousand-fold before pulling off the stupidest stunt that ever was. Gryffindor sodding cunt. And Draco loved him. It bled through his face, warming his cheeks. He was smiling despite himself.   
  
“An’ wha’ will I do with a quarter ounce a’ muggle drugs?”   
  
“Smoke it!” Harry declared with wide, blown eyes. The Chosen Stoner leaned close, kissing his dealer’s blushing cheek. “Get high. Whenever it gets rough, you know? And think of me.”   
  
Draco’s lips moved—a blur, too fast for Harry to read. Perhaps he’d been speaking French. But it almost looked as though he’d said, “Always thinking of you. Cunt.”


	58. Beretta: Glycerine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xenophobia & prophecy

  
  
  


_"It must be your skin that I'm sinking in_

_I_ _t must be for real 'cause now I can feel_

_And I didn't mind, it's not my kind_

_It's not my time to wonder why_

_Everything's white, and everything's grey_

_Now you're here, now you're away_

_I don't want this_

_Remember that I'll never forget where you're at_

_Don't let the days go by"_

“Glycerine” Bush

  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry looked at the parchment in his hands, blinking.   
  
He swallowed and read again.   
  
Hagrid was back. With Olympe Maxime and, similar to their last mission, there were little more than bruises, cuts and broken bones to show for their efforts with the giants. Grawp was once again tucked away in the Forbidden Forest, and Madam Maxime had returned to France to aid her country’s failing government.   
  
Tonks’ handwriting informed him of all of this—no nonsense, just the facts, for which he was thankful. She wrote that Hagrid would be speaking at the Order of The Phoenix meeting that night. She asked if Harry might be in attendance. He consulted a Tempus Charm for the time difference.   
  
“Harry?”   
  
He started. He was sitting in one of the gun range stalls at Leon’s muggle business, curled up on the counter where people propped their guns. There were shiny golden bullet casings littering the floor from the morning’s patrons. The room was eerily silent when no one was there. The quiet helped him think.   
  
Leon had his graying head poked through the door, his coat half-on.   
  
“Some ruckus at Arty’s.” The old man’s eyebrows were up, which was promising. “Urgent an’ such. Likely rubbish. Ya comin’?”   
  
Harry looked down at his letter once more.   
  
He wanted to see Tonks. And Remus, too. There wasn’t likely to be anything new from Snape, and Dmitry and his boyfriend were still too busy taking care of Misha to bother with The Order. All things considered, the meeting wouldn’t exactly be packed with Harry’s present allies. Most of his old friends disapproved of his affiliation with Draco; they’d be livid to know he’d married the former Death Eater. The thought of their communal displeasure turned his stomach at any hour.   
  
And then there was Hagrid. His half-giant friend would be furious if he knew about Harry’s clandestine marriage. Hell, he was probably ready to throttle Harry just for dating Draco. Word had undoubtedly reached him.   
  
Harry didn’t want to deal with any of it. Draco would probably call that cowardice. Or smart—staying alive, preserving his energy for the things that really mattered. He couldn’t be sure anymore. Draco would say not to bother with things he couldn’t change in order to focus his energy on that which he could improve. It felt like he was dodging social issues the same as bullets. But only one pursuit might prevent his getting killed. Everything else was rubbish.   
  
He folded his letter and followed Leon out the door.   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Something at The Sanctuary had changed. Guards barely paid them any mind as they parted the wards, walking plain and unaccompanied through the front gate. The retired Auror who searched them missed the knife in Harry’s trouser pocket. He gestured them inside with a gruff, “Meetin’s packed. Better hurry or you won’t have a seat.”   
  
Leon’s eyebrows went up again. Any higher and they were bound to take flight.   
  
They passed Chereshko in the main yard, leading a sparsely-attended self-defence class. There was a pretty witch at his side, smiling up at him. From the fondness in her eyes, it seemed the Moldovan wizard had found himself a new girlfriend to go with his new career—from wine merchant to warrior. His family owned vineyards in Moldova as well as the patent for Cleansweep Broomsticks, if Harry’s memory served. He wondered if Chereshko would ever be able to return, to run his family's businesses with this beautiful woman at his side.   
  
It was the sort of thing Harry fought for—people living their lives in peace. He had to keep reminding himself or he’d go spare. A life with Draco—sitting in cafes, holding hands, the simplest things that brought him full-to-bursting with happiness. A future. That was all anybody wanted. He regretted that they had to fight so hard, and lose so many lives, for a thing so gentle and pure.   
  
Chern demonstrated how to break a man’s nose with an upward thrust of the palm. At his side, his girlfriend mimicked the gesture. Their flock of students, mostly women and young boys, followed along. Until there was peace, people like Harry and Chern would teach kids to break noses. It was fight back or die.   
  
It wasn’t until Harry entered the main building that he heard shouting.   
  
“Absolutely not!”   
  
“Ve exclude _no vone!_ ” That was Viktor Krum. Harry recognized his friend’s voice cutting over the din.   
  
“Turning away one will only start a cascade!” added Aiden Lynch. Apparently the two Seekers, constantly at odds since the last World Cup, had finally found something to agree on. “First we reject werewolves—then it’ll be all part-humans, then restriction by nationality or blood status until our gates are barred to all!” The Irishman puffed, red-faced. “Surely you see that!”   
  
Harry wormed through a break in the crowd, finally getting to a place where he could see what was going on.   
  
The Sanctuary’s residents and guards were gathered in what had once been the muggle fort’s gymnasium. The large space had been converted into a meeting hall, the bleachers packed with witches and wizards of all ages listening to the debaters, and everyone who wanted to speak milling around on the main floor. Their voices rung up to the rafters.   
  
Behind a plain camp table sat several wizards, Arty Lachlan among them. They seemed to be sitting as high council, deciding on behalf of the group what was to be done.   
  
Viktor spotted Harry and went immediately to his side, filling him in in a whisper. “Ian Boyer, Keeper for New Zelund, has made contact with us. His wife was attacked by verevolves, bitten, and she ‘as turned. Now she is vith child and zhey seek asylum.”   
  
Harry nodded his understanding. “I don’t know a lot about Lycanthropy,” he admitted. “But there’s a chance the baby could be a werewolf as well, right? That’s why they’re so nervous.”   
  
“ _Da_ ,” Viktor confirmed.   
  
“Well, they’re worried about the safety of their own families, their own children, if this guy and his wife move in here. People are pretty irrational when it comes to their children’s safety.” Harry considered. There had to be more to it. “I bet a werewolf baby is harder to care for, harder to raise. You need more resources and a community to support you. There’s nothing like that right now—St. Mungo’s is barely standing. I dunno about the other magical hospitals.” Viktor shrugged a shoulder, a silent statement that England was pretty well off compared to Oceana. “It would be hard for Boyer and his wife to raise this baby in peacetime, let alone on the run from the Death Eaters.”   
  
Viktor looked very drawn. He sighed hard. “I fear, if ve do not intervene, zhe Boyers could be dead by morning.”   
  
Thinking, Harry bit the inside of his cheek. The Sanctuary’s residents were anxious, angry, scared. They had to calm down before they’d listen to reason.   
  
He wished Draco was there beside him. Seeing Draco wouldn’t calm anyone but Harry, but Draco was trained as a statesman. He would know what to say, how to manipulate the sentiment these people were feeling—the desire to protect their own families—and reverse their position in order to understand that this Keeper from New Zealand was just as frightened, and trying to protect his family, too. Except this man and his wife had everything to lose, and nothing to gain by harming possibly the only remnant of wizarding society capable of sheltering them.   
  
Viktor was back in the argument, advocating for the Keeper and his wife. “Zhey need our help,” he was saying. “Vhy are ve here if not to take z’ose who no vone else vill?”   
  
A woman near the head table countered, “And what happens when we run out of Wolfsbane Potion? Will we lock ourselves in our quarters? How do you get an infant take Wolfsbane?”   
  
“The same as any other potion!” another woman, gray-haired, shouted back across the floor. “Mix it in milk—when all else fails, hold their nose. We’re talking about a child, Andrea, not a monster.”   
  
“Only on the full moon!” someone behind Harry taunted.   
  
Harry cleared his throat and stepped forward. “The best companion to the Wolfsbane Potion is an Animagus—a large one, like a dog or a horse. With two or three Animagus, a werewolf can be kept tame through the transformation. I’ve seen it work without Wolfsbane, so long as the relationship between the Lycanthrope and the Animagi is strong enough.”   
  
“Well!” Arty Lachlan clapped his hands in a kind of call-to-order. “Leon, your lab can brew a Wolfsbane Potion, am I correct?”   
  
With his hands on his pudgy hips, Leon grunted, “You bet yer arse we can.”   
  
Arty looked pleased. “Then do we have any large-form Animagi who would volunteer?”   
  
Rikka, the very tall, very beautiful Swedish woman from Leon’s team, stepped forward. She offered one word—her Animagus form. “Mustang.”   
  
The man beside her also stepped forward. His hair was as black as hers was blonde. Harry didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t mean much these days. Leon was recruiting hard, and from all over the world. This new fellow couldn’t have been older than twenty. “Doberman,” he smiled with half a shrug.   
  
From the decision-maker’s table, a woman with coffee-black skin spoke up. “Bengali tiger.”   
  
And a wrinkled, wizened old gentleman sitting in the stands raised his hand. He didn’t say anything, but opened his mouth and made a sound like an elephant.   
  
Several people laughed.   
  
The dark-skinned woman at the head table raised her eyebrows. “Perhaps Suku’ari and I shall keep our distance so as not to be seen by any muggles. We would make quite the stir.”   
  
Arty Lachlan clapped his hands again. “So we’ll make an offer to the Boyers. If they consent to Rikka and Eli as babysitters—with Akriti or Suku’ari’s assistance, as needed… we’ll have two new residents.”   
  
“Three,” the woman, Akriti, corrected pleasantly.   
  
Lachlan scanned the crowd, his voice carrying. “Let any witch or wizard who disagrees speak now, or hold themselves to peace.”   
  
The hall fell dead-silent. Suddenly Harry could hear himself breathe—could hear Viktor’s stomach grumbling, and someone behind them zipping up their jumper. It would appear that no one opposed the Boyers any longer. Then again, it was hard to argue with a Doberman, an elephant and a Bengal tiger.   
  
“Settled!” Arty declared. His typical serene smile returned, and the crowd began to disperse, talking amongst themselves. What had once been a clearly defined space in the center of the room was taken over by bodies, everyone attempting to leave in different directions. The gymnasium had multiple entrances and exits, including several tunnels which had been dug between the buildings to keep residents out of the elements while going about their day-to-day.   
  
Harry, being as short as he was, found himself swept up into the crowd. Leon Harper made his way to Harry, pushing and grumbling through milling bodies. He rested a big, blue-veined hand on Harry’s shoulder.   
  
“Lad, I canna get Charlene.” He waved his mobile phone around.   
  
“No signal?” Harry questioned.   
  
“She's not pickin' up.” The old man looked worried. The corners of his mustache and eyebrows turned down, rounding the features of his square face. “Would ya mind checkin’ on 'er while I wrap up?”   
  
Harry nodded. “Sure. No problem.”   
  
Harry cast a Warming Charm over his boots and pushed his way out into the snow, trudging his way past the barriers of Ferrard Lachlan's Sanctuary in order to Apparate to the woods just beyond Leon's property line. He'd jogged through the area so many times that the little beaten-down path running beside the river was practically imprinted in his brain, like the floor plan of Hogwarts and the mechanics of a Quidditch pitch. He picked his way through the bramble, turning away from the standard path to cut through the wood itself, saving time. A simple Levitation Charm saw him over the river—he didn't trust the thin layer of ice to hold his weight.   
  
He approached the Harpers’ big stone house from the rear gardens, brushing snow from his hair.   
  
Letting himself into the house through a patio door, he could hear a television program in the living room—one of Charlene's cooking shows, with the sound of the host's laughter and meat sizzling in a pan. Fleetwood Mac drifted through the hall from the kitchen. Harry followed the music.   
  
He peered around the corner into the kitchen, expecting to see the chubby Creole woman standing there at the stove, stirring something and singing along with Stevie Nicks.   
  
Instead the room was empty, foodstuffs spread out over the counter and an empty Dutch oven sitting abandoned on the stove.   
  
“Charlene?”   
  
He inched past the door frame, drawing his wand on instinct. “Charlene, are you....”   
  
He froze when he saw the bulk of Mrs. Harper collapsed on the floor, a kitchen knife not far from her hand. Harry dropped to his knees, checking her over for wounds. But her white blouse was free from blood, and she didn't appear to be cursed. His free hand, extended and hovered over her mouth, informed him that she was still breathing, if rather faintly.   
  
He considered sending a Patronus—only to discard the idea. It would take too long. He sprang to his feet and used the telephone on the wall to dial Leon's mobile number.   
  
The old Irishman picked up with a grunt.   
  
“She's on the floor,” Harry declared in a rush. “I think she might've fainted. She looks alright but—”   
  
Leon let out a knowing hum. Harry quit his winging. “A vision,” the old man said. “Or a prophecy, maybe. I'll phone her lil' club. Stay put.”   
  
The line went dead in his ear as his boss hung up on him.   
  
Harry returned to Mrs. Harper's side, removing his jacket and placing it under her head so she'd be more comfortable while they waited for her friends to arrive. Fellow Seers, Harry assumed, if Mrs. Harper was known to have visions and deliver prophecies. That explained a lot.   
  
Soon he heard the front door open and several sets of footsteps—one pair of snow boots and several high heels—went _click-click-clack_ over the stone floor of the entryway.   
  
“We're in the kitchen!” Harry called out. Charlene was starting to come around, her head moving and eyelashes fluttering.   
  
Her blonde head turned at the sound of his voice, eyes slitted and unseeing, murmuring, “...’Arry?”   
  
“Your mates are here,” he told her reassuringly. She squeezed his hand.   
  
The first Seer-friend reached the doorway, letting out a little squeak and immediately lowering herself to the floor beside Charlene. She was elderly, with stripes of silver in her hazelnut-colored hair. She placed her wrinkled fingers at Charlene's temples, releasing a faint white light. Charlene's eyes popped open.   
  
“Z'ere,” the old woman cooed in a Cajun accent even heavier than Charlene's. “Ca va, cherie?”   
  
Mrs. Harper nodded. Her watery eyes flickered between Harry and the old woman, who continued to speak in a hushed, soothing tone. Mrs. Harper nodded to whatever the woman was saying. Eventually she allowed Harry and some of the other Seer-women to help her to her feet.   
  
Harry got his first long look at Charlene's fellow prophets. There was the old woman with silver streaks in her hair, her shoulders covered by a heavy woolen poncho in dusty pink. A very tiny woman hung back in the doorway, her brown hair cropped short and square-framed spectacles taking up much of her small, delicate face. She stood no more than four feet high, appearing to have the same type of dwarfism as Filius Flitwick, though this pretty woman had a height advantage over the Charms professor. There were also two Latina women who could only be twins, they looked so much alike; their skin sun tanned, hair wild and curly.   
  
The fifth Seer seemed very familiar to Harry—waif-thin, with pretty blue eyes, pale skin and impossibly white hair which fell in waves down her back, fluffy white snowflakes caught in the fall of it. She was no more than forty, so the bleached color of her hair was either a fashion choice or a result of genetics. The way her eyes traveled over his frame gave him goosebumps.   
  
Charlene released Harry's hand to take hold of the old woman's with both her own.   
  
“Ondine,” she said in a weak voice. “We must go to 'ze 'All of Prophecy.” She took a steadying breath. “Z'is... it was... like nothing I 'ave ever....”   
  
Her sister Seers soothed her, placing hands on her arms and back, stroking her hair.   
  
Harry got to his feet, giving the women access. He leaned close to one of the Hispanic twins. “Is it unusual,” he asked, “to lose consciousness after a prophecy?”   
  
“We're all different,” she shrugged. “Charlene is aware during her prophecies. She can remember them, hold on the way most of us can with our visions. We all have our gifts and weaknesses.” “I see.” He didn’t, really. And suspected he never would. Some facets of magic would always be a mystery to him. He offered the woman a weak sort of smile. “Thanks.”   
  
The twins each took one of Charlene's elbows, preparing to Apparate away.   
  
“Wait,” Mrs. Harper said suddenly, turning. The movement nearly cost her her balance—she swayed, the two women catching her bulk and setting her right on her feet. “‘Arry. Please come. I ‘ave a sense this prophecy may be of use to yoo.”   
  
Harry wasn't going to argue. He had mixed feelings about prophecy, especially after being the subject of at least two of Professor Trelawney's. Maybe there were even more prophecies he didn’t know about: and that was a scary thought. Secretly, he wondered what Charlene's prophecy was. He knew how different prophecies were from one to the next, having heard many of them screeching when the Hall of Prophecy at the Ministry was destroyed. Apparently each magical government had their own prophecy storage, since Charlene had asked to go to one.   
  
A room, let alone a whole fucking building full of prophecy, didn’t sound like a great idea. He might find something he didn’t like. And there was certainly a lot about prophecy to dislike, he’d come to learn. But something in him couldn’t say no. Draco might’ve called it his _damned Gryffindor curiosity_. It was a part of him, though, and he couldn’t be rid of it any easier than cutting off a hand or foot.   
  
He nodded. The woman with the wavy white hair offered Harry her arm for a Side-Along Apparition. He listened to the _pops_ and _cracks_ as the other women departed. Looking into the Seer-woman's eyes, he realized how he knew her.   
  
“Um, you're related to my friend Luna Lovegood, right?”   
  
She nodded serenely, looking more like Luna than ever. “Rixenda Lovegood. Xenophilius is my half brother. Luna is my niece, as well as my goddaughter.”   
  
“Strong family resemblance,” Harry commented, hoping to sound polite. He’d meant it as a compliment of course—Luna was pretty… in a magical, other-worldly sort of way, and so was her aunt—but Rixenda’s expression made it hard for him to tell how she’d interpreted his words. Her face didn’t change at all as she regarded him, fixed and unblinking.   
  
“Mmm, yes,” she hummed. “But we should be off.”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Harry gazed out over the crystal blue sea. The Ministry of the Americas really had class. Their Hall of Prophecy was a coastal property in Columbia overlooking the Caribbean Sea. The building itself was a simple structure of white stucco, with tropical trees and bright flowers and a large courtyard looking out over a bluff at the endless rolling sea. It was relaxing—the perfect place, he thought, for someone to come after experiencing the horror and crippling fear which often accompanied the deliverance of a prophecy.   
  
Harry and the Seers discarded their winter coats and boots as soon as they arrived. Charlene and her elderly friend disappeared into a sort of library room to record her prophecy, and the rest of the women brought Harry out to the courtyard to wait. The caretaker and his house elves brought lemonade and some local fare. Barefoot and stripped down to his denims and undershirt, Harry laid himself out on the warm paving stones, folded his arms under his head, and prepared to wait.   
  
The women chattered amongst themselves, several more arriving. Harry didn't spot any more familiar faces amongst them, though the magical community was small enough that there were likely mothers, sisters, aunts and grandmothers of his Hogwarts classmates among them whom he simply didn't recognize. Only one male Seer arrived; he was a plump fellow in his thirties, whose general appearance—glasses, thinning hair and a very plain style of muggle business clothing—made him look more like a tax agent than a purveyor of the mystic unknown. When the wizard loosened his tie, Harry caught sight of a swirling symbolic tattoo covering his chest.   
  
The Seers chatted amongst themselves. It appeared the delivery of a prophecy was somewhat of an occasion. They seemed interested but calm as they gathered. More lemonade was fetched for the growing crowd, along with chocolate-drizzled churros and small plates of meat and roasted vegetables. Harry nibbled.   
  
Rixenda Lovegood caught his elbow. She had a slip of parchment in her hands. She passed it to him without a word, her eyes lighting on his scar before slipping away, observing the waves as they crashed against a rock formation further out to sea.   
  
Harry read.   
  
  
  
_Behold the second coming of the darkness; the settling shadow under which four houses shall be brought down to a single barbarous grim. The dust of bones will rise up, and be twice swept away. And the sign of this time: the phoenix will weep o're the dragon. O're his blood and o're his bones. The phoenix shall weep and the darkness will rise again._   
  
  
  
Immediately, Harry knew why Charlene thought this prophecy had something to do with him. He was a member of The Order of The Phoenix—his wand even had a phoenix feather core. And then there was his husband. ‘Draco’ would always be an unusual name, even in the magical community. Not everyone had the balls to name their child after a dragon. Putting the references to phoenix and dragon together, and considering Harry’s prevalence in prophecies concerning the end of days, and he and Draco became the most logical subject of this new prophecy.   
  
But what did it mean? Four houses could be Hogwarts, and the single grim could be Voldemort invading the castle, bringing the four houses under one rule—his own. Of course Voldemort would strike at Hogwarts. Draco was there, and Draco plus several hundred children was the surest way to lure pure-hearted Harry Potter into a trap.   
  
The middle section lost him. Bones rising up sounded like Inferi, but he couldn’t be sure. And twice swept away? There had been hundreds of Inferi attacks all over Europe. Harry had seen his fair share. They were long past “twice swept away.”   
  
One phrase, “the phoenix will weep o’re the dragon,” caught his particular attention. Phoneix tears were known for their healing properties. Fawkes had healed him numerous times. So did the prophecy mean than Fawkes would have to heal Draco with phoenix tears because Harry wouldn’t be able to save him? Or worse. Did it mean that Draco would die? Would he be unable to be there with Draco, to protect him, to hold his hand as he died? Was that why Fawkes would cry over Draco’s blood and bones? Or because Harry would already be dead, and Fawkes the phoenix was all that was left?   
  
Maybe Harry himself was the phoenix, and he would weep over Draco’s death.   
  
Or maybe still… what if Draco was the phoenix, and the tears his new-found healing ability? Maybe Draco would weep his magic over Harry’s blood and bones because he was injured in his fight with Voldemort.   
  
It was impossible. There was no way to know what any of it really meant. Hermione would tell him that prophecy was nothing more than smoke and mirrors and a lot of show to distract you from the truth that each man makes his own destiny. At the same time, he’d seen prophecies come to pass. And it was never in the way he expected. Prophecies were tricky; they were purposefully misleading, and rarely any help at all, even after-the-fact.   
  
He didn’t need more riddles. He needed answers, clear answers. And those he would never find in prophecy.   
  
One deep breath and the words were out of his head—snuffed out like a candle. He didn’t need them to succeed, thank you very much. He and Draco would manage just fine on their own.   
  
Harry looked up, catching Rixenda’s watery blue eyes. He grunted, “So what do you think it means?”   
  
She shrugged and sipped her lemonade. “Haven’t a pickled clue. I find that rather fun. Don’t you?”   
  
Harry was glad he’d finished his drink—if there had been an ounce of liquid in his mouth, he’d surely have spat it out through his nose. Then what would Luna’s aunt think of his manners?   
  
“Er...”   
  
“Then again,” she mused, sounding an awful lot like Luna. “They’re just words. And words can easily be misinterpreted. You never really know the meaning of a prophecy until it comes to pass.”   
  
Harry chewed his lip. “You don’t say.”   
  
“Well look at Ondine!” Rixenda offered. She leaned closer, speaking quietly near Harry’s ear, talking of Charlene’s mentor while the elderly witch was not present, a sort of awed hush taking over her tone. “The last oracle of Delphi gave a prophecy of her birth. ‘ _And she shall come from the water, the maid with power I dreamt_ ,’” she quoted. Her reverence reminded Harry of the way Hermione quoted _Hogwarts, A History_ at them; like the wizard bible, to be trusted above all. Rixenda swirled the dregs of lemons in her glass. “For hundreds of years, our kind looked to the water sign Aquarius, awaiting her birth.”   
  
Rixenda smirked. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen the expression on Luna’s sweet face.   
  
“So she’s an Aquarius, then?” he posed. “Capricorn, actually. But her name—Ondine. In French it means, ‘she comes from the water.’ A liquid spirit.”   
  
Harry swallowed. Quite suddenly, he understood. “There’s more than one side to a word.” He’d learned that from Draco—the way the pureblood would say one thing but mean seven more, implying and jesting with the hidden facets of his words. He did it unconsciously. Maybe there were Seers in his family. He seemed to understand the language of magic and wizards better than Harry did. But he was learning.   
  
Rixenda hummed, a pleasant sound from the upper reaches of her nose. She finished her lemonade, Vanishing the cup.   
  
“In the end, Mr. Potter, we must ignore prophecy, and choose to live our lives in the manner we see fit. Only then can what is meant to be, come to be.”   
  
“A Seer who says to ignore prophecy, huh?” Harry lifted a shoulder. “Doesn’t that put you out of a job?”   
  
She smiled. “Precisely. That we might live in a world where every person follows his or her own heart.”   
  
Helpless, Harry grinned back. “Cheers.”


	59. Beretta: I'm Losing Myself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry takes charge of the resistance movement, makes an ally of an old enemy, and drops the-c-word in front of an old friend who is less than appreciative of The Boy Who Lived’s colorful new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** language, plot

_I'm a slow mover, I'm the best-laid plans_

_and alone at the end of the day I just sit with my head in my hands_

_but we speak easy and we seldom fight_

_and I chew on the bones of the day while you sleep soft and warm in the night_

_and I can't see you with anyone else_

_even if that means holding you down, even if that means losing myself_

_He's a smooth talker and he shaves his face_

_and I wonder if you look at me and instead see him taking my place_

_But I do need you, and no one else_

_and I hope you're around and forgiving_

_when you see me losing myself_  
  
“I'm Losing Myself” - Robin Pecknold

  
  
  
  
Harry looked out over the faces before him—many of them witches and wizards he’d known since he was eleven or twelve, and loved just as long: Fred and George Weasley, Ron and Hermione, Charlie and Remus and Tonks. It had been too long since he'd seen their faces without lines of pain and worry. Their collective past—a life of Hogwarts, Quidditch and Mrs. Weasley's Christmas treacle—was worlds away. Now they were tired and thin, all of them, sleep-deprived, wrinkles in their robes and bags under their eyes. Anyone who slept soundly these days was a fool.   
  
Most of the witches and wizards gathered here now were Harry's new friends, survivors he’d found out in the wild: Dmitry Ionescue and his rag-tag gang, and Leon Harper’s orderly line of mercenaries standing guard along the back wall, silent and waiting for Harry to begin.   
  
Some of those present Harry had only glimpsed on the battlefield—Bill’s Curse Breaker mates, Charlie’s Dragon Tamers, Viktor Krum’s ever-increasing roster of Quidditch players fleeing to the safety of Ferrard Lachlan’s not-so-secret Sanctuary. They all sat, quiet and pensive as the rest, waiting to hear him speak.   
  
He’d invited them here—used the lure of his famous name to gather them all together, to hear what he had to say. Some of them were involved with the Order, some weren’t; some were Ministry, and others hated everything the British government stood for. But they all managed to stand in a room for him… loyalty mixed with questions on their faces, knees bouncing in anticipation, glancing around at their unlikely conglomeration of cohorts.   
  
It was nothing like the early Order of the Phoenix meetings Harry had attended. There were no coffees or beverages, no Bavarian chocolates, no basket of Mrs. Weasley's homemade goodies on a table somewhere. But that had been before the war—before the Ministry fell and everyone got too scared to fight back. Maybe the Order didn't have biscuits anymore. It probably wouldn't seem right, what with people grieving and fearing for their lives. Harry longed for a flask of something, the way old Mad Eye Moody would have pulled out his and taken a long irreverent swig.   
  
Harry watched as, surreptitiously, Mikhail Ionescue pulled a silver flask from the sling supporting his busted arm, taking a healthy little nip before passing to Nebojsa seated beside him. Harry almost smiled, giving the pair a nod.   
  
Closer to him, Bill and Fleur Weasley sat in the front row, next to Viktor Krum and Arty Lachlan. They were making themselves visible in a silent show of support. Though they said nothing, their presence was noted, its meaning taken. Equally watched by all was Kingsley Shacklebolt, now Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The fact that Shacklebolt attended said more than any words could about the general faith in Harry’s efforts. Harry shot the Auror a tight smile, his way of saying thank you.   
  
Harry looked past his fellow Triwizard champions to Headmistress McGonagall. She’d helped arrange this great meeting of minds, together with Leon and Arty Lachlan. Minerva was engaged at present, exchanging some quiet words with Chern Toleanu.   
  
Shortly after Harry had brought Chern to the Sanctuary, the tall Moldovan man became the camp's Dark Arts instructor, and Arty Lachlan became Harry’s biggest fan. And that affection about tripled when Harry delivered Pavel Gregorovitch, his wife Anka, and former assistant Yuri Batushanski, all in need of shelter and willing to work in exchange. Now everyone at the Sanctuary who'd lost or damaged their wand had a brand new one—many of them dangerous and deadly Batushanski creations, like Ron's—and the wards around the facility had never been stronger. With Chereshko's help, every Sanctuary inhabitant was trained to take up arms in their home's defence. If only the rest of the world could be so lucky....   
  
Harry had been a help to all of these people at some point in their acquaintance, he realized. Each had benefited by knowing him. And now he was asking them for a favor in return.   
  
Meeting his gaze, Professor McGonagall nodded. Even the Headmistress wasn’t privy to the subject of this secret meeting. Harry had learned the value of keeping information close; by telling no one of his purpose, he could spark some intrigue which might persuade anyone who was on the fence about showing up. As he looked around, he saw his strategy had worked. There were so many people....   
  
It wasn't quite The Order. It was something else; something different, darker, less idealistic and more deadly... and somehow more real, tangible as opposed to the dream his parents had fought for. A sea of bodies awaited his words, bristling with leather and creased robes and wands at the ready, eyes alert, senses prowling the space as his own were. This was a _real_ army—with strategists and researchers, commanders, support, and a collective arsenal behind them, not just random civilians fearful-enough for their lives to raise arms. As independent factions they might survive another twelve or eighteen months before the Death Eaters got them all, or they themselves burned through the last of their supplies and morale. But together, and fully organized like this, they could really _do_ something... provided certain influential individuals were willing to expand their thinking. They had to, if they wanted to defeat Voldemort.   
  
_That_ was something Harry could convince them of, at least. Being the only wizard to have survived the Killing Curse—surviving multiple murder attempts, in fact—people tended to listen to him these days, especially when he spoke up about Voldemort's tactics and subsequent modes of self-defence. It didn't hurt that every last person in the room was at least a little scared out of their fucking mind. Being scared opened your ears and could help you listen, so long as the emotion itself was controlled so as not to overwhelm. Harry wanted them a little scared for that very reason.   
  
He let them whisper and worry amongst themselves, let them see the M12 strapped over Leon's shoulder and the blood slowly seeping through Misha's bandages. Guns and bleeding kids set the tone for what Harry was about to say: namely, that enough was enough.   
  
Gathered in this room were, hands down, the smartest people Harry knew. If the wizarding world stood a chance, surely that spark of saving genius would come from this gathering of brains and brawn.   
  
Harry raised a hand to gather their attention. The gesture was unnecessary. They'd all had half an eye for him from the moment they'd trickled and Apparated in. He was Harry Fucking Potter: kind of hard to miss. Even for a short bloke.   
  
“Thank you all for coming,” he began. “I know for many of you, it wasn't an easy decision, or an easy trip. So thank you for your willingness to take that risk—for coming here to hear what I have to say.   
  
“I've asked you here tonight because each of you are already involved in the effort against You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters.” Harry was careful not to say the name, not to ruffle feathers. That would come later. “Some of you are government-organized or military, like our host, Mr. Leon Harper,” Harry gestured to the grumpy old Irishman in the corner, kitted up with at least three guns that Harry could see. People nodded and smiled gingerly to Leon for his hospitality. It was the middle of winter in America, and the warehouse had been appropriately heated. Normally the old miser left the place just above freezing. “Others here are involved with civilian groups, or work privately doing research and offering assistance in your communities. I've asked you here first and foremost to recognize you for your efforts. You're saving lives and making a difference, though some days it may not feel like it. So on behalf of those who aren't here to say it, thank you.”   
  
Everyone applauded. Harry stood quietly, patient. He'd given them their cake. Now it was time to take it away.   
  
“Thank you,” he repeated. “But it's not enough.”   
  
A few people gaped at him, opening their mouths to protest. Blank-faced, he continued fluidly. “Imagine I'm building a house, and I've asked each of you to contribute in some way—one person cuts the glass for my windows, another engineers the angle of my roof, a third person makes my floors—but I don't let you speak to one another at any point of the process. Start to finish, you're on your own.” He pointed down the front row. “Bill and Fleur Weasley are working in England, but Arty Lachlan is in Canada, and Gaspard Shingleton is all the way down in Senegal. So despite each person producing superior, life-saving work, my house is going to have a leaky roof and fall down around my ears while I sleep—because my contributors weren't working _together_.   
  
“Each of you is producing to the best of your ability and trying your hardest, I'll give you that. But without each other, you have no bigger picture. My roofers are sending me a design which doesn't line up with my walls, and the panes for my windows are too small to fit in their frames. Your innovations mean nothing if they can't be applied. That being said, your failed experiment could very-well be the breakthrough which the person sitting next to you now has been waiting ten years for. But you'd never know that, operating as you are now.   
  
“Our best minds are in this room,” he told them. “That's you. And I'm here to tell you that you're working blind. We should be working together. Now is the time to put aside our personal differences and face down the greatest questions of our time. We all need to stand in the same place and look at the structure we're building together. Leaving that building unfinished is a hazard. If we don't act now, this structure's going to kill us, rather than shelter us and the generations which, I hope, will come after us.”   
  
Here and there, wizards folded their arms over their chests at being spoken to like a gaggle of disobedient first years. But they weren't much better than the four feuding houses of Hogwarts, Harry knew. If they didn't put their differences aside and share their knowledge, none of them would live through this war to tell about it.   
  
“I've invited you here to start talking to each other... to start what the muggles call a 'think tank.' It's a group of individuals who bring their own ideas and theories into a larger group setting, with a network of resources and man power to do what one person alone cannot. The point of the group is that its ambition is greater than any one person or agenda. We have to agree that we're here for a single goal: to protect ourselves, our families and our countrymen from the Death Eaters by bringing the fight to them—by crushing them as they would crush us, and to do so as effectively and as quickly as possible.   
  
“If you agree with me and would like to participate, please stay seated. If you'd rather go on by yourself... well, we wish you luck,” Harry pointed, “and there's the door.”   
  
For a second, no one moved. No one seemed to breathe. They stared at him, eyes a mass of wide and scared, red and furious. He heard crows calling in the woods beyond the car park, and a mixture of wind and snow whistled by, slapping the windows of Leon's warehouse, wet splats of snowflakes buffering the metal siding.   
  
Then it came from the back of the room—a deep, guttural shout. A war call with power and nerve behind it. Then a woman shouted back; it was Tonks, punching a fist in the air. Some clapped and others stomped their feet, noise echoing through the cavernous space until the shelves rattled, metal chairs scraping against the poured-concrete floor as their occupants shifted, beginning to rise to their feet with applause.   
  
Harry raised his hands, shooting white sparks from his wand to regain their attention whilst trying to keep the crowd from rushing him. That was only the pretty speech; it was what happened afterward which actually mattered to him.   
  
“Okay! Okay!” He tried to shout over them all. Maddie with her green hair appeared at his side, blasting a muggle bull horn. All of Leon's team were wearing bright orange shirts to distinguish themselves. Hers clashed horribly with her dyed hair. Harry called above the commotion. “Our first step is to make a database of everyone's skills, resources, and active projects. Once we have that, we can start connecting you to the people you should be talking to. Our hosts in the orange shirts will take your name and information, and provide you with a name tag and a color. Once you have a color assigned, make some sparks,” Harry waved his wand over his head, shooting off another cascade of white sparks with a casual wave. “Start exchanging information based on your colors, and we'll come around with how to access the database once it's complete.”   
  
Leon's team were rushed by witches and wizards all-too-eager to provide their information and be sorted. It reminded Harry of the sorting ceremony for first years at Hogwarts, how some people were excited to be divided into clubs and cliques, while others dreaded being separated from their friends and family. Harry watched as some surged forward and others held back, talking amongst themselves and shooting him looks, wary to wild.   
  
The colored-sparks system had been derived by Arturo Moreno and his brother, both with military and logistics backgrounds. The system was designed to connect resources, managers and manpower. Each color signified a need; green was for people like Leon and Arty, who had money to offer in exchange for skilled services. Yellow signified potioneers, wandmakers and other craftsmen, while blue marked innovators like the Weasley twins. Orange sparks were for theorists and researchers. Hermione showed her orange glow proudly, Ron red at her side. Red marked soldiers, Aurors and citizen fighters. Black was for those with the greatest need; refugees, part-and-non-humans, the homeless or injured—those who needed shelter and other resources and were willing to pledge their wands in exchange. Those bearing white sparks like Harry were a specific kind of soldier—wielders of the Dark Arts, those who could think and act like a Death Eater when the need arose.   
  
The beauty of the system was that only Leon and his people held the key to the code. This omission of information circumvented much of the hesitation some conservative investors might experience in approaching, say, a werewolf or the child of a convicted Death Eater. Based on their needs and resources, everyone was told what color to display themselves, and what colors to look for in the milling crowd. Prejudice and bias were removed from the equation, allowing witches and wizards to see one another as people rather than the labels which the magical community normally forced upon them.   
  
Harry walked the room, listening to snippets of conversations as he passed. A witch shooting green sparks from her wand was surrounded by yellow and orange lights. She was from the American Floo Department, and they were discussing ways to connect disabled floos across Africa and Europe into the American's emergency back-up system. Arty Lachlan, also flying a spout of green sparks from the tip of his pointed hat, had a half-dozen red soldiers plying him for work. Even Luna Lovegood's father had attracted attention with his mixed yellow-and-blue sparks. He was talking with a woman whose name tag identified her as Glenda Chittock from the Wizarding Wireless Network. They were joined by a dwarf warlock from _The Daily Prophet_.   
  
Harry kept an eye on a black-cloaked figure skating the outskirts of the room. By height alone, the person had to be a man, though the cowled hood of the cloak obscured every aspect of face and hair from view. The way he kept himself so well covered—down to a pair of black dragonhide gloves concealing his hands—left Harry to wonder if he was a vampire, banshee, or some other recognizable, though humanoid, non-human.   
  
This man, whatever he was, clearly did not want to be seen; either because of his appearance or perhaps a fear of being recognized? He moved with a certain fluidity, keeping to the shadowy sections of the large warehouse, wending his way through the crowd while managing not to touch a single person or object along the way.   
  
The mysterious man spoke briefly with Headmistress McGonagall, who pulled Leon Harper aside for an introduction. Harry watched them speak in hushed voices out of the corner of his eye, still too far off to hear a word of their muttered conversation.   
  
Harry stopped some ten or twelve meters off, toying with his white sparks and casting an ear to the nearest conversation. The group was made up mostly of white-sparks like himself speaking energetically to an orange-spark researcher. It took Harry's ears a moment to realize they were speaking Danish.   
  
He edged away, meeting eyes with a nearby wizard who had been listening to the same Danish conversation. The wizard had long brown hair graying at the temples and wore traditional robes over a muggle dress shirt and jumper. A haze of blue light hung around his wand like mist on the Great Lake at Hogwarts. But he, unlike Harry, seemed to understand what the dark wizards were saying. As the group went on with their discussion, the man with the white hair paled, taking a nervous step away.   
  
Harry held the well-dressed fellow’s gaze, silently angling for a free translation.   
  
The long-haired man looked both ways before lowering his head, shifting slightly towards Harry. “T-they're talking about the Dark Arts,” he spluttered, morally offended. “I can't justify that. I won't!”   
  
Harry looked up at the man placidly. He wanted to wring the fellow's neck. Surely the wizard had some useful talent... though logic clearly wasn't one of them. Harry consulted his name tag: Devlin Whitehorn, owner of Nimbus Broomsticks. Harry recalled the numerous times a fast broomstick had saved his hide—chasing Neville's Remembrall first year, the first task of the Triwizard, the battle at Ravenwood.... The inventor of the Nimbus line might be useful after all. This alone kept Harry's hands firmly in his trouser pockets, a logical argument already brewing behind his lightning scar.   
  
“If you don't want to use a particular branch of magic yourself, that's fine,” Harry said. “That's your choice. But don't hold another wizard's aptitude against him.”   
  
Mr. Whitehorn of Nimbus Broomsticks opened his mouth to speak. Harry cut him off. “And please don't tell me the Dark Arts are evil because that's ridiculous. A tool isn't inherently evil; it's the man who uses it who adds any action subject to moral judgment, not the conduit. I'm sure You-Know-Who ate with a fair-few of Hogwarts' spoons and forks while he was a student. Are those utensils evil now? They were in You-Know-Who’s mouth, after all. Should my classmates and I stop dining at Hogwarts because Voldem-hmmm- _mmmmm_ ,” Harry caught himself just in time, gluing his lips together with a glare before The Name could sneak out and offend his audience beyond repair. A few people flinched involuntarily, heads whipping around to stare at him. Harry recovered himself. “Because You-Know-Who might've touched our cutlery sixty years ago?”   
  
“The Dark Arts are not a fork,” Whitehorn protested, rolling his eyes. The expression on his face said he knew he was being just the tiniest bit silly but he had to follow the argument to its natural end out of principle. At least he was listening and participating, which meant he was open to having his mind changed by the right argument. Whitehorn presented his own thoughts succinctly. “Those spells are outside our laws because they serve no noble purpose. They do not better our lives. Curses for torture, sabotage, mind-control and death cannot be of use to your stated goal of saving lives.” He raised a smug brow, thinking he'd won.   
  
Harry countered. “Actually, that's not true. A few weeks ago I used the Imperius Curse to save the life of fifteen year-old boy.”   
  
Devlin Whitehorn guffawed, disbelieving.   
  
“I am sorr-ee, Harry Potter,” a woman who had been eavesdropping broke in. She wore Healer's robes, though not from St. Mungo's, and spoke with a heavy Arabic accent. “It is not possible.”   
  
Irked, Harry jutted his chin a-ways down the room. “His name is name is Mikhail, and he's standing right over there. The one with the broken arm. You can ask him yourself.”   
  
The healer folded her arms under her breasts, suggesting she wanted to hear the truth of it from Harry himself. Devlin Whitehorn took a similar pose. Harry shrugged, knowing he'd never change minds without opening his mouth.   
  
“Misha was dying. He was burned by dragon's fire helping the British Ministry take a Death Eater stronghold. I was the first to find him, and I'm no Healer. But I'm told I have a high aptitude for the Dark Arts, and in the middle of a firefight that's all the knowledge I had to work with. I ended up using the Imperius Curse and ordering him to stay conscious, to keep him from bleeding to death before I could find a Healer.” Harry waggled his eyebrows at the newcomer, several of her Mediwitch-friends now listening in over her shoulder. “From what I understand of traditional healing spells, I would've had to stay at Misha’s side in order to keep him alive. By using the Dark Arts, I was able to leave him and find help, all while keeping a line to help him... and reassure myself he wasn't dead yet, that I wasn't risking my own life for nothing.   
  
“So maybe the Dark Arts don't have a place in entry-level healing textbooks. But on the battlefield, or in triage medicine, they might be worth a second look. You just have to keep an open mind.”   
  
The Healer turned back to her colleagues, saying that Harry's evidence justified exploration into alternative field-healing techniques. Devlin Whitehorn still had his arms folded, looking down his long nose at Harry.   
  
Harry himself didn't react, looking up at the man with a calm hand on the back of a nearby chair, leaning casually. He said to Whitehorn, almost lazily, “You know, a lot of people want me to kill Tom Riddle... that was You-Know-Who's name before his rise to power. He’s no _lord_ of anything. I won't glorify my enemy with an honorific he hasn't earned,” Harry shrugged. “But I wonder how people expect me to do him in? Because the Killing Curse is an Unforgiveable—it's regarded as the very darkest of magic. Yet it's also the surest way to kill a wizard. And trust me... when I kill Tom Riddle, I wanna be damn sure. So if I use the same Unforgiveable Killing Curse he cast on me as a baby to end him in turn, would that be evil?”   
  
Whitehorn's arms dropped, slumping almost boneless to his sides. Logic fell over his features like a sunset, pulling away some of the warmth of unfounded beliefs which he'd used to cushion himself from the illogical nature of his principles. His face grew almost cold as his mind struggled to reorder an entire moral code based on the idea that one type of magic was worse than another.   
  
“I understand your point now, Mr. Potter,” he conceded. “Well-put. And to be frank, I've never attempted so much as a Dread Hex in all my fifty-five years. Perhaps it's time I give it a try. As you say, I may find an aptitude for it.”   
  
Harry extended his arm to shake the wizard's hand. “Thanks for keeping an open mind.”   
  
When he turned to relocate the mysterious hooded man, Harry got a shock: the man had crept up beside him as he argued with Mr. Nimbus Broomsticks. And the stranger was not so strange to him after all. Squinting up through the shadow, Harry was able to make out a sheet of greasy hair and a familiar beak-like nose.   
  
Trying for a modicum of politeness, Harry inclined his head. “Severus.”   
  
“Potter.” The greeting had a certain civility to it. It sounded as though his former professor wanted to break several of Harry's fingers for the use of his first name... but that was better than Snape's usual state of wanting to break every bone in Harry's body simply for daring to exist. He took it for what it was—an uneasy sort of cease-fire peace between them.   
  
Harry licked the backs of his teeth. “I'm surprised to see you here.”   
  
“I'm surprised _to be here_ ,” Snape snipped at him. “Though more unbalanced still to hear you of all wizards defending the place of the Dark Arts in the college of magic.”   
  
Harry shrugged a single shoulder. “I guess a mutual friend of ours helped broaden my mind.” He glanced around again, more aware of the eyes upon him now, the white sparks falling from his wand-tip giving a subtle illumination to Snape's face. If others got close enough to recognize him.... “There's an ammunition room in back where we can speak privately.”   
  
Snape opened his arm. “Lead the way.”   
  
The ammo room was more of a generous cupboard than a full-sized room. Every wall was lined from floor to ceiling with metal racks, and those metal racks were labeled and stuffed-to-bursting with everything from standard magazine clips to grenades and armor-piercing sniper rounds. Severus Snape's eyes glided quickly over the small muggle-like space, registering the Plexiglas window which dominated one wall, looking out over the warehouse floor where witches and wizards milled about. Harry identified the tall black-haired head of Chern Toleanu, tracking the progress of his Russian friends across the room, gathering business cards and other contacts as they went.   
  
His attention snapped back to Severus Snape, still with his hood up. Paranoia suited him. With a flick of the spy's wand, the buzzing hush of his Muffling Spell fell around them. Harry had been about to cast the spell himself out of habit.   
  
Snape's mouth pinched down to a fine line before he spoke. “What do you want, Potter?”   
  
Harry didn't shimmy around the point. “The Dementor-Repelling Potion the Death Eaters used at Ravenwood. A lot of people died because of that potion. It would help if we got our hands on some. It could likely turn the war in our favor.” Harry was thinking that, with enough resources thrown his way, the potioneer Jediddiah could distill the mixture and its purple smoke, determining its ingredients to the point of brewing their own bastardized version, or infusing an anti-Dementor essence into their robes and fighting leathers. It was worth a shot. Harry pressed his own lips to an equally firm line. “But we haven't seen a recipe, or so much as a single drop out of you. It's been four months. You didn't even warn us—this stuff just, what, turned up out of the blue? What's your story?”   
  
Snape didn't move an inch when he spoke. Just his mouth moved, sneering, “I only learned of the brew's existence minutes before the attacks.”   
  
Harry pressed. “How's that? When it's _your_ potion.”   
  
Beneath the dark hood, Snape shook his head. His face was so gaunt, Harry almost hadn't recognized his features before, skin at once sagging and stretched over the bones of his face. His hair hung lank and especially dirty around his shoulders, and he gave off a slight odor of ammonia and wet dirt, like he'd been living quite literally underground.   
  
“No. The potion is Lord Tihomir Ionescue's. Shockingly, its invention is... beyond my abilities.”   
  
Harry swallowed, frowning. Snape must be positively ragged if he was admitting his own failings. “Could you smuggle some out? Even half a phial could—”   
  
Snape cut him off with a short wave of his hand. “The potion is brewed by Lord Ionescue himself. At present I have no reason, nor orders, nor invitation to visit his laboratory. To appear unannounced would arouse suspicion beyond your imagination.”   
  
Harry nodded. “The man killed his oldest son... and wants the next one in line dead too, near as I can tell.” Of their own accord, Harry's eyes slid momentarily to Dmitry, deep in conversation with Kingsley Shackelbolt and several of Bill's Curse Breaker friends. Harry felt for Dima and Misha; their father was absolutely crazy. Worse than Lucius Malfoy, if that was possible. Their dad had single-handedly ripped his own family apart, murdering his wife and then his first-born son in a duel. His remaining sons fought against him now. Fought to stop him, no matter how futile. They were brave—braver, perhaps, than Harry. He was only following in his parents' footsteps, while the Ionescue boys, like Draco, forged their own path into a vast unknown.   
  
He pulled his attention back to Snape. “I'm sure Lord Ionesque would have no qualms about killing you for trespassing.” He hadn't known Dmitry and Misha's father held a title. But there was something about the way Snape said it; bothering to include the appellation at all meant something. He tucked it away in his mind for later thought, keeping his focus on the matter at hand. “Still. If you can manage to get away with a few drops... we'd appreciate it.”   
  
“Impossible,” Snape snapped in reply.   
  
Harry bit back his own annoyance, keeping his voice low. “People are dying every day. Anything you can do....”   
  
Snape stared at him. “Do you suppose I am not _trying_?” He offered his gloved palms in mock-supplication, opening his arms. “Oh yes,” he droned. “With a bit more effort on my part, this entire war can be put to rest.” A tongue darted out to lick at his lips, the lines on his brow deepening as he stared daggers into Harry. “Never mind if the cost is my life. You are a simpleton, Potter. It's going to get you killed, mark my words.”   
  
Harry wanted to comment—to fight back with his _words_ , now he'd learned to dislodge them from the sticky corners of his throat. But in this case there was nothing productive to be said. He understood how complicated this war was, how fractioned their defences stood, the precarious nature of his alliance with the Ministry and the Order both. One foul wind could bring it all down. He knew that. With alarming clarity. That was why he'd brought everyone together: because they were stronger together than alone.   
  
So he bit back the bile of angry words stinging the back of his throat. He swallowed and inhaled and flexed his fingers from the fists they'd formed at his sides. Snape _was_ trying. Harry couldn't deny that fact any longer. The greasy git was risking his life every day, just like Harry himself and countless others.   
  
Like it or not, they stood behind the same cause. Fighting with Snape wasn't going to get him anywhere.   
  
So he changed the subject. “Have you seen Lucius Malfoy at all?”   
  
Coldly, Snape's brow rose. It was a peculiar expression for his features—something almost like mirth fracturing his mouth. “Lucius has quite the limp,” Snape admitted. “His cane was once merely for show. He needs it now.” Snape peered down at Harry, the line of his mouth hardening, intensifying. “You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Potter?”   
  
Harry had to work to conceal his own smirk. It wouldn't do to appear boastful or gloating. That wouldn't go over well with Snape. Instead, he folded his hands behind his back.   
  
“We dueled,” he said simply. “That night at Malfoy Manor.” He carefully left out the detail that he’d fought Lucius for Narcissa. The longer he could conceal her presence at St. Mungo's, the better.   
  
“Well. I see.” Snape blinked—once, furtively—and then a mask of detachment closed once more over his face. The man was a lot like Draco, Harry realized; trained from a young age to conceal his feelings and opinions in order to conform to that image and mien which was expected of him. Harry suspected there was a lot more beneath the crusty exterior... much like Draco. But Snape was one mystery Harry would not attempt to crack. The man could stay cranky and miserable if he liked. That was none of Harry's concern.   
  
But Snape was peering at him now; steady, with a spark of rapid comprehension in his black eyes, his mouth canted in something like a grimace. “Pride was always Lucius' weakness. And vanity. He claims to have bested _you_.”   
  
That was as close as Snape would come to a compliment short of a wand being held to his throat. Harry took it, grinning.   
  
Seeing Harry happy was apparently too much for Severus Snape to bear. He needed to pop the bubble of Harry's elation before it went to his head.   
  
“Lucius is livid.”   
  
“That I beat him fair and square, in the old way?”   
  
Snape's eyes fixed on him intensely, two black marbles glaring out from the dark veil of his hood and hair. “That you've taken his son to wed.”   
  
Harry blinked. That was quite possibly _the most antiquated_ way of putting it—that Draco as a bridegroom was little more than chattel to Lucius, just another prized possession Harry had destroyed, like the Manor and the good Malfoy name. Draco wasn't anyone's property, and belonged wholly to himself as far as Harry was concerned... but perhaps wizarding law didn't see it that way? Especially since Draco had run away before he came of age. Lucius Malfoy suffered from the delusion that he owned everything and everyone. His son’s defiance was what hurt him most. Harry was only an outlet for that rage.   
  
Maybe Snape was struggling to refer to Harry's marriage in the most detached manner available—to keep emotion or his own mixed feelings out of it. And Snape would keep a stiff upper lip when it came to his pupils marrying each other. As a professor, he'd always turned his nose up at couples canoodling in the Hogwarts halls. It figured he'd be delicate about the subject of marriage... especially an unexpectedly gay marriage between his least favorite student and former _protégé_. All things considered, Harry was impressed Severus Snape could keep a straight face.   
  
Harry back-pedaled. “Wait—Lucius knows? How can he? It was a secret.”   
  
“Not a particularly well-kept one.” Snape snorted softly. “Potter, you can't have imaged a thing like this would not spread like the pox that it is.”   
  
A muscle near Harry's left eye twitched at the insult. “I'll consider that your felicitations and best wishes,” he grumbled under his breath. Then a far worse idea occurred to him. “If Lucius knows, then... then Voldem—”   
  
Snape actually hissed, sharp and low, glaring at him in earnest. “Yes, you fool. Of course the Dark Lord is aware.”   
  
“And furious?” Involuntarily, Harry flinched.   
  
Snape sneered. “Does not begin to describe.”   
  
“Shit,” Harry murmured, hanging his head. “Whoops.”   
  
The flare of rage in Snape's eyes... like he wanted to murder Harry where he stood. Harry interpreted it as two parts frustration, one part exasperation, and perhaps just a dash of warmth for Draco—of worry and fear for his favorite pupil's safety, now his fate was tied to Harry’s, Snape's least favorite person.   
  
“Well,” Harry continued blandly, “what can I do? He was going to find out eventually. I'd hoped to control the information better, at least, maybe use a formal announcement to goad the Death Eaters into a reaction—something quick and poorly executed on their end—which would work to our advantage.”   
  
Snape's brows quirked again. He seemed pleased. “That's actually... cunning of you, Potter.”   
  
Harry bit the side of his lip. “Don't sound so surprised.”   
  
Snape tutted disagreeably.   
  
“But there's something else I'd like to talk to you about—not here,” Harry added under his breath. “I'll have the Headmistress contact you.”   
  
“What half-brained scheme...?” Snape looked away, dubious.   
  
“We'll talk later,” reiterated Harry. “But in short, I need your help.”   
  
  


\- - -

There was a great hulking shadow in the distance. At first Harry thought it was a car abandoned in the snow beyond the car park. Only when he squinted, his eyes adjusting to the darkness, did he realize the giant shape was in fact his old friend Rubeus Hagrid sitting on the hard-packed ground, looking his way.   
  
Misha touched Harry's shoulder. “You coming?”   
  
“Um,” Harry dithered, caught off-guard. “Yeah, just... I need to talk to someone for a 'mo. You guys go ahead. I'll catch you up.” With a parting wave, Harry left his new friends and jogged over to where Hagrid sat, the dirt cleared of snow by one of the huge ploughs Leon paid to keep the endless white powder at bay. It snowed an awful lot in the midwest. Harry turned up the collar of his leather jacket against the flying spatter of white ice picked up by the wind.   
  
He couldn't wait for winter, like this war, to be over.   
  
He ought to feel more than shame, more than guilt, for the way he’d skirted his half-giant friend. Truth be told, he’d been outright avoiding Hagrid for months now. First he’d feared to upset his friend with the news of his relationship with Draco, who had been nothing short of atrocious to Hagrid for years. Now, with the wedding… Harry hadn’t wanted to think about Hagrid’s reaction. So he’d put it aside, buried it. If he didn’t think about it and didn’t run into Hagrid, it wouldn’t be a problem and he could focus his energy on what mattered—the war.   
  
But his friendships were important, too. They always had been. And even though he’d been running non-stop for the last six months, the truth was he missed Hagrid and wanted to tell his friend the truth. Even if it crushed him. Hagrid deserved to have the facts from Harry, not some stranger.   
  
Timidity would do him no good. Harry stepped forward, into the last light of the car park, hailing one of his oldest friends.   
  
Hagrid's shaggy black hair was as bushy as ever, hiding most of his face from view. But he nodded at Harry's approach.   
  
“Hagrid, I'm really glad to see you in one piece. How did things go with the giants?”   
  
“Horrible.” Rubeus Hagrid turned into the light from the car park, and a long scar down one side of his face became apparent, a little puffy and not yet fully healed. It slashed in a long line, cutting his unruly black eyebrow in half, running over his eyelid and sliding down his cheek, cutting off as though the blade had caught on his jaw bone, his attacker giving up at unyielding bone.   
  
That was Hagrid for you—always believing others were inherently good, always seeing the potential, whether he was looking at an eleven-year-old boy-wizard or an unhatched dragon's egg. With the half-giant's impressive size had come the life-lesson that he was big enough and strong enough to repel the unsavory. It made him jovial and unafraid, which had drawn Harry and his mates to the gamekeeper as children. Now Harry saw the potential for danger in Hagrid; that in part because of his size, and the rest due to his goodness, he would coax a fire-breathing monster right into your living room, not thinking anything funny of it.   
  
But now his beloved monsters were fighting back. That had to be a crushing blow, and not just to the left side of his face. The scar now slitting his features, impressive in itself, was a testament to his friend Madame Maxime's magical prowess; Hagrid should have rightly lost his eye. But it was still there, beetle black in its socket and glaring at Harry.   
  
He hadn't seen Hagrid so angry and distraught since Buckbeak had been sentenced to death. And that brought back a new wave of memories; namely of Draco, and what a piece of shit he'd been in his rebellious stage, trying to shake off the abuse he suffered at home by being an absolute ruddy asshole to anyone unfortunate enough to be near him. Harry wondered briefly why he and Draco reacted so differently to their pasts; both knocked around and left feeling like dirt underfoot, Draco had become an angry bully while Harry was able to make friends and attach himself to others in a lasting way. The closest Draco had come to making a friend was his brief relationship with Philippe Didier. Who promptly stabbed him in the back. No wonder Draco was temperamental and bitter.   
  
It was a miracle Harry hadn't turned out that way. His own life, all things considered, was the happiest end of the spectrum, with Voldemort miserable and violent at the opposite side. Draco sat between them—not quite well in the head, but with heart and mind enough to recognize right from wrong, and a fierce love for his family, despite their coldness, which was admirable. Draco was the balance to the brother wands' extremes. He was the grey space; a mirror to hold up to the darkness, checking for a reflection in the steel of his eyes.   
  
Harry just had to explain that to Hagrid.   
  
He'd learned to argue a point from Draco. He could be logical and even insightful given the right subject... his relationship with Draco not being one of them. One bad word about Draco set his blood boiling, and even with practice it was still a mighty struggle to control the defencive bullshit which dripped unbidden out of his mouth when people questioned the worthiness of his spouse. Draco was his best mate, his bed mate, and his confidant; the other side of himself he hadn't been aware of needing until Draco was there, taking him by the shoulder to share his burdens, dragging him kicking and screaming into a whole new understanding of the complexities of this new world they inhabited, dangerous but free. They shared a bed and secrets and a _life_ together. In the end only the two of them could determine if they were right, if they deserved each other, because only they knew all the tender, ripped up parts of their secret selves which fit together so perfectly.   
  
But all that—everything he felt and knew from the marrow of his bones—was difficult to cram into a short, logical argument, let alone one his friends and acquaintances would accept. He was constantly inventing news ways to describe the indescribable. It was like telling a muggle about magic: until they had it inside them, pumping through their veins and flowing out of their fingertips, they'd never really understand.   
  
He resisted the urge to stuff his hands in his back pockets. It was a nervous habit. He stuffed them in his jacket pockets instead, hiding his fingers from the cold. Hagrid was his friend, and deserved the most calm, adult explanation he could muster.   
  
“I heard some funny news about you, Harry,” Hagrid said. “I was hopin' it weren't true.” He glanced beyond Harry, noting the Durmstrang lads lingering under a light in the car park, waiting for him. Hagrid sucked his lips in a grimace. “But I guess not. New friends of yours? Parted ways with Ron an' Hermione, did ya?”   
  
Harry shook his head. “Ron and Mione are inside. We've made up, but it's true I'm keeping them at arm's length... for their own protection. I didn't fancy it when Professor Dumbledore did it to me. But now I'm on the other side of it, I don't see a better way. My mates there,” he pointed, “are already at risk. They're willing to stand at the front line so Ron and Hermione don't have to. Sometimes, when you want to support someone, it's better to stay behind than to rush out and get yourself hurt. That way you’re still around to offer help when they need it.”   
  
“I see…” Hagrid mumbled. His lips wobbled beneath his beard, face crunching in thought. “I… I don’t understand, Harry. Yeh have so many mates, so many people what love yeh an’… yeh choose Draco Malfoy. A bully an’ a coward. It dunna make sense ter me.”   
  
Draco _had_ been a bully—there was no denying that. During his tenure at Hogwarts he’d been cowardly, selfish, short-sighted and vain. And he still had those traits inside him. But by better understanding other facets of Draco’s personality—who he was and why he’d behaved in the ways he did—Harry had come to a place where he could lay those negative qualities aside and help Draco focus on the good in himself.   
  
Draco had been a bully because it was all he knew. Like Dudley. Like Voldemort. And that gave Harry an idea.   
  
He sucked in a deep breath. “You know I can't stand bullying. It makes me angry to think about what You-Know-Who did to you when you were in school, and Draco was only marginally better to you and me. I've never approved of people like Lucius Malfoy who use large-scale intimidation tactics, either—like the way he would throw his weight against the Hogwarts Board of Directors any time something didn't go his way.   
  
“To combat people like Lucius Malfoy and You-Know-Who, I've tried to surround myself with those who agree with me about the purpose and proper applications of power, people who put a stop to the bullying by giving the victims a voice, people who work at correcting the culture which allowed bullying to happen in the first place. You know that about me. And I know you think the same way.”   
  
“But Draco Malfoy—”   
  
“—was knocked around and called names by his father the same as my Uncle Vernon did to me.” Though Harry interrupted, he took care to make his voice low, calm, sticking as much as he could to solid facts. “I'm not trying to justify Draco's behavior. He was a right little pisser all through school, trying to be like his father. And that was the problem. The only thing he was ever praised for was emulating that sad excuse of a man. Draco didn't know any better because that's how he was raised.”   
  
“But Harry.... How can yeh care fer someone who would treat ya like that?”   
  
Harry thought for a full minute before the right analogy came to mind. He only had one shot at changing his oldest friend's mind.   
  
“Remember when Quirrell put Norbert-the-egg in front of you?”   
  
“I don't see how—”   
  
“Please,” Harry held up a hand. “Just listen. When he offered you that dragon egg, a part of you understood how dangerous dragons are. You’d educated yourself about all sorts of magical creatures, but dragons especially. I remember. You knew it would be a bad idea to bring one back to Hogwarts where four hundred kids lived.” Raising his eyebrows a titch, Harry was sure to make eye contact. These were the risks Hagrid himself had weighed, just as Harry had qualified the dangers of initiating a friendship with Draco Malfoy many months ago. “But more important than the risks was the empathy you felt for Norbert. Even though there was a magical fire-breathing creature inside of that egg, at that moment he was helpless and alone. You took a risk because you believed that if you took care of him, you would both be better for it. You would have an unexpected friend, and Norbert would never be hunted, or kept in a cage, or murdered for his body parts. Even though you knew better than most that dragons are dangerous, Norbert’s need for your protection was even more important; his needs outweighed the risk. That's how you saw it.”   
  
It was true. And to a certain extent, that was how Harry viewed his sometimes tenuous relationship with his spouse. Taming Draco was about as futile as mastering a real-life dragon. Some people, like magical creatures, only needed to be set free. There was no ruling over them. Their beauty was in their freedom.   
  
Hagrid looked down at him, waving a finger as big as a sausage. “I see where this is goin'. Yer tellin' me Draco Malfoy's reformed, is tha' it? Tha’ he's an innocent?” The corner of his mouth turned up, hidden behind his beard. The effect was a twitch and bristle of hair which Harry recognized, and hadn't realized until that moment how much he'd missed. Hagrid looked duly skeptical. “I'm not buyin' it.”   
  
“No,” Harry agreed. “He's still a cheese grater—sharp and full a' holes. He fights dirty and makes rude jokes about my friends. Those parts of him haven’t changed much. He's not perfect,” Harry insisted. And gods was it true! None of them were perfect. “But when Draco was hurt, he needed me; like Norbert needed you then. Except Draco needed more than a keeper. He needed a mate: because he’d never had an honest one before. We learned to lean on each other bit by bit.”   
  
Harry gritted his teeth, sucking in a breath. The words he had were still so inadequate but he said them anyway. He had to make an effort if he was ever to be accepted. “Draco and I understand things about each other because of how we grew up... you know… knocked around and stuff. My uncle: his father.” That was the first Harry had acknowledged to Hagrid that he’d been hit as a kid—starved and neglected and locked in a cupboard under the stairs. Hagrid didn’t need to know that, though. It would only break his heart that much more. So Harry glossed over it. “Draco and I both learned to fight back in ways that were unhealthy for us but effective in keeping us safe. It’s taking time to unlearn those behaviors—like secrecy, dishonesty, being sarcastic and pushing people away. But being together honestly helps. So much. Working together we can point out the worst in each other because we see those same faults in ourselves. We've found this way of being together that just feels... effortless. Like magic every time I look at him,” he gestured listlessly, hand quickly returning to his pocket. “Draco's teaches me things about our world, about being a wizard; things that have already saved my life, and a lot of other people's, too. And in return, I'm trying to help him be less of a screaming cunt.”   
  
It just slipped out. Hagrid started, black eyes widening comically.   
  
“I-I mean...” Harry stuttered. He'd lost his edge, seeing a half-glint of humor on his friend's face.   
  
Folding big arms over his chest, Hagrid deftly changed the subject. “But tha' doesn't explain about your girlfriend. Remember Ginny? Last I knew the pair 'o ya were real happy.”   
  
The way Hagrid said it... Harry immediately understood this was a question of honor rather than sexual orientation. He addressed it directly.   
  
“I broke up with Ginny, because of the war and stuff. I was single long before anything happened with Draco.”   
  
Harry couldn’t tell whether or not Hagrid actually believed him. Did his old friend think Draco had changed him that much—that he would become a cheater and a liar? Sure, he told lies to protect the people he cared about, and that didn’t always work out very well for him… but no one was perfect. The beauty was that people could change, for better or worse. Harry wanted to think he’d changed for the better. It seemed Hagrid couldn’t be sure.   
  
So Harry kept talking. “Neither of us meant for this to happen. For a while I was actively fighting it, and Draco was too, in his own way.”   
  
Harry flashed back to the early days in Grimmauld Place, when he and Draco had hit each other and screamed and wound up in cupboards the next day—laughing, touching, practically kissing. As hard as they’d tried to hate each other, their other feelings had been stronger. Too damn powerful, too brilliant to ignore. Looking back, it was crazy to realize how obvious they both were. When Draco had kissed him for the first time, even though it was done to diffuse a fight, there had been a spark—some chemistry between them that defied logic or explanation. It was a magic unique to the two of them and what they shared. They were meant to be together. They fit. And as soon as he and Draco had taken their heads out of their asses, everything fell into place.   
  
He smiled, even with his feelings exposed and on trial. “But it happened. We're still trying to figure it out. Draco has changed as a person. He’s different... and so am I, now. I’ve grown up. I’m not a child anymore.”   
  
Hagrid gestured wordlessly, hands open and waving around his temples as though shooing away snowflakes. It was only when Harry looked closely that he saw the shine of tears in his old friend’s eyes. That hurt the most.   
  
Hagrid still thought of Harry as the baby he’d rescued from burning rubble, or the innocent abused eleven year old he’d found out on that deserted rock in the ocean. It was so hard for Hagrid to see Harry as an adult, as capable of making decisions for himself and dealing with the consequences of his actions. Hagrid just wanted to shield him from hurt, protect him from harm. Hagrid was one of the few people who had always had Harry’s best interests at heart; from the very start, and even now. He only wanted Harry to be okay.   
  
Instead he’d hurt Hagrid, his oldest and most loyal friend, by keeping this from him. A marriage was supposed to be a joyous event; instead, Harry’s marriage was ripping his other relationships apart at the seams.   
  
“I'm sorry.” Harry pushed the words out. Hagrid deserved an apology at the least. “I hesitated to tell you about me and Draco because I knew you’d be upset; I didn’t want my happiness with Draco to cause you pain. It was selfish of me to keep this to myself—I know that—but I held back because I was afraid of your reaction. I was afraid of everyone’s reaction, really.   
  
“I know this is hard to hear. And I'm probably doing a shit job of it, and I’m sorry for that too. I have a lot going on with the war, and fighting You-Know-Who, so I admit I haven't been paying enough attention to my friends, or to Draco. Please believe it was never my intention to neglect the people I care about. I guess… I just get a little obsessed with protecting you guys, and I forget to check in with you-all, to tell you what's going on in my head. It's something I'm working on.”   
  
Hagrid mopped his face with his hands, not looking up. He seemed to be absorbing Harry’s words, letting them wash over him like a cold shower.   
  
“I understan’ tha’ much,” Hagrid mumbled. “I was runnin’ away too. After Dumbledore died… was like I dinna have a place anymore, a home. I went with Olympe inta’ some dangerous situations—made some strange choices meself….” He swallowed thickly, finally pushing his hair out of his face with a heavy-chested sigh. “We don’t always make good choices fer ourselves, Harry. Tha’s all I’m sayin’.”   
  
“Yeah,” Harry agreed, exhaling hard. “Times like these, nobody’s thinking with a clear head. But,” he met his old friend’s gaze, fixed and firm, “this is a decision I’m set on. Draco and I aren’t going away. He’s a part of the family I’ve chosen for myself—the same way I chose Ron and Hermione and you to be a part of my life, too. I respect you, and I understand why you don’t trust Draco. Your reasons and concerns are valid. They’re things I agonized over before I decided that Draco would be a part of my life. I can’t make you accept Draco. I can only hope that, in time, you might come to understand and respect my marriage.”   
  
Hagrid’s head whipped up, staring at him. His eyes were wide as tea saucers. “M-m-marriage?” he stuttered.   
  
Harry grinned sheepishly. His hand flew to the back of his neck as a blush heated his face despite the swirling cold snow. “Uh, yeah… we got married over Christmas. Didn’t I tell you?”   
  
  


\- - -

  
  
  
  
Dmitry, Mikhail, Nebojsa and Harry Apparated behind a very large rubbish dumpster.   
  
It was the first thing Harry smelled—rancid, rotting garbage baking in the sun. Then he realized how hot it was and immediately peeled off his jacket. The sun was shining down on their heads, and somewhere in the distance… yes, that was the sound of the ocean. Muggles were laughing, playing on the beach and wandering between souvenir shops, paying no attention to the shadowy figures hiding behind a dumpster in the alleyway.   
  
Dmitry and Nebojsa cast wordless spells, checking that the area was clear of threats, magical or otherwise. Meanwhile Mikhail knocked Harry’s side with his own, asking, “Do you know vot you vant?”   
  
Harry puzzled at him.   
  
Misha lifted his brother’s sleeve, showing the moving Thestral inked on Dima’s tricep.   
  
“He von’t let me get one,” the lad pouted.   
  
Dmitry stowed his wand, cuffing his little brother upside the head. “I von’t let you get a stoopid one,” he corrected.   
  
Misha grunted. “I vant a _cruce_ , like Nebojsa.”   
  
The Serb laughed, patting the Christian cross inked on the side of his neck. His icy blue eyes flew down to meet Harry’s. “ _The word meanssss both ‘a crossssssssss’ and ‘a dagger_ ,’” he explained in Parseltongue.   
  
“Cheeky,” Harry grinned back. “It makes sense, though. I wouldn’t mind being able to peel a knife off my skin and kill a man with it. Damn useful.”   
  
Mikhail folded thick arms over his chest, flicking his eyebrows at his brother; as though Harry Potter’s approval sealed the argument in his favor.   
  
Dima was unmoved. “Vhen you’re older, Mishenka.”   
  
It was hard to remember that Mikhail was only fifteen. The war had changed them all, made grown men out of boys. Even Nebojsa, who seemed ancient as Dumbledore sometimes, was barely nineteen. It was hard to imagine him any other way—any of them. Harry had only known this incarnation of his new mates, their “after the war” selves, just as they only knew Harry with Draco, Harry the soldier, the warrior, the fighter. They’d never see him as a seven year old boy locked in a cupboard. Just as Harry would never look at Misha and remember a little boy who’d grown up with a murdered mother. But they sensed it in one another, these guarded secrets of an unfortunate past which had forged them into the deadly weapons they were today.   
  
Harry had the feeling this trip wasn’t purely recreational. Nebojsa and Dima weren’t getting just any old tattoos. They wanted Harry with them to serve as witness.   
  
They found the tattoo parlor a ways down the strip, overlooking a long, sunny stretch of beach. It was an ordinary muggle shop, nothing unusual about it. Harry kept waiting to see some sign of magic, some spark of mystery; someone to recognize him as The Chosen One or pull out their wand. But nothing even remotely magical happened—he didn’t see so much as a goblin or a grindylow, even in the fantastic art all over the walls.   
  
Dima and his boyfriend talked to a tattoo artist in rapid Russian while Misha sulked in the corner, bored and looking over designs with envy in his eyes. Then Dima was sketching on a pad of paper, Nebojsa and the burly tattoo artist nodding their agreement the more Dima laid out.   
  
Harry inched closer to Misha. “How do they get the ink to be magical if it’s a muggle doing the work?”   
  
Misha kept looking at the display when he whispered, “Potion slipped into zhe ink. Ve layer zhe spells after, bonding zhe magic to zhe potion.”   
  
“Sounds complicated.”   
  
“Iz very simple,” the fellow shrugged. He then slapped Harry on the back, pushing him closer to the designs on the wall. “Zo! Vot for you, eh?”   


  
  
  
  
Harry felt the Confundus Charm from across the room—the precise moment Dima spelled the unsuspecting muggle, wandless and silent, a distraction just long enough for Nebojsa to slip several drops of potion into the black ink the muggle had prepared.   
  
Harry peeked at the design only to be slightly disappointed. The tattoo was a simple sentence in Cyrillic, so he couldn’t read it let alone try his hand at butchering the pronunciation. Dmitry and Nebojsa would be getting the same ink, on identical parts of their bodies—the chest, just above the heart.   
  
He was idly flipping through a book of samples, Misha at his elbow, watching as the muggle blinked his way out of the grips of magic, smiling blandly at his customers and apologizing as though he’d just sneezed.   
  
Harry asked under his breath, “What spell are they doing, anyway?”   
  
Mikhail smirked. “ _Drengr Leita_.”   
  
“Norse,” Harry recalled. Draco had mentioned it once—an ancient magic used to find allies across a battlefield. It was the basis for the Dark Mark, among other things. Harry understood why Dima and his boyfriend would get something like that, having been separated for so long when Nebojsa was captured. With _Drengr Leita_ , if they were ever separated again, one would be able to pinpoint the other’s location. Maybe even summon the other, like Voldemort did with the Dark Mark. It was a way to stay together. Knowing everything they’d been through as a couple, it made sense.   
  
“ _Da_ ,” Misha agreed, tacking on, “Ve have extra potion if you….” And, giving Harry a lengthy once-over, the boy waggled his eyebrows. Appreciatively. But goadingly, too. God he was a lot like a younger, cockier version of Draco sometimes!   
  
Harry looked down at his arm—his left arm, tracing the faint line of a scar where the fang of Voldemort’s pet basilisk had punctured his arm second year. His scar was in almost the exact spot a Dark Mark would be on a Death Eater. He could picture the skull and snake tattoo perfectly because of Draco’s arm.   
  
It should have given him the willies to see his enemy’s mark on his spouse’s body—like a brand marking property. Oddly enough, Harry rarely thought about it. The Dark Mark was like all of Draco’s other markings; his scars, birthmarks and near-invisible blemishes, testifying to everything he’d lived through, reminders of torture and bad decisions which he carried around everywhere he went, a reminder that his decisions were his own, and he could always choose to be better.   
  
That was the difference between Harry and Voldemort. The Dark Lord punished those who followed him with disfigurement, fear and pain. He marked them to insure their loyalty. Whereas Harry gave tokens to those who believed in him—the enchanted galleons Hermione had made for Dumbledore’s Army, the Christmas and birthday presents Harry gave his friends every year, and even the rings he’d put on Draco’s fingers. Harry freely gave these signs of love and trust, tokens of a different sort of magical bond shared between people who cared for one another in a real, lasting way.   
  
Once, tattoos had been a way for ancient people to proclaim themselves, to celebrate, to mark their bodies the way Draco kept his scars. Tattoos said who a person was, where they’d been, and where they wanted to end up. Voldemort had subverted thousands of years of tradition, wizarding and muggle alike, going back to the worst possible meaning of a tattoo—the marking of a slave, like property, something less than human and equally disposable. People like Dima and Nebojsa were taking that tradition back, using their ink to literally defend themselves; or, in this case, to declare their love for one another.   
  
“Wait,” Harry started. He picked up the script book, bringing it to the woman at the front desk. She looked up, and Harry pointed. Before he lost his nerve. “Can you do this over a scar?”   
  
She glanced from the book to his arm and back. “Sure, no problem. Just grab a chair.”   
  
  


~ * ~

  
  
  
  
Draco found Harry standing at the very center of his bed chamber, resting his hip against the piano. He looked run-down, slouching against the heavy piece of furniture, eyes staring at nothing. It should have been weeks-yet before he showed his face, but here he was. Something must have gone awry. He looked as though he'd come to Hogwarts to recoup his wits.   
  
Draco dropped his book bag with a _thump_ , announcing himself. “Harry. Wha' are you doing here?”   
  
“Er,” The Boy Who Lived stalled inelegantly, hands in his jacket pockets as though he'd just arrived. But there was no cold in his cheeks, nor snow in his hair. Draco wasn't fooled. “I've done something you, uh, might not like. I wasn't really thinking that much when I did it.”   
  
“You weren't thinking. Okay.” A snort escaped Draco's nose. “Should I be surprised?”   
  
Harry snorted himself, a hand leaving his pocket. “Can I just show you—no reaction or anything, just see it and that's it?”   
  
Confused, Draco nodded.   
  
Harry removed his jacket, tossing it over the back of an armchair before starting on the cuffs of his shirt. He only unbuttoned the one, loosening it up to his elbow. Then the fabric fell away.   
  
He'd tattooed Draco's name on his forearm. The left, where a Dark Mark should be. It read _Draco_ , dragon, scrawled across his husband's skin.   
  
The script was black, thick and lovely. The weight of it suited his skin, sitting well on the bulk of his arm, the tail of an elegant letter D trailing up into the paler crook of his elbow. A sort of Gothic scroll permeated the letters, peeling off and away over his arm as he spun it slowly, so Draco might see his mark from every angle.   
  
“Do you hate it?” Harry muttered. “You hate it. I only... wanted to have you with me. I don't care who sees, who knows about us or what they think. I did it for me, 'cause I wanted it.... Sorry, I didn't think how you'd react.”   
  
His skin was raised around the stronger sections, red and swelling. The ink was fresh.   
  
Draco quirked his head. “Are you drunk?” “A 'lil.”   
  
“Were ya drunk when ya got it?”   
  
“Nope. Was sober then. Drunk now.”   
  
Draco pointed towards the window, the curtains partly open. “You realize it's half ten in the morning?”   
  
“Is it?” Harry leaned again against the piano, lax and without a care in this world, the tails of his shirt coming loose from his trousers as he stretched, kicking off his trainers and in another moment, ditching the shirt all together.   
  
Draco was reminded of when his piano had first stood in the parlor of Grimmauld Place. It seemed a great long time ago that Harry Potter had helped unpack it—had been flung beneath it by a rain of Draco's fists, then later, thrown upon it and fucked out of his mind.   
  
Draco opened his arm, beckoning. “Come 'ere.”   
  
Harry tottered closer, his good arm snaking around Draco's middle.   
  
The blond looked down once more at Harry's tattooed arm. The ink was bold, but somehow it suited him perfectly, as though Harry Potter wasn’t complete without Draco’s name stamped across his body.   
  
He couldn't hold back a snarky comment. “Weasley's gonna give yeh so much shit fer tha'.”   
  
Harry didn't blink. “Fuck 'em. I don't care what Ron or anybody else thinks. I told you. It's for me. So I can bring you with me.”   
  
“Bring me where? Hmm?” Draco hummed.   
  
“Bed.” And afternoon-drunk Harry tipped him onto his back with a frightening strength.


	60. Beretta: Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of a POW Sequence; Harry passes through the jaws of the beast, into Death Eater territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** reference to torture (non-explicit)  
>  **AUTHOR’S NOTE:** This is the first interlude of a triad, all exploring a POW theme. I’ve been writing this sequence with varying degrees of success since the fall of 2012: pity me. There will be explicit torture in the second and third installments. This episode is merely the ramp-up.

_“If travel is searching_

_And home what's been found_

_I_ _'m not stopping_

_I'm going hunting_

_I'm the hunter_

_I'll bring back the goods_

_B_ _ut I don't know when.”_

“Hunter” Bjork

  
  
  
  
“I want you to know, Potter, that this is quite likely the worst idea of which your pathetic, effete little mind has ever been possessed. Flying a bit of kindling in the face of a fire-spewing dragon was brighter by comparison—brighter by far; indeed, the likelihood of you getting yourself killed has compounded over these last few years at a rather disquieting pace. I should have seen the propensity from the start,” Snape shook his greasy head. All Harry could see was the back of it as the former Potions Professor muttered to himself. “You have a death wish, Potter. And I daresay this ought to do the trick.”   
  
Harry rolled his eyes.   
  
“And you,” Snape continued, flicking a handful of long fingers in no particular direction. “You could only be Ronald Weasley. The only wizard simultaneously daft and loyal enough to follow _this one_ into the jaws of hell with such blatant disregard for his own life and limb.” He snorted, deep in the arch of his hooked nose.   
  
Harry bit at his lips, not saying a word. He wasn’t accustomed to being berated. It had been a while, actually, and he had no clue how to respond to this sort of treatment beyond a stunned silence. The instinct to fight Snape was gone—beaten out of him, it would seem, by a sense of purpose, tact, and timing. He didn’t want to scream back in Snape’s face as he might have done a year ago. Now, all he wanted was for the greasy-haired git to shut his gob so they could be on their way.   
  
Beside Harry, Nebojsa Radic was impassive. But it wasn’t Nebojsa Radic—not the long nose, slim figure and and ice-blue eyes Harry had grown accustomed to in their short acquaintance. The young Serbian wizard was gone, replaced with rounded cheeks, age spots and a long, flowing white beard. Nebojsa was under the influence of Polyjuice Potion once more—this time disguised as the great wandmaker Pavel Gregorovitch. Harry stood two heads shorter, in the guise of the old wizard’s wife, Anka.   
  
This was their plan. A part of it, anyway. A part, it would seem, which Severus Snape took issue with. Snape paused in his pacing before the fire, turning an eye toward the form of Pavel Gregorovitch.   
  
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Potter,” he spat. “I hope its worth risking your life for.”   
  
“I’m zure it iz,” the old man’s mouth answered smoothly. “But I am not Potter.”   
  
“Of course you’re not. My most sincere apologies.” Snape fixed him with a disgruntled look, lips curling into a sneer. “You’re Pavel Gregorovitch. I must say, the accent is rather... authentic.”   
  
“ _Gospodin_.” It sounded like Nebojsa wanted to curse at Snape rather violently, but held his tongue. Barely. Like Harry, Nebojsa was accustomed to giving lectures rather than receiving them; his tone carried authority along with that healthy bite of annoyance. “Zhis iz Potter.” He jerked his head down in Harry’s direction.   
  
Snape’s gaze fell, taking in the narrow lines of Anka Gregorovitch—her plain navy robes, short stature, and stern face hiding behind a pair of spectacles and pinned-back waves of silvery hair. The slight woman wasn’t exactly intimidating. Snape’s eyes narrowed.   
  
“Potter...?”   
  
Inside the elderly woman’s skin, Harry shrugged. “If zhe robe fits...” he said cryptically.   
  
One sallow crow’s foot at the edge of Snape’s eye gave a telling twitch. But he said nothing, gave no reaction beyond that seemingly involuntary flicker. Harry swallowed and continued.   
  
“Zhe Polyjuice is just to get us in zhe door—”   
  
“As prisoners,” Snape interrupted, terse.   
  
Harry conceded. “As your prisoners, yes.”   
  
“And you refuse, even under pain of torture—which they will _most assuredly_ implement, might I add—”   
  
“I refuse to tell you anything. Yes. Zhat is my one and only condition, as we discussed,” Harry repeated firmly. “You agreed to zhis. You agreed to help me. Anything beyond zhat is need-to-know.” Harry’s voice went as stern as the woman’s looks. Inhabiting her age gave his words weight. “And you don’t. Zo I suggest you mind out.”   
  
Snape steamed. Harry never would have gotten away with speaking like this to a Professor at Hogwarts. But Snape was no longer a teacher, and Harry no longer his pupil. They were meeting on the battlefield as allies; though there was little chance of forging any further kinship between them, no matter how dire the circumstances of their alliance, and both knew it. This was as cordial, as civil as it was ever going to get between them. Snape’s stony features seemed to realize this in the same moment as Harry’s—Snape’s coloring, twitches and frustration snapping back beneath their practiced mask of sneering indifference. The long expression put Harry in mind of Lucius Malfoy. His father-in-law. The thought made him cringe.   
  
“Once inside, you’re on your own,” Snape advised them curtly. “I cannot be witnessed working to your aid. You understand, Potter.” His tone hardened. Hair ghosted against his jaw. He was getting awfully thin. “They will torture you.”   
  
“Zhe isolation,” Nebojsa interrupted. “Zhat iz vhen ve vill break out. Have zhe vands ready.” Snape’s iron mask slipped a moment, revealing his surprise. “You...” he clamped his mouth shut. His look said it all; he understood that the person inhabiting Pavel Grevorovitch’s form was a veteran of sorts, had been inside a Death Eater torture camp once before and lived to tell of it. There weren’t many who could boast such a thing.   
  
Snape folded his arms across his chest. He carried a white Death Eater mask; it was the only thing breaking up the black of his hair, robes, and mood.   
  
Nebojsa didn’t blink—didn’t move, staring Snape down. “ _Da. Gospodin_.”   
  
That was all the acknowledgement the Serb gave—of being tortured without hope for reprieve or rescue, of having been beaten bloody and broken, physically, mentally, day after day after day for weeks or even months without end. Though it had probably felt like years, cut off from everyone he loved, suffering and screams all around, expecting death at any moment.... And he was walking back into the viper’s nest, not knowing what Harry was after but willing to risk his life in aid.   
  
In this, Nebojsa was about the only wizard alive whom Harry could turn to. He hated the thought, and hadn’t quite worked up the courage to ask. When Harry brought up the idea of sneaking into Voldemort’s Ministry, Nebojsa had offered to accompany Harry of his own free will. Nebojsa had been in the Death Eater’s clutches before and knew their weaknesses, their methods and means. Nebojsa more than anyone could tell him what to expect—could guide and protect him where literally no one else could. He was the greatest resource at Harry’s disposal. So here they were, preparing to risk their lives. And Harry couldn’t even tell him what they were putting their lives on the line _for_. Keeping the knowledge of Voldemort’s horcruxes a secret was one of the few things Harry still believed in; denying Nebojsa any knowledge of Voldemort’s horcruxes would help his friend stay alive once they were inside. And as much as it tore Harry up inside, he knew it to be true. He was lying by purposeful omission to protect those closest to him, just as Dumbledore had lied to him, and it almost physically tore him up inside.   
  
Nebojsa understood, too. He knew the risks better than most. And in spite of the danger to his own life, he chose to stand at Harry’s side. That meant the world to Harry. He honestly couldn’t have faced the prospect of a torture chamber without a friend at his side; and strangely, he was glad it was Nebojsa who had stepped forward first. The man had knowledge and experience that would be invaluable inside the Death Eater camp… but more important was his heart, his courage, his willingness to help. Harry didn’t think anyone _but_ Nebojsa Radic could get the job done.   
  
Harry’s chin lifted, having his friend beside him.   
  
“The wands,” Snape patted his pocket, where he had the Polyjuiced wizards’ wands ready and waiting. His eyes slid back to Harry, narrowed to seething slits. “On your signal, then.”   
  
Harry shook his head. “Zhere vill be no signal. Ve von’t compromise you.”   
  
“Fine,” Snape huffed. “But I still say you’re about to get yourselves killed.... Both of you.”   
  
“And you are entitled to your opinion, Severus,” Harry conceded with a nod. “Any chance ve can get on vith it? Zhere is only so much Polyjuice to go around.”   
  
With a burdened sigh, Severus Snape turned, robes billowing, tossing a handful of powder into the fire.   
  
“Ministry of Magic,” he called, pushing Harry and Nebojsa into the flames.   
  


 

\- - -

  
  
  
  
The fountain was destroyed. Again. That was the first thing Harry noticed.   
  
The atrium to the Ministry of Magic was once again in ruins, courtesy of Lord Voldemort and his followers. Rubble was everywhere. Jagged stone fragments, dust and busted-up furniture lined the entrance to the once grand and mighty British government. The fountain had been drained, or perhaps the water simply evaporated away. Glittering coins could be seen at the bottom, covered by the finest layer of dust. Banners and signage lay torn and scattered about, a poster of Minister Scrimgrour winking up at them from beneath an overturned bench. Wooden splinters tickled at The Minister’s mustache, and he could be seen trying in vain to brush the debris aside.   
  
Harry took a few tentative steps forward, brushing soot from his sleeves. Then a wand was shoved rather rudely in his face. He recoiled, turning his gaze away.   
  
“What have we here?” asked a wizard’s voice. He used the tip of his wand to raise Harry’s face.   
  
Harry recognized him instantly—Augustus Rookwood, the Death Eater who had attacked Draco on the London underground that summer. Augustus Rookwood, pureblood elitist and friend of Lucius Malfoy. Convicted Death Eater. Probably a murderer; and likely a rapist, too, if half the rumors were true. Harry was never more aware of the breasts anchored to his chest, or the space between his thighs. Something in him longed to run and hide. But something stronger burned.   
  
Harry spat directly in the fellow’s eye, earning himself a mighty, backhanded slap. His neck cricked with the blow, ears ringing.   
  
Nebojsa caught him before he could stumble. Anka Gregorovitch weighed perhaps seven stone, with the beginnings of arthritis in several of her major joints; the slap turned her silver head ‘round. Harry worked his jaw with bony fingers. But he kept his mouth shut.   
  
Snape stepped forward.   
  
“Our Master has asked for these two, specifically,” he said; slow, emphatic. “And _I_ shall be the one to deliver them.”   
  
Rookwood sneered, but also stepped aside, waving Snape and his prisoners through with a flick of his wandhand. “Be my guest.”   
  
Harry felt the spell coming—felt the displaced air ruffling his robes a moment before the magic hit him, binding his frail arms behind his back at the elbows and wrists; his feet lifted from the stone as his body began to float millimeters from the floor, dragged forward by the shoulders as though he were a slaughtered carcass attached to a muggle conveyor belt.   
  
Snape purveyed them to the lift—which was still functional due entirely to the application of magic, judging by the physical state of it—mashing the “close door” button with his wand until the machinery gave way with a heavy, heaving groan. There was only a small amount of smoke hovering around the ceiling by the time they were delivered to the ninth sub-floor—what had once been the courtrooms of the Wizengamot, and home to the Department of Mysteries.   
  
It wasn’t surprising that Nebojsa’s gaze snapped immediately to the black door at the very furthest end of the hall—Harry was drawn to it, too. He could feel the power radiating off of it like a piston about to explode. The air rattled with cast-off energy. It hit him like marbles rocketing around inside a glass jar, banging against its cage, begging his attention with increasingly painful pokes until he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Only the spell holding Harry’s arms and feet prevented him from walking straight toward the Department of Mysteries.   
  
He and Nebojsa exchanged looks. The foreign wizard’s expression was hard to read beyond the weathered mask of Gregorovitch’s face.   
  
Perhaps the Death Eaters hadn’t gotten in yet? Maybe that high-pitched hum hurtling down the hall was the Department’s defences in action? Harry could only hope.   
  
Snape prodded them further down the hall, away from the Department of Mysteries. They passed several of the old Wizengamot courtrooms—some were completely destroyed, with stones ripped from the walls and furniture in splinters, while others had been gutted and repurposed. One room held several large tables where Death Eaters were sorting through Ministry paperwork. Another old courtroom held magical objects looted from the upper floors—instruments like Sneak-o-Skopes went off every few seconds: falling off the sides of tables, they rattled so hard. Glass broke and Death Eaters swore. A hooded executioner, axe in hand, walked by in the opposite direction, kicking closed the door to the exposed courtroom as though it still held state secrets not for prisoners’ eyes. The executioner surveyed Snape and his prisoners with mild interest—as though he’d enjoy taking the famous wandmaker’s head off with that huge axe of his—before continuing on his way.   
  
Harry looked to Nebojsa. The wizard had his eyes shut tight, mouthing his prayers, lips barely moving. He seemed to know what was coming, like a bird flying south before the first snow.   
  
Footsteps sounded from around the corner. A white mask was lowered, and before them stood none other than Bellatrix Lestrange. Her eyes flickered over Nebojsa’s enchanted face, then Harry’s, before coming to rest upon Snape. Eyes—beetle black—narrowed.   
  
Harry would have froze... were it not for the spell binding him so tight he could barely breathe. He probably quit breathing the moment his in-law opened her mouth.   
  
“What have we here?”   
  
Her voice made Harry’s skin crawl. When she teased, Bellatrix sounded almost like Draco. But there was more cruelty in a single strand of her hair than Draco had in his entire body.   
  
Snape managed to contain his indignant snort. “Prisoners. Clearly. Has it been that long?”   
  
Her eyes raked over Nebojsa, looking as though she might kill him on the spot... or eat him. Something about her was feral and wild. “Gregorovitch, hmm? Our Master will be delighted,” she drawled, brows rising. A hand went to her hip. “Why did you not send word, hmm?”   
  
“The safe house was surrounded by Aurors—overrun,” Snape spat, lies at the ready. “There was no time. It’s a wonder I captured _one_ , let alone the pair.”   
  
Bellatrix sneered, “Indeed.”   
  
Snape ignored her—Harry imagined it took a lifetime of practice. “Where is our Lord?” he snapped, imperious. “I would prefer to deliver these myself.”   
  
Her mouth twisted into a little girl’s smile. It turned Harry’s stomach. “He is not here. But my rooms are free. Bring them,” and she flipped her wand, taking the reigns over the spell cast on Nebojsa, dragging him forward seemingly by his throat.   
  
The Serb went limp. Harry caught sight of his eyes, and it was like seeing a candle extinguished.   
  
He was in over his fucking head.


	61. Beretta: Intuition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **SUMMARY:** Part 2 of a POW Sequence; Inside the Death Eater stronghold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** torture, general nastiness and unhealthy quantities of violence in the un-sexy flavor

 

 

_A map is more unreal than where you've been or how you feel_

_And it's impossible to tell how important something was_

_And what you might have missed out on_

_And how he might have changed it all_

 

“Intuition”

– Feist

 

 

 

 

The door clanged behind them, rattling hinges and magic. It echoed in his bones.

Without warning, the pair of them were thrown to the ground. Something in Harry’s wrist—the old woman’s—bent the wrong way. He felt it jump up his arm.

A flicker of movement behind them, and Nebojsa let out a shriek, two sharp sounds echoing off the stone. Inches from Harry’s ear, he panted.

Harry twisted to find two conjured knives hovering over the Serb’s back—the old man’s back, blood blooming over his caramel-colored woolen robes. Two puncture wounds near the base of his spine. The red stain spread, pooling in the smalls of his back, slipping to the floor. Nebojsa used shaking arms to push his face an inch off the floor.

Bellatrix laid a foot to the back of Nebojsa’s neck, holding him down.

Harry couldn’t close his eyes, couldn’t stop himself from seeing the blood, Bellatrix’s scuffed boot on his friend’s neck—his friend disguised as an old man, wandless, helpless, pinned to the ground and bleeding. His blood puddled, dripping down his robes like red rain against a windowpane.

Nebojsa was looking at him, trying to gain Harry’s attention. His old eyes were so wide. Thin, wrinkled lips moved distinctly, forming three simple words. _Don’t. Fight. Back._

The advice seemed like madness. And then there was the pain.

“ _Crucio._ ”

He wanted to pass out. To lose consciousness would have been mercy beyond imagining. Bile stung his throat, tears in his eyes, and something sticky-hot burned where magic held his arms. He tried so hard not to fight it. But survival was instinct, and soon he was thrashing against the pain—eyes screwed shut, a scream trapped in his throat. He didn’t have the energy for it. Everything was consumed by sharp, inescapable pain; lightning in his veins, striking his bones.

When it ended, he was swallowing back sick.

“Well well,” Bellatrix crowed above them. “It seems I’ll be having a bit of fun.” She turned, wand still at their backs, holding them down. Ache traipsed down Harry’s spine, holding him in place as much as the implied threat. “Thank you, Severus. You may withdraw.”

Snape’s mouth opened audibly. “I think—”

“You may _withdraw_ ,” she repeated, this time with edge. Harry watched Snape’s feet as he shuffled from the small stone chamber, robes swirling around his ankles as he went. A wet balloon in Harry’s chest burst with the clanging of the door. Tears were upon the old woman’s cheeks—his cheeks, and the thing had not yet begun.

Bellatrix set to work. With vigour, she jammed the heel of her boot against the wounds in old Gregorovitch’s back. Blood burbled and spat. Inside, Nebojsa groaned, face pinching against the cold stone floor. It bit into both their cheeks, freezing them through their robes.

Again it came. “ _Crucio_.”

Harry tried not to fight—to go limp, to at least appear as though he’d given up hope. It would only be worse if he struggled, would only give the dark witch more ammunition with which to press her attack.

When it got so bad Harry stopped breathing, Bellatrix moved on to Gregorovitch.

She flipped her wand, and his bones crunched audibly. Harry watched, frozen in terror, as the old man’s jaw visibly broke in two, three, then four places, caving in one side of his face. Bellatrix smiled to herself, enjoying her work. Another flutter of her wand had him writhing on the floor, taking her time as she applied the same spell to his hand, breaking sections of his fingers one by one. She played a game with herself, seeing which random pattern elicited the most frightful result.

Harry’s damned conscience tugged at the back of his mind; how could he watch an innocent person suffer and not do something? This was all his fault, anyway. _His_ decision to come after Nagini. _His_ decision to infiltrate a Death Eater stronghold with a target on his back. _His_ decision to expose himself and his friend to this agony. He at least deserved the brunt of the torture that came with it.

Harry began to push himself up. His movement called Bella’s attention. Her wand flashed, a silent spell sending the old woman’s body flying across the room—flying out and then up, pinned into the juncture of wall and ceiling, given a bird’s eye view of the torture chamber.

Bellatrix peeked back over her shoulder; a sickly-coquettish gesture as her victim writhed at her feet. She gained Harry’s gaze, black eyes locking with his, before she chortled, “Enjoy the show.”

Nebojsa screamed. Bellatrix didn’t need to put words to her spells as she hurt him, as she made his Polyjuiced old body writhe and shake against the floor. His robes were soaked with blood. It splashed and squelched as he moved in puddles of it, half-drowned in it, eyes rolled into the back of his head, barely conscious through the pain of it.

Harry felt trapped—glued to the wall, barely able to breathe for the force of magic holding him fast against the ceiling. He could only look down, watching in horror. All he wanted was to reach out, to touch, to comfort; to let Nebojsa know that there was a reason for this madness. It would get them close enough to kill Nagini—that was all.

Harry’s hands strained, confined, barely able to move more than his littlest finger in aid. Beyond the physical pain, his heart ached. He was supposed to he a hero, a savior of many; and yet it took only minutes for a Death Eater like Bellatrix Lestrange to render him helpless.

She bent down over the old man, getting in Gregorovitch’s face. “How is it?” she simpered. “To be a puppet at the end of a string? Mastered by the very instrument you created?”

Her wand tip pressed to the old man’s groin. He let out a helpless grunt, falling to his back—convulsing in the smallest of shivers and shakes, teeth hard. A ringing like muggle sirens filled Harry’s ears.

Bellatrix’s wand migrated to Nebojsa’s throat, tracing until a fine line of blood appeared in her wand’s wake. She went to the base of his skull and, with a wicked simper directed at Harry, pressed.

Nebojsa grunted—a choked-off sound in the back of his throat, eyes rolling until they were white. He gasped, desperate for air, a bloody, mangled hand clutching at his chest. Then he went limp, lifeless.

Bellatrix came near, floating herself up to within an inch of Harry’s face, a genuine smile splitting her mouth.

“I’ve stopped your husband’s heart,” she cackled. “How long do you think, before he’s beyond reviving? Another twenty seconds? Thirty? Let’s have a guess.”

“You von’t kill him,” Harry muttered, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. “You vouldn’t….”

Bella smiled that smile of hers—toothy, almost pretty were it not for the sharp shard of madness lurking in her eyes. “But… don’t you see?” she chided. “I already have.”

She floated her way back to the ground, turning old Gregorovitch over with her foot. His frail body flopped, knuckles smacking the stone as a truly lifeless arm landed at his side.

“No…” Harry whispered, not believing. “You vouldn’t… you can’t….”

Just like that, Nebojsa was dead. His empty eyes stared up at Harry—unseeing, Pavel Gregorovitch’s eyes which had seen so much of the world. And Bellatrix had snuffed him like a fly.

Harry’s jaw quivered. His vision started to blur.

Something collided with the side of his face—a great tree-trunk of magic, wide as a plank and heavy as a troll’s arm. His jaw snapped, head spinning, blood pouring from his throat. He choked as his mouth filled with it, burbling, spraying past his lips as he coughed. His jaw was dislocated, possibly fractured. The bone must have severed an artery near his esophagus because the blood wouldn’t stop. He coughed in fits, the front of his robes soaked, red dripping down to stain old Gregorovitch’s dead face. Spots of blood landed in his snow white beard, stains spreading. There wasn’t much left of him unbloodied.

Bellatrix reached out, grabbing Harry by the throat. Trapped, his blood started spurting down instead of up, sliding into his lungs. He couldn’t breath. It felt like drowning in a hot copper sea.

“Now you understand,” Bella whispered, her tone almost sympathetic, as though she sat mourning at Anka’s bedside instead of with her hand at the woman’s throat, killing her. “You have no control. Give up. Now. It will be easier that way.”

When her hand dropped, so did Anka’s body. Bella floated away and Harry crashed to the ground. His arms were too weak to catch himself and he fell hard on his side, bashing shoulder and knees against the stone floor. His upper arm protected his busted jaw, though the pain still sliced like a red-hot sword through his mouth, vibrating up into his face and back to his neck. He was blind for a moment.

When he opened his eyes, it was to see Gregorovitch’s dead face in profile, inches from his own. He choked back a sob, choked back blood.

Bellatrix opened the door with the grating of stone and squeak of old hinges. In the doorway she paused, glancing back. “Hmmm. I suppose _that_ won’t do….”

A wave of her wand, and Nebojsa gasped a breath.

 

 

 

 

Harry crawled the inches separating them. Each rattling breath his friend drew gave him an absurd hope—that they would live through this shit storm, that his truly asinine idea might actually work after all. Nebojsa was alive. His breath burbled in his chest, flecks of blood mingled with his warm air hitting Harry’s face.

Harry couldn’t bring himself to sit upright. In the old man’s resurrected body, Nebojsa couldn’t move at all.

Harry reached across the distance, his hand touching the side of his friend’s face—the old man’s worn, weary face which had seen so much death and destruction before this. Nebojsa’s eyes were young inside him. Harry hoped he wasn’t imagining that.

Through his damaged mouth, all Harry could manage was a broken, “‘Sia... Sia.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Nebojsa woke in Harry’s arms—starting to life as though awakened by some distant sound only he could hear. He bolted upright, instinctively feeling about for a wand which wasn’t there, eyes scanning the pitch blackness surrounding them. Harry’s chest was cold where a moment before there had been a firm wall of ribs to rest against.

Harry sat up too, following the line of crusted blood on the wizard’s robes with his frozen fingers.

His tongue worked dry against the roof of his mouth. But he knew he could speak if he only gave it a moment. “Are you—”

“ _No!_ ” the Serb hissed. “ _Only sssssssnake tongue!_ ” The ice of his eyes flickered around, bouncing from the barred door to the red-spattered walls and even the ceiling. There was tiredness in his eyes; ache and dull throbbing, no trace of rest. Despite the youth of the man within, the only thing Harry could see in his face was time, sorrow, and a righteous fear. These he had in common with the real Gregorovitch. He held Harry’s gaze. “ _You never know when they are lissssssstening._ ”

“ _Okay_ ,” Harry agreed in Parseltongue. He was too tired to protest. The glimpses of sleep he’d caught had effected his old bones nearly as much as the torture. He reached shaking hands for his face, prodding, feeling the wrinkles of the old woman’s skin. It appeared their Polyjuice was holding. They couldn’t have slept very long.

Their cell was pitch black. When Bellatrix left, the magic illuminating the drab little room went with her. But after a few hours in the dark, Harry’s old eyes had adjusted enough to see clearly enough. The room looked to have been a storage closet of some sort. He could make out half a dozen evenly-spaced scratches on the floor where cabinets or perhaps trunks had once stood, storing paperwork or relics, or some other Ministry secret. The room had been emptied out by the Death Eaters and converted to a holding cell to torture prisoners. There wasn’t so much as a window or bench… or a bucket to relieve themselves in, for that matter.

Harry was reminded of a muggle phrase about not having a bucket to piss in. Now that he found himself in that very situation, he didn’t find the words clever at all. He said a silent ‘thank you’ to Draco for having taught him a wandless spell for emptying one’s bowels.

Whatever Ron might have to say about it, gay sex magic was damned useful. Harry almost smiled—his jaw hurt too much, stopping himself before the expression took hold. Even the simple act of breathing was painful. He wished his natural magic would heal him faster. Being a wizard had its advantages, healing quickly being only one of them, but damn if it wasn’t uncomfortable waiting for one’s inherent magic to turn the fuck on.

Nebojsa was looking at him through Gregorovitch’s pale eyes. He looked angry.

“ _I told you not to fight._ ”

Harry licked his lips. He lacked the strength to look away. “ _I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it._ ” He needed several hitching breaths before he could continue. “ _She went after you, didn’t she? Because of me?_ ”

Nebojsa didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Harry knew.

“ _I’m sorry_ ,” he echoed himself. He couldn’t imagine the words meaning much, but needed to say them if only as solace for his own mind. “ _I couldn’t... I... she was hurting you._ ” Words failed him—not for the first time. He cradled his aching jaw with age-spotted hands. “ _I can’t ignore that. I can’t stand to see people hurt._ ”

“ _I know thissssss,_ ” Nebojsa hissed. “ _You mussssst learn, your actionsssss have consssssequencesssss. Alwaysss_.”

Harry sighed. His entire body ached. And this was only the beginning. His friend was only trying to steel him for what lay ahead. And preferably keep them alive long enough to accomplish their mission. He was doing exactly as Harry had asked of him.

It was hard to tell how long they’d been alone in their cell. Hours bled together in the blackness and the cold, and he didn’t want to risk detection by casting a Tempus Charm; that would draw Bellatrix back, and he’d had enough of her society for several lifetimes as it was. They had to have gotten an hour of sleep at the least; his fingers, numb, stinging with arthritis and the cold, bore patches of dried blood. Some of it caked like dirt beneath the old woman’s fingernails. He’d held frozen fingers to his friend’s back, trying to stem the bleeding as best he could. The wounds were coagulating now, Nebojsa’s own magic racing to heal the punctures before he bled to death. Not for the first time, Harry wished he could perform wandless healing spells like Draco.

Nebojsa glanced at Harry’s face. “ _At least the potion isssss holding,_ ” the Serb commented. “ _How much isssssss left?_ ”

Harry didn’t need to check the shrunken vials concealed in a locket beneath his own robes. He knew. That stash of Polyjuice Potion was their lifeline—keeping them safe whilst inside the viper’s nest, as well as being their only sure-fire method of escape. If they ran out of Polyjuice, it would take weeks of picking at the Anti-Apparition wards between torture sessions before they could think of Apparating out. Plus, they’d have to survive that long. Once Bellatrix broke their will, survival was unlikely. A lifetime supply of Polyjuice wouldn’t do them any good if they were dead.

“ _Three doses each_ ,” Harry confirmed. “ _Here._ ” He went to open another capsule, hidden within the ring he wore. They’d smuggled one last potion, one intended to block pain and promote healing. But they only had the one dose. Already, Harry was ready to give it up.

“ _Niet,_ ” Nebojsa told him. His voice, though weak, had more force in his native tongue. He placed a hand over Harry’s, and the pain of even that simple gesture shone in his eyes. “ _We sssssssave it._ ”

Harry’s brows knit. “ _But... how much more of this can you take?_ ” Bellatrix had killed him—actually stopped his heart. He’d been dead for at least a whole minute, maybe two, before she’d revived him. A person could only be brought that close to death so many times before the riptide took them.

Harry’s hands were squeezed. “ _You would be sssssurprissssed._ ”

Nebojsa laid back against the wall then, holding out his arm for Harry to join him. They had to keep close, otherwise they’d freeze to death. In the old woman’s body, Harry’s head nestled perfectly into the crook of the wandmaker’s shoulder—as though her old bones remembered the curve of her husband’s body against her own. Harry couldn’t prevent a sigh from escaping his lips. He closed his eyes.

“ _Ressssssst, my dear,_ ” Nebojsa told him. “ _They will come sssoon enough._ ”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Bellatrix came again, and it was worse than before because they were sore, had less blood, less life and fight. Exhaustion made them slow, while age and injury continued to work against them at every turn. They were rag dolls at the tip of her wand.

Harry had broken plenty of bones before; between quidditch (the most violent sport known to wizard-kind) and years of “Harry Hunting” in cousin Duddley’s company (the most violent sport known to Surrey muggles), Harry was well-accustomed to the sight and sensation of his own bones poking out of his skin. Sickeningly, it was a type of pain he knew he could endure. But it was different when the bones weren’t his own. He wasn’t young and strong anymore but brittle, delicate, tender. Which meant Bellatrix could hurt him so much more. When his radius bone pierced through his skin at the elbow—peeking out through ragged flaps of flesh, along with stringy tendons and a misty burst of blood—he felt little more than a bird splattering against a windshield. It ripped a terrified scream from his lungs. If he hadn’t already been writhing on the floor, he would surely have fallen to his knees.

Perhaps that was a small consolation. He only had a broken arm, rather than a broken arm and two shattered kneecaps. His fingers tingled with pins and needles but at least he could still feel them—feel little trickles of warm blood working down his arm, thick and sluggish, and the cold scrape of stone beneath his knuckles.

A meter away, Nebojsa was already too hoarse to scream. Air wheezed and whistled through his teeth as he convulsed beneath Lestrange’s leveled wand.

Harry rolled to his side and curled into a ball, limp arm drawn up to Anka’s saggy breasts. Bellatrix kicked the old woman in the ribs, her wand never leaving her target. Harry used the force of the blow to rock his torso, hugging his arm, easing his broken bone back into place with a squelch of blood and muscle. He gritted his teeth against a scream. A palm over the exit wound kept the blood contained. With his face to the floor and Bellatrix’s boot holding him down by the neck, he could have drowned in blood. There was so much of it already.

The air above him began to hiss, like molten hot metal drawn from a blacksmith’s fire. Bellatrix used a spell to conjure a ribbon of amber light—a long spitting whip tail of liquid fire. It bloomed from the end of her wand, hovering in the air a moment like fireworks before crackling, snapping down on his flesh. It burned with every strike, ripping his skin open with that first blow.

It reminded him of when Uncle Vernon would take a belt to his back. Duddley used to cackle, like Bellatrix did now. And his Aunt Petunia would stand in the doorway, wordless but watching. He wondered if Petunia Dursley would intervene, or if cousin Duddley would still laugh, if they could see him now.

Each time he passed out from the pain or from blood loss, Bellatrix would revive him only to begin again. Harry lost track of how many times he’d been hit, how many times his world went black.

The scrape and groan of the old door caught his attention. Harry couldn’t move his head, but his eyes flickered to the doorway.

Mulciber.

Harry flinched. His reaction didn’t escape Bellatrix’s notice, either. She sent the greasy man right for Harry—for old Anka Gregorovitch. The woman’s frail body, with Harry inside it, was Summoned and flung against the nearest wall with a flick of Bellatrix’s wand. His blood splattered in great arcing patters against the floor and walls as he was tossed. Harry’s broken arm flopped, useless and searing at his side. The back of his head hit the wall with a _crack_. Black spots chased each other as he blinked away the dizziness, too close to passing out again. Bits of white hair billowed down over his eyes. Stunned, he couldn’t move a muscle to brush the fall aside.

Mulciber shrugged, bored, pulling his wand from the waistband of his trousers. The motion reminded Harry of something he’d seen in Draco’s mind; a similar flourish of trousers unbuckling, half-hard cock spilling from his pants, waggled in his prisoner’s face.

Mulciber was going to rape him—her.

Harry went numb with rage. Heat pooled at his hands. Because he could feel them again, fingers cracked with cuts and crusts of blood. In a matter of seconds there would be light there: his emotions manifest in spiraling blue and white sparks beyond his knowledge or control. He wished he could throw it at his attacker like fire.

Mulciber advanced. A lazy turn of his wand flattened Harry against the wall, from his toes to his left ear. A second surge of magic secured his legs—spread, little feet dangling inches above the floor. He heard himself whimpering, mingled with the blood pounding out a strangled rhythm in his ears, copper in his mouth as he was struck.

Mulciber watched the old witch squirm, slapping her again, palming himself through his trousers.

Harry was blind for madness. He’d never wanted to kill someone so much in his entire life.

Mulciber pawed at Anka’s blood-crusted robe, wand pressed to her throat.

There was a knock at the door. Never in his seventeen years had Harry been so happy to see the greasy mane of one Severus Snape poking around the corner. Harry checked himself just in time, turning the sag of relief into a pathetic, terrified whimper.

The Order's spy carried a white mask in one hand, wand in the other, holding the door propped with the toe of his shoe. Distant figures traversed the halls behind him, all swirls of black cloaks and hushed voices as they moved past.

“We are summoned,” Snape informed.

Bellatrix turned her nose up. “Tell the Didiers I’m else-wise entertained.”

Through the fog of pain and fleeting fear, Harry locked that detail away—that Philippe and Laron Didier had replaced Lucius Malfoy as Voldemort’s favorites. He didn’t have to think too hard to know what dastardly deeds had gotten them there. Patricide seemed to run in these Dark wizarding families; first Tom Riddle killing his muggle father, now Philippe Didier murdering his father for wealth and power, worming his way up the Death Eater ranks by emulating his twisted master’s more despicable deeds. Even Dmitry, Misha and Vukasin Ionesque had plotted their father's demise. Harry wondered how many other instances existed outside his own limited knowledge… a reminder of just how dangerous the magical world could be. Family was important—but to the cut-throat wizard, power was everything, and they were prepared to kill anyone who stood in their way. Even their own families if need be. Those were the types of wizards drawn to Voldemort’s ranks.

The wizarding world was a bloody dangerous place. As though Harry needed further proof than the wand at his throat, or the hand groping between his legs.

Snape looked incredulous in the doorway, all but rolling his eyes at Bellatrix and Mulciber. “ _All_ of us,” he reiterated. “The Dark Lord comes tonight. We must make ready.”

Voldemort was coming. A delight for Lestrange… and a warning for Harry. He needed to kill Nagini and escape the Ministry, preferably before Voldemort arrived.

Bellatrix pocketed her wand with a sigh. She gave old Gregorovitch one last kick to the ribs in parting, signaling Mulciber to follow.

Harry slid into a puddle on the floor the moment Mulciber’s magic released its grip. As the Death Eaters filed out of the room—Mulciber still refastening his grubby trousers—Harry crawled his way over to Nebojsa. He gathered the wandmaker’s long silvery locks in one hand, lifting his head with the other. The old woman’s fingers came back bloody from her husband’s scalp. Harry bent low to be sure that, yes, Nebojsa was still breathing; though shallow, labored, eyelashes fluttering wildly as he fought to remain conscious.

The door shut with a groan, and blackness settled. In the silence, footsteps echoed in retreat, covering the faint puff of Harry’s breath as his heart climbed down from his throat, settling uneasy between his breasts. Slowly, he tucked his friend’s head into Anka’s lap, leaning back against the wall. His back screamed, the stone biting cold against his ripped and shredded flesh. He schooled his breathing, his stampeding heart and the boil of magic still thrumming in his veins.

The Death Eaters could be back in mere minutes. Or they might not return for hours. But when they came, he and Nebojsa would escape. In the meantime, he would make himself ready.

Harry combed fingers through his friend’s long silver hair. “ _Your Parseltongue has an accent_ ,” he noted, not unkindly. It was best if they talked—Nebojsa needed to stay conscious, since he’d very likely been concussed… repeatedly. They both had. “ _Has anyone ever told you that? You talk more like a snake than a wizard_.”

“ _Never met a... sssssnake ssspeaker..._ ” he wheezed. “ _Before you_.”

Harry would have shrugged were it not for the injury to his back. “ _You mean there weren’t other Parselmouths at Durmstrang? I thought for sure...._ ”

“ _None_.” The old man’s breath was warm against Harry’s stomach. He continued stroking silver hair, feeling the blood beneath his hands begin to congeal before it dried. Nebojsa blinked, lashes a slow flutter against Harry’s fingers. “ _How did you learn you could sssssspeak?_ ”

Harry didn’t have the energy to move. His eyes were adjusting to the dark, making out splatters and stains of blood on the walls, like an abstract floral pattern flung over rough stone. He recalled, “ _I was just a kid. We went to the zoo for my cousin Duddley’s birthday. I was talking to myself and suddenly this huge snake on the other side of a glass case started talking back. I thought I’d gone mental._ ” He decided to leave out the part about his childhood wandless magic banishing the glass. He didn’t want to seem like he was bragging—this really wasn’t the time. “ _The boa constrictor managed to escape. It snapped at my cousin on its way out. It was one of the greatest moments of my life, looking back. Probably because it was_ _the first time I felt like I had any power_ … _Parseltongue was my first weapon to fight back with._ ” After all, Harry had spent the better part of his life fighting to survive. “ _What about you?_ ”

Nebojsa almost smiled. A ghost of expression lingered around his thin lips. “ _We lived in the sssssity, ssssso I did not learn until five yearssssss ago._ ” He stopped to rearrange himself, curling to tuck his feet inside his robes. The floor was icy cold. Harry hunched, keeping close so they wouldn’t freeze to death. “ _I vissited Dimka. Hissss family home issss near a river, in the foresssstss. I wasss, in my massssssculinity, frightened by a garden ssssnake._ ”

“ _City lad, indeed_ ,” Harry teased, wheezing. He couldn’t spare the lung capacity required for actual laughter.

“ _Dima wassss esssxcited._ _Sssssssuddenly we_ _both_ _had a ssssssecret to keep, a ssssssecret of each otherssss. That day… made us clossssser.._ ”

Harry understood—more so than he could express in words. Discovering that he was a Parselmouth had bound himself and his friends together; giving Ron and Hermione and even Ginny the opportunity to rise up and protect him, instead of him always stepping in as their shield. It had probably been the same for his father and Sirius, and all the Marauders when they became Animagus years ago; bound together by the knowledge and pride of what they’d accomplished in secret. Keeping secrets, especially dangerous ones, helped you depend on each other, helped you protect each other and forgive and stay close no matter what. It built trust, and kinship, and love.

This mission of theirs was a secret, too. And only a few would ever understand its importance when they succeeded. Harry wouldn’t allow himself to consider any other alternative. He had a responsibility to destroy the horcruxes, and a death sentence from Dmitry if Nebojsa didn’t survive. Harry wasn’t sure which scared him more—endless days of torture and his eventual death at the hands of Voldemort, or the guilt of Nebojsa’s death on his hands, no horcrux to show for it, and Dima’s unending wrath.

Success was his only option.

His vision began to waver—the first sign of their Polyjuice Potion wearing off. Nebojsa’s hair was darkening, streaks of black appearing in the silvery white as though he were disappearing into the darkness of their cell. Silent, Harry cracked open his emergency locket. He removed two shrunken vials of Polyjuice Potion, passing one into Nebojsa’s face and returning the other to it’s normal size with a blast of wandless magic before quickly downing it. He’d practiced that simple bit of magic for days, knowing their lives would depend on it.

Within seconds his vision returned, the black fading from Nebojsa’s hair. The man gave a shiver as the potion raced through him. Harry fought not to be sick at the taste. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ate. His stomach rumbled as the potion hit him with full force.

They were silent for a time, conserving their energy in the dark. Harry’s breath collected in clouds, dissipating into the black of their tiny cell. His hands shone like white beacons in the darkness now that his eyes had adjusted. He buried them in Nebojsa’s returned-to-silver hair, stealing warmth from his frail old body to heat Harry’s own old bones.

“ _What happened to the sssssnake from your zoo?_ ” Nebojsa asked. “ _He essssscaped?_ ”

“ _I don’t know. I hope he made it out alright._ ” Harry’s lungs shook in his chest, protesting the cold. “ _He said he was going home._ ”

“ _Mmmm_ ,” the wizard in his arms groaned. “ _Home. What isssssss that? I don’t think I know anymore._ ”

Harry sighed, burrowing close. “ _Sometimes, neither do I._ ” He chewed the insides of his cheeks. “ _When we get out of here_ — _alive, because we will, you know that—let's try to figure it out. Make a decent home and lives for ourselves.”_

“ _Mmhmmm,”_ the Serb hummed against him, drifting into a light sleep. “ _Promissssssse.”_

 

\- - -

 

He’d finally fallen asleep—using the crook of his good arm for a pillow, Nebojsa in Gregorovitch’s body, spooning him.

There was a scraping sound from beyond their cell. At first he thought it was another prisoner, tapping out a sign of life. But as the sound grew, he realized it was too hollow. Something was in the pipes on the other side of the wall. He shivered as it neared.

“ _I will eat you_ ,” a disembodied voice announced. “ _When my masssster killssssss you, I will feassssst upon your bonessssssss._ ”

Harry pulled his sleeping mate closer. That heat in the night gave him courage.

“ _You wish_ ,” Harry told the snake.

Nagini stopped slithering in the pipes, coming to a halt on the other side of the wall. Her sibilant voice was close as she hissed, “ _I hear your ssssssuffering. Who are you?_ ”

“ _Wouldn’t you like to know?_ ”

Nagini let loose a frustrated hiss. Beside him, Nebojsa turned in his troubled sleep. “ _Sssssshut up,_ ” the Serb mumbled irritably. It fascinated Harry that there was another person on Earth who hissed Parseltongue in their sleep. Even in that, he wasn’t alone anymore. “ _Go away._ ”

“ _Yessssss_ ,” Harry agreed, imitating the way the foreign wizard spoke—more like a snake than a man. The sound was both animalistic and strangely powerful. Forceful, Harry commanded, “ _Leave ussss._ ”

Nagini hissed her displeasure. Yet she slithered away.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Bellatrix returned, her robes fresh, black as the room around them. A slice of torchlight cut through the gloom, her body outlined as she entered. The light of the room rose as she strode in, her wand casually draped at her side.

She held a white mask in her other hand. That meant the Death Eaters were gathering. The Dark Lord had arrived. And presumably the prisoners were being collected to be brought before their chief captor.

Someone caught the heavy stone door before it groaned shut. Harry and Nebojsa had only a second to recognize the black-cloaked figure as Severus Snape.

Severus nodded—once, curtly, his eyes on Bellatrix’s back. He raised his wand.

Harry tensed involuntarily. The last time he’d seen Severus Snape with his wand pointed like that, it had been at Albus Dumbledore. Snape had killed him. It had been a complicated night, one he tried not to think about. The memory reared up faster than he could smash it down, and beside him, Nebojsa reacted in line with Harry’s gut.

In the moment Bellatrix’s head looked toward the door, wondering who would dare interrupt her, Nebojsa reared up and got the drop on her—hitting her with a wandless, non-verbal spell that knocked her to the ground. It was shock more than anything which took her down. She’d assumed her prisoners were as docile and frail as they appeared. Perhaps she’d considered herself above Barty Crouch Jr’s incessant lectures on constant vigilance. It was one of the best lessons Harry had ever learned.

Harry moved towards Snape, thinking to retrieve his and Sia’s wands. Snape fired off a silent hex in their aid, locking Bellatrix to her place on the floor, immobilized, no longer a threat. What neither Harry nor Snape could have predicted was Nebojsa’s next decision.

Harry expected Snape would give them their wands back, and they would go out to find Nagini. But in the commotion, Nebojsa picked up Bellatrix’s wand… and leveled it at Severus Snape.

Without a sound, Severus dropped to the ground as though he were a wizard-sized sack of lawn clippings. Harry recognized the hex as a Full Body Bind. Nebojsa did nothing to cushion Snape’s fall.

In the resulting silence, Harry struggled for words. His heartbeat drummed an erratic rhythm somewhere near his jugular. He managed a somewhat strangled hiss. “ _What the fuck, Sia?_ ”

His mate blinked at him through Gregorovitch’s face. “ _You don’t trusssssssst him_ ,” he said simply, gesturing toward Snape. With a wave of Bella’s wand, he closed the door before any Death Eater who happened to pass by could peek in.

“ _But…._ ” Harry stalled, licking his lips frantically, his arms leaving his sides to gesticulate at random. “ _He’s helping us. Snape… he…._ ”

Nebojsa shrugged. “ _We would have to knock him unconsssssscioussssss anyway. Otherwissse he would be executed for our essssscape_.” His cold expression made Harry’s skin crawl. Perhaps this was how Ron and Hermione saw him now? As someone who literally weighed lives in his hands, and might not care who had to die to achieve his goals.

Harry didn’t want to be that person.

“ _While he isssss out_ ,” the Serb cocked a bushy grey eyebrow at him. The expression was nothing like the real Gregorovitch. “ _What truth would you like to know?_ ”

It would not have occurred to Harry to take advantage of Snape’s current predicament and use Legilimens on him. There were so many things Harry would like to know the truth of, just as Nebojsa said. Harry hobbled over, retrieving their wands from inside Snape’s Death Eater robes. He rolled his professor over. The man was breathing but completely frozen, magically comatose.

Without considering the consequences, Harry pointed his wand at Severus Snape, whispering, “ _Legilimens_.”

He saw Snape and Sirius, as they were at school together. Only they weren’t enemies. Far from it, Snape and Sirius had slept together. Many times. With the clarity of a muggle film, Harry saw their teenage selves sneaking off to the Astronomy tower: kissing, taking their clothes off… inexpertly touching each other, learning as they went. They looked about thirteen, then fourteen and fifteen.  In the dark quiet of the Astronomy tower, they shared the burdens of their childhoods, their disagreement with their familial alignment in the early stages of Voldemort’s first war, and their mutual desire to one day find a way out… to be free.

Snape’s memories shifted to James Potter teasing him in the halls of Hogwarts—Sirius standing behind James, doing nothing to stop it. And Snape returning to the Astronomy tower night after night, waiting for Sirius, who never came again. Eventually Sirius moved on to Remus Lupin, not a word said to Severus in parting. A fleeting physical connection between two young men, both trapped by the social expectations of their families, both looking for release in some outlet or another. Sirius moved on to Remus. And Snape’s attention shifted to… Lily Evans.

Snape was in love with his mum. The only person who was kind to him, who saw his suffering and did something to stop it. Just as Harry had done for Draco. There was more of his mother in him than he realized.

No wonder Snape hated him. In another life, Severus Snape might’ve been his father.

Harry was a living, breathing reminder that for whatever reason, Severus hadn’t been deemed worthy—while the cruel, shameful little punk James Potter had somehow gotten everything handed to him. Snape was so hard on him, so exacting and pitiless, because he never wanted Harry to be like James. If Harry knew what it was to be bullied, then the part of Lily Evans which lived on inside him would never allow him to inflict that pain on others.

Soon Severus and Sirius were called to join the Death Eater ranks. Both families pushed hard. Sirius split in a heartbeat. He escaped, running off to safety with the Potters. He found his way out. Sirius abandoned Severus—once his confidant, his lover, his support. He hadn’t thought for a moment of saving his old friend. When things got real, when choices were tough and actions truly mattered—Sirius ran.

No wonder Severus never trusted Sirius again. His hatred of Sirius had nothing to do with being dumped so many years ago. He despised Sirius for his lack of character; a flighty, disingenuous nature and a propensity to see people as pawns to be manipulated in achieving his own goals with no regard for the feelings of others. To Severus, Sirius would always be remembered as a coward. When faced with an opportunity to help another wizard in the same awful situation, Sirius had thought only of himself.

Severus saw himself in Draco, and Sirius in Harry. The bold Gryffindor and clever Slytherin, thrust into unimaginable circumstances at a tender age. Only this time the Gryffindor had stepped up to the plate and rescued his friend when the chips were down. Snape worried that, like Sirius, Harry would become bored with Draco and move on; or worse, that come the next hard choice, Harry might choose to save himself, leaving Draco to burn. History repeating itself before his eyes. No wonder Severus was so hard on him, so wary.

Harry crouched, sitting back on his heels, attempting to process everything he’d learned and coming up short.

“I… I didn’t know…” he muttered clumsily, his wand dropping.

He was distracted by a distinctly wet sound from behind him. He recognized the sound of someone choking and turned.

Nebojsa had Bellatrix Lestrange under the power of her own wand. Whatever spell he was using, it was choking the life out of her. She clawed at her neck with both hands, fingernails leaving red streaks down her throat. Soon she broke the skin, blood under her nails as she writhed.

“ _You're... killing her_ ,” Harry mumbled.

Sia said nothing. The man didn’t seem to hear him, absorbed in his work.

Harry lunged for Bellatrix, clamping a hand over her upper arm—he didn't want to touch any more of her than was necessary, even through cloth. He cast the charm Draco taught him, and immediately the flush and thrum of blood was in his ears. Bellatrix Lestrange's blood, near the same as the blood in Draco's veins. Bella was his family now as much as Draco.

Her heartbeat was slowing down, yet there were no tell-tale palpitations, none of the fake contractions which Draco exhibited as a danger sign. Bellatrix would slip into unconsciousness, perhaps even a coma, but whatever Nebojsa was doing was not going to kill her after all.

“ _Just knock her out and we can go!_ ” Harry urged on a hiss.

Nebojsa shook his head.

“ _Niet, privet_.”

Stunned, Harry licked his lips. It had been so long since he’d heard his friend speak anything but snaketongue. It took his ears a moment to process the foreign speech, so alien and brash in contrast to their secret language. Instinctively, he slipped back to hissing. “ _We're in a bit of a time-crunch, here. The fuck_ —”

“ _Ssssshe murdered Professor Toleanu. Chereshko'sss_ _mother._ ”

“ _She killed my godfather, too_. _In front of me._ ” Harry searched for the words. Adrenaline burned through his veins. Their Polyjuice Potion was wearing off again, with only two doses left. His vision was going wonky as his own eyesight returned. Anka's glasses were the wrong prescription, and would have to be spelled back into his own… but not yet. They couldn’t risk being discovered before Harry got to Nagini.

They had a mission to complete, a horcrux to destroy, and precious-little time to be fucking about with Bellatrix Lestrange's life. “ _And she's Draco's aunt. But we can't be arsed right now! There are bigger things at stake._ ”

Nebojsa was showing through the Polyjuice too; his hair darkening in streaks like dripping paint, slowly returning to black through the silver, his eyes a shocking ice-blue as clear as the surface of the Great Lake. He was getting taller, too. The hems of his robes no longer brushed the floor.

Harry chewed a lip which felt more and more like his own. “ _Knock her out, kill her… do it quick_ ,” he advised succinctly. Even his hiss was his own again. “ _We don’t have much time._ ”

 


	62. Beretta: Tom Jones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of a POW Sequence. Harry Potter destroys a horcrux, and a rare appearance from everyone’s favorite snake-faced splinter-souled villain _extraordinaire_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** blood, magic, Voldemort, general and continued violence
> 
>  **AUTHOR’S NOTE:** As you are most keenly aware, in 530,000+ words we have not seen hide nor bald hair of Lord Voldemort. Because the greatest demons are not made of flesh but of thought, of cowardice and inaction. The face of the villain is inconsequential compared to the sum of our own failures. Because this story is about the inner journey as much as the quest to end the doers of evil. Often times there is something of the bad guy within one’s own heart which requires the first kill. But for today, if briefly, we come face to face, nose to non-existent-nose, with the actual bad guy.

 

_Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to delight in virtue?_

_Or is there a pleasure in being accessory to a theft when we cannot commit it ourselves?_

_Or, lastly (which experience seems to make probable), have we satisfaction in aggrandizing our families,_

_even though we have not the least love or respect for them?_

 

from _Tom Jones_

– Henry Fielding

 

 

 

A hiss and a sigh. Nebojsa lowered his wand.

 

“ _Killing the bitch would raissse too many questionsssss_ ,” he murmured. He actually shook his head, as though deciding to spare the life of a spider found in his house rather than one of the most notorious torturers and killers of their time. He merely knocked her unconscious. Harry felt it as her heart rate returned to normal beneath his hands.

 

Nebojsa’s sharp eyes found Harry’s. They were themselves again; young but by no means whole.

 

“Vot now?” Sia asked.

 

Harry looked down at Bellatrix, then over at Snape. An idea came to him. “What if we put their hairs in the next round of Polyjuice?” he suggested. “Convenient way to get around unnoticed. And walk out the front door when the time comes.”

 

Sia shrugged—the corner of his mouth turning up as his shoulders lifted. His hair nearly reached those bony shoulders in a cool black sheet. The man belonged on the cover of a muggle rock album. Harry wondered if his friend played a musical instrument back in pre-Voldemort times. It seemed to Harry that most purebloods had had that advantage, but Nebojsa had been raised muggle, the same as Harry. Nebojsa looked like the lead singer of some grunge death metal band… like Sirius shortly after he’d escaped from Azkaban; a darkly mystical figure, half-starved and sinewy, his past written on his skin.

 

Harry’s eyes fell to the man’s newest tattoo, mostly concealed by his too-big robes. It was a string of Cyrillic text beneath his collar bone, above the heart. Cued to the same words on his boyfriend’s chest, the text read in translation: _There is a time to be covered in blood which is not our own_.

 

Today was one of those days.

 

Harry pulled a hair from Bellatrix Lestrange’s head.

 

 

 

 

 

It only took a moment to alter their robes and walk out into the halls. No one stopped them—even the other Death Eaters were afraid of Bellatrix, and Snape commanded respect wherever he went. Everyone they passed gave them a wide berth.

 

It felt strange to walk the halls of the Ministry of Magic as Bellatrix Lestrange. The building itself was a dry dead husk. There was dirt and debris everywhere, as though the Death Eaters didn’t plan to be here long… or just didn’t care. Doors hung off their hinges. Desks lay overturned, their parchments strewn everywhere. Broken glass and wood splinters littered the floor. Harry and Sia merely stepped over them.

 

Surely the greatest benefit of their new disguises was in their relative health. Gone were the stab wounds, the broken bones, the newly-forming scars. At least for now, the copious injuries they’d suffered as the Gregorovitches were abated by their new bodies. When their Polyjuice wore off, however… Harry knew the pain that would come. Hopefully by then they’d have destroyed Nagini and would be far, far away… within reach of a Sleeping Draught and a good many other potions to numb the onslaught. Harry didn’t want to think about the additional scars he’d have on his back thanks to Bellatrix’s whip.

 

Voices echoed down the abandoned passageways. Harry had to stop himself from flinching, worrying. He was Bellatrix Lestrange, with Severus Snape at his side. They were invincible.

 

The Death Eaters they passed were moving with a purpose. Eventually Harry got his bearings. They were beneath the Ministry’s court rooms. A long corridor to their right showed actual prison cells—with bars for doors, their occupants collapsed in rag-like heaps inside, having given up all hope. They’d likely been tortured already, and were now held for some other purpose. This was where those accused of crimes by the wizarding courts would have been held while awaiting trial. Sirius had been held in one of these cells. So had Barty Crouch Jr. and Bellatrix herself. Harry fixed an appropriate sneer to his face.

 

With his eyes narrowed, he almost missed the sight through an open door. What had been the jailor’s room, or perhaps a supply closet, had been modified into the sleeping quarters of a Death Eater—the man charged with watching the silently weeping prisoners. Harry’s attention was caught by a flash of golden metal within the room. He stopped, peering through the doorway.

 

Wormtail was passed out on a cot, his golden hand on a wooden crate beside his bed.

 

Hidden within Severus Snape, Sia rolled his eyes. His expression, which was utterly unlike Severus’ except for the frustration, said that Harry was being a jack-ass for holding them up. He had no idea who Peter Pettigrew was, or what the man had cost Harry. Regardless, seeing Harry’s unshakable intent, Nebojsa guarded the door.

 

Harry crept into the tiny room, once a storage closet by the broken shelves mostly attached to the opposite wall. A camp-type bed had been conjured for whomever watched the prisoners to get their rest… or rape women with the preference of a bed beneath them, Harry realized, if the stone floor of a prison cell wasn’t to the rapist’s tastes.

 

He swallowed, tasting Bellatrix’s bile.

 

That golden hand shone in the weak torchlight filtering in from the hall. Harry pilfered Wormtail’s golden hand—taking it as a trophy. He also lifted a strand of Wormtail’s hair on impulse, in case either of their disguises became too conspicuous. Wormtail was less than nothing to the Death Eaters, and his appearance might prove easier to escape as when the time came.

 

The golden hand was cumbersome, and far too easy to spot. Nebojsa rolled Snape’s eyes again when Harry emerged with it. Silent, the Serb waved Snape’s wand—they’d pilfered both wands to complete their disguises. It took a few tries with the new wand before the hand began to shrink, reducing down to a pebble-sized chunk of metal.

 

Harry shook his head. That wouldn’t do. He couldn’t risk losing something so small. Equally silent, Nebojsa licked his lips in frustration. Yes, that looked exactly like Severus Snape. Sia flicked Snape’s wand again, charming the bit of metal into a flatter, rounder shape—a wedding ring.

 

Severus Snape slipped the enchanted ring onto Bellatrix Lestrange’s finger. It was one of the strangest, most surreal moments of Harry’s life.

 

He was reminded of the Marauders, now cast to the winds. Most of them were dead. And even in death, their brashness and bombast still effected people’s lives. Harry wondered how much of that impact he’d inherited. How many people might be hurt or forced out of his life because of his own choices. Who might be the Wormtail, the Peter Pettigrew of his own timeline. Who might appear out of the woodwork years later looking for revenge against him.

 

He stood in a dingy doorway of the conquered Ministry of Magic, letting a scarred and tattooed dark wizard slip a ring on his finger, while he wore a bloody _dress_ , disguised under Polyjuice Potion as his barking mad aunt-in-law. Try as he might, there was no making sense of his life sometimes.

 

Wanting to be on their way to search for Nagini, Harry turned to leave. Nebojsa didn’t follow. His black eyes remained on the prisoners, huddled soundless in their cells.

 

Of course he couldn’t stand to see others held captive as he’d been for so many months and not help them. Nebojsa’s spirit was like Harry’s mother. Lily Evans wouldn’t have stood by while others were hurt. Not if she could do something about it. That same fire burned in his friend—in his clenched fists and hard jaw, wand to hand, looking almost unseeingly at the endless hall of dank prison cells. It was a hard sight to behold, and harder still to walk away from.

 

Harry reached into his locket, removing the two remaining vials of Polyjuice Potion. One for each of them. He shook them slightly, insistent, his eyes hard, jaw firm. Their time was limited. To give up a single vial meant one of them might not escape.

 

Sia nodded. It was a gamble he was willing to make.

 

Harry had Wormtail’s hair. He held it up, pointing back into the room where the man in question slept. Nebojsa understood. Harry showed him a solitary finger—they could only save the one person. Whomever it was to be, Nebojsa had to choose. Quickly.

 

He understood, gliding down the seemingly endless hall of metal and stone. Black Death Eater robes billowed out behind him; it seemed something of the aerodynamics of Severus Snape’s body created that wind which expanded his cloak behind him. His illuminated wand tip became more faint as the distance grew. Harry’s heart pounded in his ears. Yes he wanted to save people, but one person saved wouldn’t do any good if either of their own potions wore off. They’d all be dead, and so many more because he’d failed his mission. That wasn’t an option.

 

Finally Nebojsa gestured him to follow from his position as their lookout. Harry jogged the distance, struggling to light Bellatrix Lestrange’s wand with a simple _Lumos_. For being a relative of Draco’s, her magic was nothing like her nephew’s. The light produced by her wand in Harry’s hand was hazy at best, flickering like a Muggle light bulb which wasn’t screwed in all the way. Flashes of light lit the bars and huddled forms of tortured souls as he passed.

 

Harry’s throat went bone dry at what he saw in that cell. It felt for a moment as though magic had gone out of the world. Because one of his first introductions to the wild and wonderful world of wizardry had been in Diagon Alley, in the wandshop of Mr. Ollivander. It was like a veil of childhood wonder had been ripped away, showing him the dead bones of his once wondrous dream. Before him huddled the remains of that powerful wizard—Garrick Ollivander, the man—dressed in rags, barely breathing, covered in his own blood, nearly beaten to death thousands of times over, barely holding on to life.

 

This was the person Sia had chosen to save. Ollivander cowered, sliding further into the darkness of his cell—seeing not his saviours but Severus and Bella, come to torture him again.

 

Nebojsa unlocked the bars, Snape’s wand agreeing with him better than Bella’s with Harry. They moved into the disgusting little space, barely bigger than the cupboard Harry grew up in, Sia in Snape’s body hunching his head and shoulders for the low ceiling.

 

Ollivander gave a soft cry, wetting himself. Harry’s heart broke, knowing exactly what the wandmaker was anticipating.

 

Sia whispered something in Latin. Harry couldn’t make it out. Ollivander glanced up, still shielding his head with his arms like a muggle child in fear of being beaten. Harry had lived a good part of his life in that pose. Ollivander’s eyes were watery and pale, gazing up at them, astonished.

 

“We’re here to help,” Harry said. He hated the sound of Bellatrix’s voice. He suspected it was impossible to sound comforting with those vocal chords. “Do you know what Polyjuice Potion is?”

 

Still guarding his head, Ollivander nodded.

 

“This hair belongs to Peter Pettigrew, a Death Eater of no importance to anyone. With it, you can leave this place and no one will say a word.” Before the old man’s eyes, Harry spiked the potion with Wormtail’s hair, as if to say he wouldn’t go back on his word once offered. This was Ollivander’s chance at freedom.

 

“You will need to get beyond the Anti-Apparition Jinx,” Nebojsa warned. He imitated Snape’s intonation perfectly; so much so that even Harry couldn’t tell the difference.

 

Harry wondered if Ollivander could Apparate in his current condition. At least the Polyjuice would restore his injured body into Wormtail’s, making it easier to walk at the least. In a flash, Harry handed over Bellatrix’s wand.

 

“This might make it easier,” he said with what he hoped was a smile. It was hard to tell, he’d never seen a sincere expression of warmth on Bellatrix Lestrange’s face.

 

Ollivander reached for the wand, a Gregorovitch creation, turning it in his hand as though it were the first wand he’d ever held.

 

“We need to hurry,” Nebojsa whispered. “Our own Polyjuice will wear off sooner or later.”

 

Ollivander nodded. Harry handed him the potion and the old man drank it down in one, looking as though he hadn’t had a drop of water in days.

 

“Walk right out,” Harry told the wandmaker. Already the old man’s skin was changing, his hair going from white to pale blond, ending in Peter Pettigrew’s watery rust coloring. Nebojsa spelled his rags into Death Eater robes, silently scrubbing the dirt from his face with a _Scourgify_.“No one will stop you. The potion will last for a few hours. Get into muggle London and just keep going.”

 

Harry gave the address of Leon Harper’s establishment in Ohio. Wouldn’t it scare the life out of the Irishman when Ollivander himself Apparated into his lobby, bloodied and broken? Leon could modify the memories of any muggles who saw it. And Ollivander would be in good hands, reunited with his friend Gregorovitch. He’d see the sunshine again. In this dark hole, that seemed to matter the most. By saving Ollivander, they were in some way bringing magic back to life.

 

Nebojsa snagged a bit of broken stone off the ground, transfiguring it into an identical copy of Wormtail’s golden hand. He fitted the hand to the stump of Ollivander’s arm once the Polyjuice had done its work.

 

“I… I… thank you,” Ollivander whispered through Pettigrew’s lips. “I owe you my life.” He glanced between them with Wormtail’s weak eyes, guessing at who they might be behind their own disguises. “Who…?” he ventured.

 

“Get to Gates Mills,” Harry told him. “Harper will explain everything. Go, now.”

 

Without hesitation, Ollivander rushed out of the cell and down the flickering hall, his course bent on freedom. Harry and Nebojsa jogged behind, set on a mission of their own.

 

There were more Death Eaters in the halls than before. They were all moving toward the ornate Wizengamot high court. No one spared a glance for Peter Pettigrew, his head bent, scuttling his way through their midst. Harry’s heart swelled as Ollivander-in-disguise disappeared from view.

 

He and Sia exchanged a wordless look. If they died, at least they’d accomplished one final good deed on this earth. Now they had to find Nagini, with a blind hope to finish what they’d started.

 

The backs of passing Death Eaters guided them toward the stairs. More Death Eaters stood in the mouths of corridors above, blocking the way, effectively directing their comrades to their intended destination. Some hadn’t bothered to conjure their masks or place them on. There was no more need for secrecy. The mask was quickly becoming an optional piece of their uniform.

 

Harry stopped dead. On the landing above them was Philippe Didier, his usual smug smirk plastered across his distressingly handsome face, his nose in the air as he observed other Death Eaters filing into the courtroom.

 

A flash of rage lit Harry’s guts. It would be so easy to kill that fucking reprehensible punk. He could conjure a knife and quietly stab him in the gut as he walked by. A Poisoning Hex would do it too, giving Harry time to get away. So many possibilities. He felt his anger gathering around his hands, balled into fists, blue lightning threatening to break out at any moment.

 

Nebojsa felt the shift in Harry’s body—perhaps felt the shift in his magic, screaming to escape his body and fight back, attack, kill. The world would be a far better place without Philippe Didier in it.

 

Sia looked around as much as he dared without losing Snape’s unaffected facial expression. With a shoulder, he shoved Harry into a nearby alcove, screening them from view.

 

“ _Get your ssssssssshit together_ ,” he hissed.

 

He pressed himself to Harry, their foreheads and unfamiliar noses touching, breathing the same air. He too vibrated with his own rage. If Harry wasn’t mistaken there was a light behind his eyes, some spark he’d never seen in Severus Snape. It was blinding, and beautiful—what muggles thought faeries and angels were made of. It was a pure white light flashing behind his gaze, magic threatening to run wild, savage, the same as Harry’s own.

 

Sia held him back from killing Philippe Didier—bodily, as was necessary. They’d both been raised by muggles: physical restraint was natural and necessary to their subconscious shared experience.

 

As satisfying as it might be, murdering that prick wouldn’t get them any closer to accomplishing their goal of destroying the horcrux in Nagini. It would surely blow their cover. They both knew it. But knowledge and action were two very different creatures, and for now the monster of action was spitting fire deep in Harry’s guts. He felt the need to act, the screaming need to do something violent, burning up his spine.

 

A wiry hand closed over Harry’s mouth, silencing any rebuttal. Snape’s skin was electric against his own. Their magic collided at the touch of skin on skin, sending friction sparks through both their bodies. Harry wasn’t surprised when lights like the stars danced in his vision; their alcove became like a stroll on a moonless night, starlight dancing all around them. He wasn’t sure if those sparks of light were entirely confined to his mind.

 

The hand against his mouth stung him like thousands of tiny needles. He tasted blood in his mouth, metallic, choking him. His throat closed, struggling for the next breath.

 

Nebojsa realized, pulling his hand away. Harry gasped a breath, shoving his friend off of him. Wiping the back of his hand against his mouth, it came back bloody.

 

Shock wiped Severus Snape’s face, his skin going white. Obviously Sia hadn’t intended to hurt him, didn’t understand how Harry could have a trickle of blood running down his chin….

 

A large masculine hand grabbed Severus by the upper arm, wrenching him away, still bewildered.

 

“Our Master is ‘ere. ‘E will see yoo immediately,” barked a voice with a heavy French accent.

 

Harry peeked around the stone corner to lay eyes on who he could only assume was Laron Didier. Shaggy hair in a sandy brown shade framed a face which looked remarkably like Philippe, interrupted by a prominent scar slashing across his upturned nose. The wound didn’t look too old. Harry wondered if the injury had been caused by Mad Eye Moody, that night the Death Eaters came for him at Grimmauld Place. Laron had been among the attackers who killed Moody.

 

Laron, murderer of his own brother, attempted to drag Sia away.

 

Nebojsa looked at Harry through Snape’s body, his dark eyes unreadable. That marvelous, torturous, angelic white light in his gaze guttered, sizzled like raindrops on a fire, and sputtered out. He had to be panicking inside. But there was nothing to do, no feasible reason to resist. Trapped in Snape’s body, Nebojsa would have to face Voldemort.

 

Harry swallowed back the blood in his mouth, thinking on his feet. “I will continue,” he spoke imperiously, his best attempt at Bellatix’s sour, lofty tone. “But be brief. There’s much work to be done, Severus.”

 

He prayed in those coded words to convey that they were running out of time; that he would continue the search for Nagini alone. And if by some miracle Nebojsa should survive, to find him again.

 

“I am aware,” Sia snapped. He played Snape so perfectly, even under duress. He’d learned enough of the man, or had known others like him at Durmstrang. “There is no need to remind me,” he added through clenched teeth, his chin rising with pride. “Our Master calls.”

 

And wasn’t that true? Their shared master was death; and it was death pulling at him, taking him away. Only death would separate him from his dream for a better world. It was death with a hand around his arm.

 

Sia allowed himself to be taken away, his head held high. He showed no fear.

 

Watching his back—the swirl of Severus Snape’s robes swelling on some non-existent breeze—left a foul taste in Harry’s mouth. More than just the blood, which he quietly spelled away with his own wand. It was the flavor of the unfamiliar, of fear and the unknown.

 

Now more than ever, he was afraid, knowing he may never see his friend alive again.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Yura had described it once: the cult-like fervor, the strained echo of whispers, excited and dangerous, and the shuffling of feet, the anxious bite to the air when Lord Voldemort called his followers to his side. Nebojsa felt the call in the Dark Mark upon his arm—a steady burning, telling him exactly where he was expected to be.

 

That burn was the opposite of love. It was fear and brutality; the shallow and conquering mien of one who makes demands rather than offering without thought of reward. The Dark Mark was truly the opposite of his love’s mark upon his real chest. The same spell embedded in flesh with the very opposite of intentions. He needed no further proof than the palpable air of oppression which now surrounded him.

 

Words failed him as he stood among the Dark Lord’s inner circle. Wizards and witches filled the seats of the Wizengamot chambers—it was standing room only with bodies crammed in every corner, spilling onto the floor where convicts would be chained to a simple chair when tried for their crimes. That seat had been burned, reduced to a crisp… likely by someone in this very room who had been forced to sit in it, tried for crimes committed in the name of their master.

 

These people did not trust each other. It was only the wand held to their collective throats, the constant threat of death for disobedience, which kept their fractured coven in line. If it saved their own skin, any witch or wizard here would swiftly turn on the supposed ‘friend’ they stood shoulder to shoulder with.

 

The pressure of Laron Didier’s muscular build against his own did nothing to build a sense of camaraderie. They were each the jailor of the person beside them.

 

Whispers died to silence, and the crowd parted as the Dark Lord emerged. As one they bowed, taking a knee in a great wave of blackness, descending towards the floor like an inverse sunset. Nebojsa dropped to his knee, bowing his head with the rest.

 

His heart made a permanent home in his throat, bumping out a panicked rhythm not unlike hummingbird wings. Unseeing eyes noted the smooth stone floor beneath him.

 

In the months since meeting the famous Harry Potter, Nebojsa had imagined many bizarre and outlandish scenarios he may find himself in as a result of that alliance. He was one to chart the course of his life, to understand the ripple effect of his actions. And though he had foreseen his death in a myriad of ways at the hands of many… never had he gone so far to suspect he might one day come face to face with Lord Voldemort. The man who had murdered his parents. The man who had influenced his lover’s father to acts against God and nature. The man who had murdered nearly a quarter of the wizarding world, and ruined the lives of countless others.

 

 _Hardly a man at all_ , he thought, _but_ _a monster_ walking amongst them.

 

Flickering torchlight glinted off of skin thin and sallow, seemingly wet like a reptile. Slits for nostrils, protruding bones like bits of logs sticking up from the cold dead damp of a swamp. This wizard had gone too far. He was no longer human but something _other_.

 

As the Dark Lord spoke, addressing his followers, Nebojsa began to listen—not to the rasping voice of that dark monster but to the thoughts of the Death Eaters around him, the Dark Lord’s innermost circle.

 

 _Please don’t look at me. Please, please, please, just leave me alone, for the love of Mordred…._ Useless. Next.

 

 _Why are we waiting? Ionescue’s a fool._ Dima’s father was in fact a zealot and a fool. Interesting, but not useful.

 

_What happens when he dies again? We barely got to him with Hufflepuff’s cup the last bloody time. Is there another horcrux around? If he doesn’t make more, we’re fucked._

 

Horcrux? He’d heard the word in relation to blood sorcery. He knew it had something to do with the effects of taking a life. The Dark Lord had surely murdered sufficiently to be experiencing after-effects. Magic was perfectly equal in that regard: for every action there was a reaction or consequence. Sometimes it was immediate—cut a man and he would bleed. But the ripple of an act like murder was not fully understood. To study it would require mass executions in a controlled setting. And no government since the Crusades would approve such an experiment. At least not publically. Perhaps that was the evidence for which the Death Eaters had turned this and other ministries upside-down in search of.

 

They hadn’t found the knowledge which their master sought. Not yet. The search continued.

 

He listened again.

 

_… doesn’t matter what artifact I bring him, it’s never good enough. Potter keeps destroying the vessels! If we don’t replace what we’ve lost—_

 

He was ripped from his spying by a pain in his blood, radiating from the Mark on his arm. It hit him like a blow, taking his knee out from under him. He collapsed to the cold stone floor. No one around him seemed surprised at the suddenness of it, the Dark Lord turning upon his own on a whim.

 

The Dark Lord’s wand tip was in his face. He knew it—or rather, knew it’s brother, carried by Harry Potter. Strange… and yet strangely appropriate. Opposite sides of the same coin.

 

The Dark Lord tortured him without a word; Severus Snape, one of the most adept spies and intellectual minds at his disposal. And still the Dark Lord didn’t trust him. There was no faith to be had amongst the damned. Through it all, Legilimens probes jabbed at his defenses, checking his mind for cracks like flood waters attempting to penetrate and consume the space inside his head.

 

Nebojsa kept his mind utterly blank. A black void to match the blackness created by his tightly shut eyelids.

 

After what seemed ages, the Dark Lord relented—whether bored or satisfied it was impossible to say. Nebojsa collapsed against the cold stone, coughing up blood. So much for inhabiting a healthy body to combat his own injuries. The hems of black robes filled his vision when he finally opened his eyes.

 

“Severus…” A voice above him hissed. Parseltongue was imbued in the Dark Lord’s speech, even when he spoke English. “We are told you have procured a surprise for us.”

 

Nebojsa pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, head bowed, playing his part. “Pavel Gregorovitch and his wife, should it please my lord.”

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Harry had little luck locating Nagini. He’d searched the area near the cell where they’d been held—no luck. He searched the halls above and below the Wizengamot, thinking Nagini might be close to Voldemort—no luck.

 

He found himself in the Department of Mysteries, staring into a tank full of brains, one of which had attacked Ron two years ago. His friend still had the scars winding up and down his body.

 

From the outside, Harry Potter made a wreck of people’s lives. Being close to him meant disfigurement, constant danger, and even death. What separated the violence surrounding him from the violence visited by Voldemort was a thin sliver—intention. Harry meant to help others. His friends joined him of their own volition, understanding the consequences. As Dumbledore had said, _love_ was what made him different. It was the one thing he had which Voldemort would never understand, and therefore always underestimate.

 

He was here to kill Nagini. He needed to destroy the horcrux within the snake in order to stop Voldemort and save everyone he cared about—plus thousands of people he’d never met. Some of those people hated him. That was their right. Sometimes, for the things he did, he more than hated himself, too.

 

Harry resigned himself to the idea that he may not get to Nagini in time. That his friend might already be dead. That his Polyjuice could wear off at any moment and he would be found out, executed, and the war lost. Accepting the worst possible outcomes gave him a kind of peace, that in acknowledging the very worst he could begin to identify a spectrum of possibility upon which the outcome of his choices would fall.

 

“Point me,” he whispered again to his wand. And this time it budged, haltingly, shuddering, before timidly giving him a direction. His wand pointed out of the Hall of Knowledge. At last, something to go on.

 

He made it half way to the door before a thought occurred to him. If he made a sufficient distraction, the Death Eaters would come running. And there was quite a bit of pent-up magic in the Department of Mysteries for him to tamper with. By blowing up something here, he could set off a chain reaction—creating more than just an explosion, but uncertainty, and thereby disorder. In that chaos, Nebojsa might have a chance to find him, or escape himself. It was worth a shot.

 

Standing in the doorway, ready to run, Harry leveled his wand at the tank of floating brains. It reminded him of the Great Lake, glowing slightly in the dim light, unknowable magic swimming beneath its surface.

 

“ _Eptir Eldr_ ,” he cursed. And the room exploded in light.

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

The walls seemed to bend. Solid stone quivered like jellyfish in a strong current. Debris swirled down the corridors, driven by a howling wind. Death Eaters screamed orders into the gale, wands out, their robes whipping around them. And over it all a mighty siren blared—some remnant of an alert created by the witches and wizards who worked the Department of Mysteries. The sound blared from the floor, shaking their feet with every step they took.

 

“Intruders!” someone shouted.

 

“Where are they? How many?”

 

A small hand seized Nebojsa by the back of his collar.

 

“ _With me_ ,” a familiar voice hissed. Harry Potter, in disguise as Bellatrix Lestrange, retained his own voice in snake tongue, and was dragging him down a hallway, following the direction of his wand.

 

Nebojsa gasped. He could have kissed the man, never mind the fact he was in Bellatrix Lestrange’s body.

 

“ _Got a line on Nagini_ ,” he explained.

 

Nebojsa nodded. “ _Lead the way. Before thissss place explodesssss_.”

 

 

 

 

 

Harry’s wand pulled him into the women’s loo. Without question, he followed, Nebojsa on his heels. His wand practically vibrated in his palm—they were close.

 

He looked back over his shoulder, signaling his mate with a round-about motion that they would search the room. Severus Snape’s dark eyes were hard to make out in the blackness of the abandoned room. A faint dripping echoed through the space. After a few blinks, Harry’s eyes adjusted.

 

They set out, crouching against a wall of sinks, Harry leading and Nebojsa covering his rear.

 

“ _Hungry_ …” hissed Nagini. That hiss was clear—she was in the room with them, not hiding in the walls. This was their chance.

 

“ _Where are you hiding, little coward?”_ Nebojsa taunted. “ _Come out to facccccce usssss._ ”

 

Nagini let out a wild hiss, alerted to their presence.

 

The old lavatory was pitch black. Dust rained down on them from the ceiling with each explosion, like a storm bucketing rain in big splashes. Harry made out flecks interrupting the darkness, some landing on his shoulders or in Bella’s long hair. He blinked it away, groping his way along in utter darkness. It was going to be near-impossible fighting in this dense black. The only bright side was that their enemy would have just as difficult a time in finding them.

 

“ _Cut it out,_ ” Harry whisper-hissed. He grabbed his friend’s wrist, wheeling him around.

 

“ _Not afraid,_ ” came their reply. A moment later, Harry heard the rustling of scales against debris. The room echoed too much; and not knowing its exact shape, he couldn’t say for sure where Nagini was. “ _Hunting,_ ” she told them. “ _Ssssssavor the hunt._ ”

 

Sia pushed ahead, taking the lead. Harry assumed the rear guard. He tightened his grip on his wand, holding it before him in the darkness, inching his way backward.

 

“ _You are weak,_ ” Sia told the snake. She hissed at them, raging, sound coming from every direction at once. The reverberations were killing them.

 

Harry turned his head just in time. Nagini had been stalking them from the side, slithering beneath the loo stalls. She’d already reared up, her huge body making a column of glinting scales in the darkness; fangs out, preparing to strike.

 

His wand was too far away, but he was able to block her lunge, taking the hit for his friend. The snake had gone for a bite of Nebojsa’s backside; instead, her fang grazed Harry’s thigh before he grabbed beneath her head with both his hands, gaining control. He bashed her head against the stone wall, pinning her.

 

His leg stung something fierce, but he’d endured worse. He pushed with all the strength he could muster, locking Nagini against the wall with Bellatrix’s weight. His leg bled freely but he couldn’t be arsed—surface wound. He needed the force of Bella’s entire body to contain the snake attempting to bite him again. Nagini wriggled and writhed in the blood, and he could feel each vertebrae of her skeleton crushed against him. He was barely winning.

 

Nebojsa was able to access the magic of his tattoos even in Severus Snape’s body. Seemingly from nothing, he peeled his own tattooed cross from Snape’s neck, metal materializing in a crackle of magic, sparking in the dark. He shoved the sharpened cross into Harry’s hand. “ _Quickly!_ ”

 

Harry didn’t need telling twice. His robe was slick with blood. A few good squirms and Nagini would be free of Bella’s grasp. He flipped the cross-dagger in his hand, slamming down with enough force to penetrate deep into Nagini’s muscled flesh. Blood spurted from her, mixing with his own. It ran hot over his leg, splashing against his hand. He released the hilt immediately, yanking his hand away.

 

A second later, her thick body crashed to the floor. Nebojsa stuck a hand under Harry’s arm, helping to pull him back. Harry was seeing red—the blood, the magic of a horcrux destroyed all melting together until the red—blood and fire and magic—obstructed his vision.

 

He felt faint. The world began to tilt. He landed hard against his friend’s chest. Together, they tumbled down, falling beside the still-wriggling corpse that was Nagini. Her blood immediately soaked their backsides.

 

“Fuck!” Harry panted. His friend slapped a hand over his mouth. Harry put a hand over the wound in his leg, attempting to get control of the bleeding. His friend’s hand over his mouth stifled his scream. Already, poisonous venom burned through his veins.

 

“ _We musssssst get out of here,_ ” Sia spat. “ _The Dark Lord prizesss the creature. He will feel itsssss death._ ”

 

“ _I know..._ ” Harry muttered. He felt woozy. The blackness around them shifted, white spots chasing each other like fireflies across his vision.

 

Sia glanced down at his leg. It was doubtful he could see much, but the smell of human blood was thick in the air, mixed with snake and decay. “ _Can you run?_ ”

 

Harry blinked. His vision was increasingly tinged with red, as though bleeding from his periphery.

 

Nothing to do about it now—they needed to escape. The side of his mouth twitched, almost a smirk. “ _Let’s find out, shall we?_ ”

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

No one noticed Bellatrix Lestrange bleeding, leaning on Snape, hobbling her way to an Apparition Point. The Ministry was coming apart at the grout. Stone flew. Explosions showered them every few seconds. Sparks erupted from the walls. And over it all a siren wailed, reminding Harry of the way Fawkes had screamed, flying over Hogwarts as the Death Eaters attacked. These were the last vestiges of protection. It seemed the Department of Mysteries had been commanded to destroy itself, and the Ministry with it, rather than be breached.

 

They fell against the door, stumbling in. Nebojsa’s foot slammed the door shut behind them, locking it with every manner of spell he could conceive of in that moment. The door gave a shudder, seeming to vacuum seal itself shut.

 

Harry’s vision wavered, then blurred. The Polyjuice was wearing off, his own vision returning. Nebojsa’s black hair was indistinguishable from Severus Snape’s as Harry’s vision warped.

 

“Let’s go,” he managed. “To the drop point. I can’t Apparate.” His wounds were catching up with him. Everything was spinning: blood loss was a bitch.

 

Nebojsa came close, wrapping both arms around his shoulders—a fierce embrace to protect him during a Side-Along Apparition.

 

“I vill try not to splinch us. No promizes.”

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Leon’s Field Operations Team maintained a network of emergency supply boxes, referred to as drop points. In the event of an injury or hasty extraction, these locations could be Apparated to. A crate of supplies would be concealed nearby, typically charmed to appear as a bush, tree, or other appropriate form of flora. The crates contained potions, weapons and ammunition, as well as muggle medical supplies. The idea was for an operator to patch themselves up, dump anything unnecessary, and then burn the supply—both to cover their tracks, and alert Maddie back at base that the crate had been consumed, and there was a team member in need of a pick-up.

 

Apparating directly to the drop point was dangerous. Nebojsa took them through two Public Apparition points first. With his eyes screwed tight, bile burning in his throat, Harry barely processed his surroundings. The commotion of a busy market, smelling of roasted meats, strange spices, and sand. North Africa? Or perhaps the Middle East. Then the rush of the sea, and freezing cold snow buffeting his face. Scandinavia? He smelled pine trees.

 

One last jump. The scent of pine stayed with him. Harry opened his eyes to a wintery forest, a blanket of undisturbed white snow decorating pines, maples, oaks, and aspen. He knew the area. They’d landed in Ohio.

 

“Brilliant,” Harry whispered.

 

He attempted to step away from his friend’s embrace and immediately went down, landing face-first in the snow.

 

“ _Bozhe_ ,” Nebosja swore, kneeling over him. Then, in English, “Yoo fucking idiot. You vill bleed out.”

 

Harry’s eyes were on the stars. They were in a small clearing, the tops of trees making a green and dusty white frame for the glowing lights above.

 

Nebojsa waved his wand frantically, searching out the drop crate. Harry pulled the ring from his finger, which concealed their only pain potion.

 

“You think?” he raised his eyebrows.

 

Nebojsa rolled his ice-blue eyes. “Fuck yeah,” he muttered. He located, dis-enchanted, and summoned the crate while Harry downed the potion. His body flooded with warmth. He could no longer feel the cold snow at his back.

 

His friend tended to him, bandaging his leg and pouring another half-dozen potions down his throat, casting a few spells for good measure. He transfigured Death Eater robes into basic black fatigues and a military canvas jacket before fastening a firearm and holster to Harry’s hip. Nebojsa seemed to know his way around guns, quickly inspecting the magazine and safety of his own weapon before changing his disguise to match Harry’s. With a burst of efficiency, he kicked the crate away and lit it on fire with a blast from his wand. The heat felt nice against Harry’s skin.

 

“Ve should go,” he suggested. “In case any muggles see the smoke.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. He squeezed his leg—nope, it wouldn’t bear his weight. The bite from Nagini was much deeper than he’d thought. “I… can’t walk.”

 

Grunting, Nebojsa wrestled him into a sitting position, then crouched, showing Harry his back. “Then I vill carry you.”

 

 

 

 

The night was cold. With his arms around his friend’s neck, Harry could feel the man’s teeth chattering. He slogged through calf-deep snow, making his way toward a road with the guidance of his wand.

 

It should have concerned him that he couldn’t feel the bite of snow against his skin. Everything was numb, including his mind. _Potions_ , he thought blearily, _and torture. Lots of torture. Days worth. And sleep deprivation. Adrenal exhaustion._  


They found the road. It was gravel and poorly plowed, but easier to navigate than the banks of snow on the roadside. Nebojsa set a steady pace, his direction guided by a brush with his wand in his pocket. He hitched Harry higher on his back, squeezing his leg to get his attention.

 

“Yoo alright?” Sia asked over his shoulder. His chin brushed Harry's forearm. The contact was comforting.

 

Harry sighed, a breathy and yet breathless, “...yeeaaaaaah. 'S fine. Ev’rethin’s fine.”

 

Nebojsa hitched him up again and he slipped, canting, nearly falling off the man's back. His fingers were slowly going numb, arms weak, and he could no longer tell if it was the darkness of an American night or if the edges of his vision were truly fading.

 

“ _Don't lie to me, Potter._ ”

 

Light. Such a strong light. Like a Patronus—a whole herd of them racing for him, all at once. And quite suddenly, the world went black.

 

 


	63. Beretta: Sun Giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry is missing, and the war rages on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** mention of past violence  & battles, **minor character deaths**

 

_“What a life I lead in the summer,_

_What a life I lead in the spring,_

_What a life I lead in the winded breeze,_

_What a life I lead in the spring._

_What a life I lead when the sun breaks free,_

_As a giant torn from the clouds._

_What a life indeed when that ancient seed_

_Is a berry watered and plowed._

_What a life….”_

 

“Sun Giant”

\- Fleet Foxes

 

 

 

Instruments ticked and whirled in the silence of the Headmaster’s office. Albus had left them behind. And with each steady beat and thrum, time, like their owner, slipped further and further away from those left living.

 

“…Minerva?” the man before her muttered, weary but concerned. The burr of his accent gave him away. “Are you alright? You look unvell.”

 

She lifted her face from her hands. “No, Viktor. I don’t think I’ve been alright for a very long time. I don’t remember what being ‘well’ feels like. But thank you for asking just the same.”

 

Viktor Krum looked a mess—looked as dashed and worn-through as she felt. He carded a hand through his increasingly unruly hair. If it spiked any more between his thick fingers, he’d be left looking as unkempt as Harry Potter. She suspected Viktor would like being compared to Harry, but kept the thought to herself. The young man before her was as frustrated and exhausted as she herself was.

 

He sighed. “Vot are ve going to do? Ve cannot hold out like zis—not forever. Morale vill fade. And zhen….”

 

“I know. I don’t want to think about it either. What we need is a miracle.”

 

Viktor countered readily, “Zhose seem to follow Potter around. Any day now.”

 

Rather than respond, Minerva McGonagall’s face fell back to her hands, fingers rubbing beneath her square-rimmed spectacles. Tiredness scratched at her eyes like grains of salt, begging her to sleep. But there was too much news, too much action this night, to imagine sleeping. Not when her nerves were shredded like so many ribbons in the wind. There was a gale blowing.

 

Instead of acknowledging Viktor’s optimism, she countered with plain reality. “How did the Sanctuary hold?”

 

There had been a string of attacks, all launched within minutes, in one of the most well-coordinated Death Eater strikes since taking the Ministry in the fall. This time the enemy had gone not for strongholds but for outliers—Arty Lachlan’s Sanctuary out in the Canadian wilderness, safe houses of the Order, and the homes and businesses of individuals brave enough to voice their opposition or leverage their resources in aid of The Order of The Phoenix _or_ the ailing Ministry. The Death Eaters had been swift and violent, using waves of Dementors to subdue and Kiss look-outs, then sweeping in for maximum damage. The bodies of the dead defenders were enchanted by Necromancers like Tihomir Ionescue, making Inferi to further swell their ranks. The Death Eaters were swift and deadly. Aftershocks of tonight’s killing spree still echoed around the globe.

 

“Lachlan vos ready for anyzhing. Ve lost a few men,” Viktor admitted. “But zhe attack vos repelled vithin zhe hour. Ve’re recovered and are ready to fight again.”

 

Others hadn’t fared nearly so well—they didn’t have the advantages of the Sanctuary, nor could they. Minerva greatly suspected the Americans had leveraged Pavel Gregorovitch and that assistant of his to ward the compound with blood magic. Such a thing was highly illegal in Great Britain, not to mention greatly frowned upon in numerous other countries. Beyond their material resources, the Sanctuary-dwellers had a certain strength in numbers which could not be denied. Everyone was frightened, hiding, and unsure whom to trust. When neighbors couldn’t ban together to turn an ambush… all was lost.

 

“Well,” she breathed slowly, lips lax. “At least that’s _some_ good news in all this mess.”

 

She glanced down at her desk—a report of an alarming nature from Ottery St. Catchpole. Death Eaters had struck fast and hard. Arthur Weasley described the flames going up, the flashes and the brush fire sweeping across the marshes as Xenophilius Lovegood’s home and workshop caught fire.

 

Xeno Lovegood had offered the use of his modest print shop to _The Daily Prophet_ in an effort to get news to the wizarding community. Somehow, word made it back to the Death Eaters, who then targeted the Lovegoods. After all, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named had to propagate a culture of fear at every turn, and preventing the dissemination of information through media proved an effective roadblock. Without the Wizarding Wireless , magazines or newspapers, those hiding in their homes would be further cut off from the world outside, more likely to panic and thereby easier to overrun.

 

To her knowledge, the Lovegood’s printing press had been the last operational magical press in Great Britain. Arthur wrote that, after the fires subsided, he and his family recovered the bodies of Xeno Lovegood, his sister Rixenda, and several employees from _The Prophet_. The printing press was burned to cinders, just as Voldemort had intended.

 

Xeno had been working on a piece about Harry Potter with the help of his daughter, Luna. Now, with his notes and drafts destroyed—taken, along with his life—that story would likely never be told. And Minerva was charged with telling poor Luna of her father’s passing. It was little comfort that Xenophilius Lovegood gave his life for a cause he believed in—the news—and was willing to help his competitors if it meant getting the story out, informing people and disseminating information that could save lives. For all his peculariarities, Xeno had been a true journalist to the very end, and would be remembered as such. Provided, of course, any of them survived to tell _his_ story.

 

Survival was looking less and less likely with each passing day.

 

Minerva swallowed. “I have a student coming,” she explained, gesturing over the papers at her desk. Luna Lovegood wasn’t the only student to have lost a loved one tonight, but would certainly be one of the most difficult to inform. Luna was a very special girl, gifted and untamed, somehow unaffected by the world. Minerva wondered how the death of her father might effect that spirit.

 

She glanced up at Viktor over the rim of her glasses. “Is there anything you need? Anyone I can send?”

 

Viktor put a hand to his hip. “I don’t suppose you know vhere Harry Potter is? Ve have not seen him in days.”

 

Truthfully, she had no idea. Their pint-sized hero hadn’t been in contact, as Viktor said, for several days now. But she wasn’t ready to make that knowledge public. If a dozen deaths didn’t frighten the magical world, Harry Potter’s disappearance would surely send them into a frenzy. There would be mass suicides—pandemonium. And the world was teetering at a cliff’s edge as it was. No… best they kept news of Harry’s disappearance to themselves. At least until there was some information to be had.

 

She forced the tightest smile past her teeth. “You’ll have to ask Leon Harper,” she hissed. “He’s absconded with Potter last I’d heard—some mission. I have no idea. Perhaps you’ll have better luck with him than I have.”

 

Viktor’s breath forced his hair away from his sweaty forehead. “Diplomacy has never been my strength, but… I vill talk to Harper’s men. A few are from Durmstrang—zhey own zheir lives to Harry, and to me.  I vill zee vot zhey know about Harry.”

 

Minerva gave a weary nod of dismissal, adding only, “God’s speed, Viktor.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Draco had it from the guards that Luna’s father was dead—murdered hours ago by Death Eaters. He knew she’d be called to McGonagall’s office. So he rushed there, fidgeting and unsure, but knowing it was the place to be. Luna was his mate now. And this was what mates did for each other, Harry would say. You were there for each other through thick and thin. If Luna didn’t want him there… well, that was for her to say, not him.

 

He gave the gargoyle the password. And then he waited.

 

He made his way up and down the little moving staircase, standing aimlessly as it curried him up and then back down again. He paced outside the office door, keeping an ear out for any sound at all. Of course McGonagall had shielded the room, but he would hear Luna when she opened the door to leave. There was no way the Headmistress would allow Luna to use the emergency floo network to leave the castle. It was far too dangerous to leave. Eventually Luna would come out, having had the news, and Draco would be there to meet her when she did.

 

He rubbed absently at the Dark Mark on his arm as he paced.

 

The Mark had burned, over and over again, calling Death Eaters to every corner of the globe. He’d felt the pull—first somewhere in Armenia, then Devon and Surrey, Baltimore, Sascatuan and San Miguelito. He had to wrack his brain for the last one—the Death Eaters were raiding Panama? How many attacks had gone off that night? How many people had died? He paced, knowing next to nothing.

 

Nobody told him anything—Harry, McGonagall… it didn’t matter. Even after all he’d done to aid the Order, they still didn’t trust him. Or maybe they knew, as he knew deep down, that he wasn’t good for anything else. He was a coward, a turn-coat, and a betrayer. No wonder they told him nothing. Given his history, he wouldn’t have told himself anything valuable either. Only Harry believed he was still valuable, still useful; Harry believed in him as a person, not as an asset in the war. To everyone else Draco was a blemish on Harry Potter’s otherwise spotless record. Harry celebrated him. Everyone else considered him a disgrace.

 

But not Luna. She wasn’t afraid to speak her mind to him, to be seen in the halls with him… to sit in silence with him, both of them staring into the embers of the fire until they slowly died, the room giving over to darkness. She wasn’t afraid of him. Somehow, Draco thought Luna was just crazy enough—just mad brilliant enough—not to be afraid of anything. Giving him all-the-more reason to want to be with her now. It was his place to support her in this. It was his family out there doing the damage. As her friend, he owed her an apology.

 

No other Death Eater had publically turned their back on the Dark Lord and lived. His comfort would mean something to Luna. Or at least he hoped she might see it that way.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The door opened at long last, Draco at the bottom of the stairs, pacing. He saw the shaft of light from above and moved to wait in it.

 

Luna didn’t react when she saw him—her eyes noting his presence, his ruffled hair and wrinkled robes—before looking to the door behind him.

 

“I….” Draco stopped. He’d thought so much about himself and his own situation he’d utterly failed to prepare anything to say to her. Because whinging on his own stunted feelings was sure to be helpful. He realized at that moment he had no knowledge of how to be comforting to another human being he wasn’t fucking. Because taking his trousers off for Luna Lovegood was _not_ an option. Without an instrument, liquor, or the ability to take his clothes off, be was bereft of expression.

 

“I don’t know what to say,” he offered, opening his arms. Casting, he landed on the rather uncomfortable truth. “I was taught my whole life to hide my emotions. Your father did it the right way: he never made you afraid of what was inside you. I… I’m a bit crap at this,” he laughed at himself, a breathy snorting sound. “If you need anything, if you don’t need anything. I’m here for you.”

 

She held her hand out for him, seeking to comfort _him_ when he’d come to do so for her. He took the proffered fingers, feeling the cold leavings of tears yet on her fingers and squeezing them, trying to lend her some of his own anxious warmth.

 

“I’ll go back to Ravenclaw Tower,” she declared. “It’s still not safe to travel. Headmistress said she’d see to the… the bodies.” Her hesitation was her only indication that this situation was out of the ordinary. “Thank you for coming. I should be alright. E…eventually, I will be.”

 

He would never call her Loopy again. And he might just introduce his right hook to anyone calling her names in the future. Luna had a fortitude of the soul which would make even Harry Potter jealous. Perhaps she was The Chosen One, and the prophet had cocked up the dates.

 

He squeezed her hand again. Tighter this time. “Might I walk with you?” He asked, gesturing vaguely upwards in the direction of Ravenclaw. “In case you change your mind?”

 

Silver-grey eyes, a mirror of his own, drilled holes straight through him. She didn’t need him to walk her anywhere. She understood the offer was for him, so he might feel better about himself, so he mightn’t feel quite such an arse for leaving her alone in her grief. And she didn’t need to say a word, either. He could read each thought plainly on her face as clear as though she spoke them in his mind.

 

Her fingers released his, to return his pointing gesture. “After you.”

 

They made their silent way up flights of stairs, past suits of armor and gently weeping windows. There was a storm out, rain lashing the windows, the sound of thunder in the distance. Draco didn’t watch the clouds or the water gathering between the old stones—he watched Luna, as steady as the castle itself. She too would weather this. Possibly far better than himself. Her spirit was strong. She even recalled the trick stair, taking his elbow and all but dragging him over it too.

 

The halls were almost empty but for the ghosts and other prefects on patrol. Passing, Draco wondered if any of them could tell something was amiss. Luna nodded hello, waved at Nearly Headless Nick, and generally kept on. Draco wished to one day have an ounce of her fortitude in the face of utter tragedy.

 

At the door to Ravenclaw Commons, she turned to him after answering her riddle. Her voice wasn’t far above a whisper as she asked, “You’re scared, aren’t you, Draco?”

 

“For my life,” he told her frankly, without a moment’s hesitation. Because he was, deep down, frightened out of his bloody mind. “I suspect we all are.”

 

“Don’t be frightened,” she told him. “Everything will turn out just fine… though perhaps not in the way you expected.”

 

A strange feeling passed over him upon hearing those words. A chill finger tracing up his spine, commanding his attention. Like a cat catching sight of a bird at the outer reaches of its vision, he had been primed. Now piqued, he could only stare at his friend, turning over memories of his own like cast-off stones littered through his consciousness.  He’d heard those words before but he couldn’t place them.

 

“Someone’s said that to me before,” he managed.

 

He watched as Luna bit the inside of her cheek—watched as her eyes slid away, slid inward, into a place of deep and fond memories he so rarely inhabited. “It’s something my Aunt Rixie used to say… Rixenda. She was a Seer.” Luna’s gaze focused sharply, meeting his own. It was as though she could see straight through him. “She died tonight. With my father.”

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

“Did you ever meet her?”

 

Draco shook his head.

 

“Are there any Seers in your family, Draco?”

 

His brow pinched, not quite a frown. “I have no idea. It’s… not something a Malfoy would publicize, is it?”

 

Naturally, any gift so unstable as True Sight would need to be concealed. And anything less than a real Seer was just... well, was Professor Trelawney—a few too many bats in the belfry, and equal parts embarrassment and shame brought upon the family. Prophecy could bring little to the Malfoy name which couldn’t be acquired with a wagon of galleons and a friend in the right place.

 

But there were Seers in his family tree. He only had to look far enough out: to Ottery St. Catchpole of all places.

 

“Wait—there are,” he corrected himself. “ _Were_. Your aunt.” Because he and Luna were cousins, albeit far removed. They’d never moved in the same social circles or held the same beliefs until now. But his father and hers shared a common ancestor, somewhere on the de Conde side. Those ancestors were the source of their shared coloring and svelte frames. And apparently the Sight as well.

 

Luna blinked, as though she’d forgotten their relation entirely. In the space of that blink her face flooded with her reaction—surprise, consideration, questioning, and agreement. He read each expression, reminded of how his father’s emotions were little more than a flutter on his cold, stony face. Then Luna smiled. He wasn’t sure how she could do it, only that she did. After all she’d suffered she still had hope enough in her to smile.

 

“ _Quia multi sumus_ ,” she quoted to him. _We are many._

 

Draco knew it well; “we are many,” the first half of an inscription etched into an ornate shield in the armory at the Manor. He’d terrorized the house elves as a child, making suits of armor and stray weapons chase the creatures up and down the halls. His mother insisted he stop. Lucius had found it funny.

 

“ _Nos unum sumus_ ,” he replied. _We are one._

 

The storm outside chose that particular moment to give an unearthly howl. Lightning bright as day flashed a second later, shooting long slashes of light through each of the corridor’s arrow-slit windows. The light made a pattern like fingers reaching across the stone, reaching out for Draco and Luna.

 

She was still smiling at him. “Good night, Draco.”

 

Draco made his way back to Gryffindor Tower feeling more haunted than ever.

 

 

 

 

 

Music leaked from the Head Boy and Girl’s suite. It was a pleasant tune— _The Founder’s March_ , recognizable from the corridor before he even saw the Fat Lady. Granger would string him up by his toes if it weren’t for the thunder and lightning keeping everyone awake anyway.

 

There was only one person who could be in his chambers, playing his piano with a modicum of flair.

 

Draco doubled his pace, speaking his password to the bust at the entry, forcing his tired legs up the incline and into his rooms.

 

Kieran Gweir sat at his piano in pajamas and dressing gown, his hair a mess, playing the march from memory. The lad turned when he heard Draco’s stomping footsteps, facing him clearly by the time he came puffing through the door.

 

“You promised me a lesson tonight,” the boy chided. “You’re late.”

 

Draco glanced down at the enchanted rose pinned to his chest; its message, “I promise to get you stupid drunk more often. Maybe we’ll go dancing.” But nothing could make him smile after the night he’d had. Not even the smell of the Chosen One wafting around him with each step he took.

 

“I was with Luna Lovegood,” he admitted flatly, lacking the energy to cushion his words. “Her father’s been killed. And her aunt. All the family she had.”

 

Kieran knew when to shut his gob—thank fucking Salazar. The lad budged up from the piano bench, going to fetch Draco a drink. Kieran conjured ice and poured a generous whisky, carrying it to him like a house elf. Draco took it in two.

 

“Any word about your mum?”

 

Absently, Draco nodded. “They found her just before Christmas.”

 

Kieran questioned him immediately, excited and nervous in the same breath. “Who’s _they_?”

 

“Harry.”

 

The lad surged forward. “So she’s alive?! Why didn’t you say so?”

 

Draco found himself wishing for more whisky. “She, uh… her memory’s been damaged. Severely. She doesn’t recognize me… or Harry… or anyone, really, except her sodding house elf.” He resisted the urge to throw his glass across the room. Tossing things wouldn’t make him feel any better, and he didn’t want to frighten Kieran. So instead of throwing things, he shrugged and said, “I don’t like talking ‘bout it. It’s enough holding the thought at the back a’ my mind….”

 

Leaving him to wonder whether it was better to have a living mother without her wits, or a dead father who went out doing what he believed in. Draco resolved that neither was optimal.

 

Nothing about life at Hogwarts was optimal. They were a nest—fledglings considered too slight, too unprepared to face war. Draco, who had faced war very briefly, knew full-well he was incapable.

 

Kieran slouched, resting his forehead against Draco’s stomach. “I wish Harry were here,” he said.

 

Draco snorted. “You hardly know him.”

 

“Yeah. But at least he would know what to do.”

 

 


	64. Beretta: When I Was A Young Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter has gone missing, Part Deux.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** blood, medical jargon, racism, gratuitous swearing, violence, self-defence, sexual ogling of a minor, absolute fucking noir, and a police officer shooting an apparently unarmed civilian  
>  **AUTHOR’S NOTE:** _Noir out my ass_. A thousand apologies.

 

 

_When I was a young girl, I used to seek pleasure._

_When I was a young girl, I used to drink ale._

_Out of the ale house, down into the jail house,_

_my body's salvated and hell is my doom._

_Come mamma, come papa, and sit you down by me._

_Come sit you down by me and pity my case._

_My poor head is aching, my sad heart is breaking,_

_my body's salvated and hell is my due._

_Please send for the preacher to come and pray for me._

_And send for the doctor to heal all my wounds._

_My poor head is aching, my sad heart is breaking,_

_my body salvated, and I'm born to die._

 

“When I Was A Young Girl”

– Feist

 

 

 

 

The doors open, and trouble walks in.

 

It’s the same every time. The details change, but it always starts the same.  _Swoosh_  go the automatic doors.  _Ping_  goes the alert. Flashing lights and sirens in the parking lot. EMT’s with bloody gloves, feet racing, pushing gurneys. Plastic wheels  _clack-clack-clack_  over cracks in the cement.

_Swoosh. Ping._  Then shouts.

 

“Code Blue! Two John Does, both unconscious at the scene.”

 

“Truck didn’t see ‘em—middle a’ the fuckin’ night!”

 

“Pressure dropping! I can’t stop the bleeding!”

 

The intercom, “Paging surgeon on call. Surgeon on call to the OR, Code Blue.”

 

And, wandering in a moment later, blood on bare hands, “I didn’t see ‘em! I swear! They came outta nowhere.” Poor man must’ve been the driver. The police try to calm him, hold him back. No good. He reaches for a gurney. “Fuck, they’re just kids! Oh my God! Jesus....”

 

He collapses in the officer’s arms, weeping.

 

Gurneys through the doors. One goes down the hall, straight to the nearest operating room; the second goes to triage. A bloody hand hangs limp from the side of the gurney, a silver wedding band sparkling pretty through the red and the dirt. Then they’re gone.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The residents are allowed in—seems like everyone’s there to evaluate or observe. They keep the interns out on the floor to monitor the other patients. A couple of little old ladies and a nine year old with a bladder infection: the interns can probably handle it. So there are a dozen white coats gathered in one recovery room and we barely fit. The surgeon is still scrubbing out, and we’re waiting on details from the lab.

 

Two patients in bandages which will need to be changed soon. Two IV drips to check. Two charts at the end of two intensive care beds, most of the information missing. Neither of them can be given anything serious to stop the bleeding or block the pain until labs come back.

 

Operating was a calculated risk. That’s the trouble with a John Doe—you never know. Treat recklessly and you might kill him; exercise a bit of caution and the patient may die before you have a chance to act. John Does are tricky, and here are two of them, apparently fallen out of the sky. The police have been through their effects and reported not so much as a wallet or engraved bit of jewelry between the pair of them. They’re ghosts.

 

Dr. Merriton starts up. “So what do we know?”

 

“Two Caucasian males, no identification, limited personal effects. Estimated age is eighteen to twenty—”

 

“I said what  _do_  we know,” Merriton interrupts. He rolls his eyes. What a dick.

 

No one wants to open their mouths now, knowing the boss is in a foul one. The fact that this was his third straight week of overnight shifts didn’t help, either. But you don’t get to be the boss by playing nice—Dr. Merriton is good at his job, at least. If he wasn’t so busy being a complete ass, he could take a crack at actually teaching something. But he’d rather bark orders like a drill sergeant.

 

I exhale slowly, doing my best to become one with the wall. Kevin, the other resident on duty, takes a shot.

 

“Multiple compound fractures, blood loss, concussions, lacerations, contusions, and...” he hesitates, only a second, before laying on the last of it, “what appears to be a venomous snake bite, sir.”

 

Drill Sergeant Merriton stuffs his hands in his pockets. That’s as much approval as Kev’s going to get. “Hit and run?”

 

“The driver stopped—a local farmer. He’s in triage for shock.”

 

Merriton shows no reaction. “Truck? SUV?”

 

“Pick-up,” a triage doctor tells him. “F-250.”

 

These two kids are lucky to be alive. Locals go tearing down those back roads at fifty or sixty miles an hour. I would’ve guessed the patients were wearing reflective gear, but I saw them clearly when they came in—dark shirts, camo pants, big black combat boots. They’d be invisible until the driver was on top of them.

 

Everyone is just staring at them—these boys who should be dead. With all the bandages and the swelling, they’re the size of nearly-grown men. They had to be small under all that. We’ll know for sure in the next few hours.

 

 _Bip. Bip._ You start to breathe in time with the ventilators, with the _pips_ of the EKG. It’s just something you do in the quiet, when you’re thinking so hard, reaching for an answer.

 

A lab tech arrives. He looks cross. He’s escorted by his supervisor, a stern-looking woman named Horovitz who nobody messes with. She’s a big girl with big hands. She uses one to gesture between her subordinate and the waiting Dr. Merriton. Her expression makes us all slink back into the shadows.

 

“Tell him what you told me,” she orders.

 

The tech would rather have sent a report and let us hash it out. You can see it plainly in his face. He desperately wants to go back to the basement and be left alone. “I can’t identify multiple compounds in either of their bloodstreams,” he announces. He pushes his hair out of his face. “It’s trace metal, but I can’t figure out what.”

 

“Metal—so we can’t do an MRI?”

 

The tech shrinks back. “Well I can't advise it, no.”

 

Head of triage offers, “We could wand them. That’s better than nothing.”

 

Merriton blusters. “No choice. We have to take the risk. There’s no other way to know what we’re dealing with, here.” He barks orders, and several doctors head down the hall to prep. He whirls back on the lab guy. “Allergies or reactions?”

 

Horovitz answers for him. “We’ve only tested basics so far: NSAIDs, sulfa. Those came back okay.”

 

Belligerent, the tech tacks on, “But epinephrine was too high.”

 

“How high?”

 

His eyebrows skyrocket. He’s caught between frustration and fascination. “Too high to be normal. Thirty thousand nanograms per liter. Ninety thousand in the second sample.”

 

Glances are exchanged. Epinephrine is adrenaline, which is naturally produced, but not in quantities like that. Anything over ten thousand is extreme. Patients were sometimes administered over ten thousand nanograms per liter in the event of cardiac arrest. You simply didn’t see that concentration unless a person had been dosed.

 

Kev scratched his blond head. “Two cases of Pheochromocytoma?”

 

Dr. Merriton snorted. “I’m more likely to win the lottery. Other bright ideas?”

 

I don’t want to say anything. But I’ll never improve if I don’t speak up, don’t try. Worse case scenario: Merriton will bite my head off, too. “Repeated use of a bronchial inhaler? As treatment for the snake bite.”

 

“We treat with steroids for snake bite—” a colleague corrected.

 

“Yeah, _I_ know that. The patients are what? Eighteen, maybe twenty? They would’ve used whatever was on-hand, probably trying to patch themselves up and run home before their parents found out. And an adrenaline inhaler is a lot more likely than double cases of Pheo.”

 

Diagnostics is tricky work; it takes years to get to Merriton’s level. I watch as his mouth twitches. Almost like he’s impressed. Almost.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

The Sheriff arrives. His deputies have put together a briefing, and Merriton lets him and one of the officers from the scene sit in. Facts are thin. But the frustrated-looking guy from the lab is back, clutching a binder full of results, and Horovitz doesn’t look happy at all.

 

Dr. Merriton bangs his half-drunk water bottle against the table to get everyone’s attention. It’s near six in the morning and everyone’s cranky now. It’s been a long night, and some of us are more than ready to change shifts. Kev and I will be lucky to catch a shower between our back-to-backs; the price of being a resident where fresh faces are few and far between.

 

“We’re here to pool our information,” Merriton says loudly. “Let’s be quick about it. Sheriff, your report first.”

 

The Sheriff has several sheets before him. He plucks out the summary. “On west-bound County Road 46, around one thirty this morning, a west-bound motor vehicle struck two pedestrians traveling west-bound in the same lane. The driver—Carl Weeg, age 58, of Gates Mills—was not under the influence, states he was driving at the posted speed limit of thirty-five miles an hour, and does not own a cell phone. 911 was called by a bystander—Katie Jorgensen, a Kent State student, age 19—who arrived shortly after the incident.

 

“The pedestrians are two males carrying no identification, clothed in unmarked paramilitary and military issue. In their possession were two loaded CZ 85B nine millimeter handguns, serials scrubbed, safeties engaged.”

 

I want to reach over and pinch Kevin’s leg. He picked one helluva time to take his break. He wasn’t going to believe me. Kids and guns. Scary stuff.

 

“Mr. Weeg and Miss Jorgensen reported severe injuries at the scene. Mr. Weeg also reported that, when struck, one victim appeared to be carrying the other piggy-back down the middle of the road. Both victims were thrown away from the vehicle on impact, and unconscious at the time Miss Jorgensen arrived.

 

“One and a third miles east of the accident site, approximately fifty meters into the woods, officers located a mostly-burned wooden crate. Preliminary analysis of the ashes yielded mostly cotton and nylon fibers, with trace of precious gold metal—twelve carat—and unidentified chemical compounds. Presence of human bio-matter limited to hair and blood. No presence of a fueling agent such as gasoline or kerosene detected.

 

“The injured pedestrians and Mr. Weeg were brought to Hillcrest Hospital by ambulance, arriving at 1:52AM. All three were admitted.” The Sheriff set down his paper. “Doctor.”

 

“Next is MRI. I’ll present findings. ” Dr. Merriton picked up the remote control to his projector and his little laser pointer. No one bothered to dim the lights.

 

“Our first John Doe is six feet, one inch tall. Growth platelets put him at eighteen or nineteen years old.” The laser pointer circled indicators. Next image. “Evidence of previous trauma, within the last year, and severe. A kidney was removed. Multiple fractured and broken ribs received medical attention. Broken nose, dislocated jaw, both re-injured. Similar injuries, older in age, received no medical treatment.” Merriton’s pointer grazed several bulges where bone hadn’t set right. “Spinal injuries, recent to the past year, received minimal care. Bone spurs of the neck suggest intense physical labor and poor living conditions.” Next slide, a read-out of muscle density. “Muscle structure supports this hypothesis.” The following slide was blank. “Due to the presence of multiple tattoos of unknown origin and metal content, further scans were declined. Note that several of these tattoos are crude, suggesting… less than sanitary origins. Possibility of infection is high.”

 

Prison tats. Men were known to use razor blades and pen ink to carve designs into themselves while in the slammer. It would be a good idea to get a closer look at this John Doe; his appearance betrayed much of his background, it seemed, and the MRI only extrapolated on the broken state of his body.

 

“John Doe Two is five-feet five-and-a-half inches. Bone density indicates sixteen to eighteen years of age; however platelets, muscle structure, and central nervous development tell a different story.” Next slide. “We believe our second John Doe could be as young as fourteen—his small stature a result of extensive childhood confinement and drastic malnutrition. Supporting evidence marked as numbers one through twenty six on the slide.” And Merriton had circled each area where growth had been stunted, where healthy tissue had been snubbed off and this young, beaten-up body refused to expand. This was what scans of starving Ethiopians and Holocaust survivors would look like. But this boy was alive, had somehow survived what would have killed most people, and was lying unconscious in intensive care.

 

“Notable facial scar in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead. Scars on the back, estimated at one week in age, indicate whipping. Also, an older scar across the left hand; a phrase etched into the skin as though with a scalpel or razor—the words _I must not tell lies_.” Several people cringed.

 

Merriton continued, “A history of broken bones receiving little-to-no medical care. We offer hypothesizes of extended child abuse, ages one through ten, or homelessness, spanning a similar age range. Reduced motor and cognitive function are to be expected.”

 

Merriton moved on without emotion. The next slide showed current musculature. The juxtaposition between the boy’s internal systems and external perfection was drastic. Inside he was beaten, abused and broken. Outside was the body of an athlete—an Olympian.

 

“John Doe Two shows the opposite of his counterpart, notably in the same span of a year. Up until a few days ago, John Doe Two has received superior medical and physical attention—prominent physical development should be noted, most likely a result of militaristic or other boot-camp-type training. Platelets suggest John Doe Two is approaching a growth spurt.” People laughed. When the boss makes a joke, you’d better. “Several days ago, he fell under the same treatment as our first John Doe. Physical abuse, malnourishment, confinement, blood loss, broken bones, etc.”

 

Merriton tapped his water bottle, absently now, gathering the last of his thoughts. “As a note, I should mention that John Doe Two has a recent tattoo; sterile and professionally administered. With proper precautions, we were able to take an active brain scan, stimulating with light, with physical touch, and with sound. The results were… intriguing.”

 

The next slide was a close-up of the boy’s brain, segmented across the top to display the cortex. “With light, we saw the least reaction.”

 

The next slide was lit up across specific parts of the brain. “Physical touch triggered areas of the brain associated with aggression, memory, anger, and fear. This supports a hypothesis of a homeless or abusive childhood.”

 

The final slide had color and light at the very center, where long-term memory and deep emotion were stored. “The patient did not show marked response to sound stimulus; we tried speech, both male and female, varied volume, and even played NPR.”

 

National Public Radio would probably put me in a coma, too.

 

“Then there was this,” Dr. Merriton circled with his laser pointer. “In the epicenter of loyalty, morals and conscience. We played the college radio station.” Merriton twisted to a colleague. “What was the song?”

 

“Coldplay,” she provided. “ _Sparks_. The album came out this summer.”

 

“So a very strong reaction, there,” Merriton nodded. “Were I the sentimental sort, I’d venture our John Doe Two has himself a girlfriend.” Several people laughed, exchanging fond looks. The side of Merriton’s mouth twitched when adding, “Hypothesis of sweetheart supported by the presence of a titanium and brushed-silver ring on the left hand; whether it’s a wedding ring, or some variant of promise or chastity ring, is unclear. Given his age, we’re assuming the latter.

 

“That concludes our findings.” Merriton adjusted his fat ass on the hard plastic and metal chair. “Now lab.”

 

Horovitz shot her subordinate a mean look. The guy pulled out a pair of reading glasses, opened his binder, and began.

 

“First sample, John Doe One. Blood type AB negative.” The rarest blood type for Caucasians—1% or less of whites are AB negative. “Some highlights: elevated white blood cell count of 18,000 per micro liter. Elevated epinephrine or adrenaline at 32,000 nanograms per liter.” Adrenaline like that was found only in patients administered the drug intravenously. And white blood cells in that range really only occurred in those recovering from long-term life-threatening injuries, like an untreated infection, cancer or poison. The body simply would not have been able to produce so many white blood cells so quickly. There was more going on.

 

The tech continued, “Hemoglobin, nine grams per deciliter. Mercury, 226 micrograms per liter. Other unidentified trace metals in quantities of six grams per deciliter. Severe dehydration and malnutrition, suggesting a fasting period in excess of 48 hours. Presence of administered over-the-counter antibiotics, including 1,200 milligrams ibuprofen. Preliminary genetic mapping indicates European and Mediterranean origin.

 

“Second sample, John Doe Two. Blood type AB Vel negative.”

 

Merriton set down his water bottle and stared. And rightly so: only one in three thousand people are Vel negative. Giving the patient a blood transfusion of any kind could cause kidney failure, or kill him. It would take at least two hours to get a suitable transfusion. With a poisonous snake bite, combined with the amount of blood he’d already lost, there’s virtually nothing left within our power to save him. Realization swept the room. One of the consulting ER doctors whispered to the Sheriff and his deputy. Their hopes fell to the floor.

 

“ _Other_ highlights: white blood cell count is 23,000 per micro liter. Elevated epinephrine, over 90,000 nanograms per liter. Hemoglobin, eight grams per deciliter.” His body was trying to fight the snake venom, kicking into overdrive. If the poison didn’t kill him, lung or heart failure would soon. “Mercury at 400 micrograms per liter.” Mercury poisoning, too?! “Other unidentified trace metals, compounds similar though not identical to our first John Doe, here in quantities of seven grams per deciliter. Also showed severe dehydration and malnutrition, suggesting a similar fasting period in excess of 48 hours. Presence of administered over-the-counter antibiotics; the same 1,200 milligrams ibuprofen. Preliminary genetic mapping indicates Mixed Anglo-European descent.” 

 

He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Here’s where things _really_ get interesting. A yet unidentified zootoxin detected at 12 milligrams per liter. It’s snake venom, but… whatever it is, it doesn’t match any sample records I could find. It’s close to the venom of an adder or black mamba. Nothing local, that’s for damn sure.”

 

Horovitz smacked her technician on the arm for swearing. He took a step away from his beefy boss, adding, “Most poisonous snakes carry 50 to 100 milligrams of venom, but they don’t release more than a few milligrams per bite. And I can’t determine just how poisonous this particular venom is without a sample. This second John Doe… he’s five-five, you said? How much does he weigh, roughly?”

 

The deputy shrugged, offering, “Maybe a buck-forty?”

 

The tech looked very surprised for a second, and then he was scribbling in the margins of his report. “Assuming our little John Doe had no blood loss prior to the introduction of venom, there was enough of it in his system to kill anywhere from ten to twenty-two _hundred_ people, depending on what bit him.”

 

The surgeon piped up, “I suspect maybe three liters blood loss between the accident and my OR. And there was only one wound—two fang punctures on the upper left thigh, each roughly two inches deep.”

 

Merriton was leaning forward in his chair, water bottle all but crushed in his hand in his excitement. Because this is probably the most interesting our ER has ever been… or will be. Ever. This is _Ohio_ for fuck’s sake. “Could that much venom come from a single snake?”

 

The tech winced. “Only baby snakes release all their venom in one bite. By the depth of the wound, this one had to be full grown. But that concentration of venom from a single bite would mean… a venomous baby snake that’s thirty feet long?” Abandoning the math, he threw down his binder in disgust. “I dunno why we’re bothering with semantics when we can figure it out in autopsy.”

 

“Autopsy?”

 

The surgeon leaned forward, snipping, “He certainly didn’t die on _my_ table.”

 

I cleared my throat. “Um, Second John Doe is still alive. I checked his vitals thirty minutes ago, and he was still breathing.” Several of the guys from trauma snickered. Apparently all the ICU nurses had equal crushes on the mystery patients.

 

“Bullshit,” the tech called. “There’s enough poison in that little guy to kill everyone in this room! Twice!”

 

Dr. Merriton was leaning on his elbows, thinking. “Well, how do you propose that much venom found its way into a single human body?”

 

The tech weighed his hands, explaining, “Only two ways. One is a baby snake that’s seventy pounds and thirty feet long—and for the record, no such venomous snake exists, full-grown or otherwise. Or the second option is he was bitten, and then additional venom was administered… in excess, intravenously, to be sure it killed him.”

 

The deputy and Sheriff exchanged looks. The Sheriff spoke first. “ _Administered?_ What are you saying?”

 

“I’m saying it’s my professional opinion that these two were tortured—the first through blood loss, starvation, physical assault and mercury poisoning, and the second through blood loss, starvation, assault, even greater mercury poisoning—and, when that failed to kill him, his assailant moved on to snake venom. Poison. Evidence from Dr. Merriton supports this hypothesis easily.”

 

There was evidence, alright—entire lifetimes written on their bodies, transcribed inside them, scratched out on skin and burned into organs. These boys had suffered something atrocious. And it happened here… in Ohio.

 

Nothing made sense anymore. Maybe I just needed to sleep. It was nearly seven in the morning.

 

“We need to return to our patients,” Merriton says, rising. “Thank you, everyone.”

 

I force myself out of my chair and head for the door, trucking along behind Dr. Merriton and a couple others. The lab tech catches up with us, his binder tucked under his arm, glasses in his jacket pocket. He puffs hair out of his face.

 

“Dr. Merriton!” Catching up, he falls into step with us. The hallway is long and deserted. “I didn’t want to say anything with the Sheriff here.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“What you said about our second John Doe having a girlfriend… probably not far from the truth. He’s, uh…” the lab guy glanced around, almost nervous, but almost laughing, too. “Well… he’s got Chlamydia.”

 

Merriton stops in his tracks, turning. “Sorry?”

 

“Chlamydia,” the tech repeats. Half a smile is turning his thin lips like a cat’s.

 

The cranky old doctor shook his head. “You really ran the gambit,” he chuckles. “Thanks.” And walking away, still laughing, “Torture, love songs, and Chlamydia. Oh to be sixteen again!”

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

Dad’s cell phone rang in the middle of breakfast.

 

Mom rolled her eyes. “Arturo. This early?”

 

Dad shrugged. “It’s Leon. I need to take this.” And he answered, stepping out into the hall. Mom put more toast on my plate.

 

A second later, Dad was back. He looked… scared.

 

“It’s Harry,” he said, quiet and worried. “He’s missing.”

 

Mom spilled her coffee. Dad spelled it away. I was already out of my chair, trying to pull the phone out of his hands.

 

“Do you think it’s the Death Eaters? Is he in trouble?”

 

Dad looked me right in the eye. “He was on assignment. It… could be bad, _lindita_.”

 

Then Mom was hugging me. Because I was crying. “Oh my God.” It leaked out of my mouth against Mom’s shoulder. “Oh my _God_. No….”

 

“It’s only been a few hours,” Dad said, “but we need to start looking or….”

 

Mom glanced up. “ _Vete_ ,” she told him. Dad Summoned his coat and briefcase.

 

I pulled away, wiping the tears off my face. “Wait! H-has anyone told his boyfriend?”

 

Dad froze with one arm in his sleeve. “Harry Potter is gay?”

 

This time Mom and I both rolled our eyes at him.

 

“Really, Dad?”

 

Mom waved him off. “Don’t waste time, Arturo. Go. And tell Leon about the boyfriend.”

 

Dad gripped his briefcase, ready to run. “What’s his name? This lucky boy?”

 

“Unlucky boy today,” Mom winced.

 

It felt good to have her holding me up. The world is tipping on its side and the day’s hardly begun.

 

“Draco,” I muttered. “His name’s Draco. He’s Head Boy at Hogwarts.”

 

“I’ll tell Leon,” Dad agreed. “You be good.”

 

Mom was stroking my back when Dad Apparated away.

 

“Please tell me I don’t have to go to school today. Please, you can’t make me. Not when Harry is….”

 

Mom rubbed my shoulder and didn’t say anything. I dropped into a chair, my hands shaking. It wouldn’t stop.

 

“I saw him a few days ago.”

 

“Draco?”

 

“No, Harry.” I put my head on the table, feeling like I was going to be sick.

 

We’d gotten take-out from one of Dad’s franchises. Harry was more of a loner these days, speaking less and brooding more. He probably had a lot on his mind and it showed. He was always painfully serious now. We hardly went out, and never just for fun. Not anymore. He barely called. I practically had to drag him away from work to get a bite to eat.

 

Then a bachata came on the radio and his whole face changed. He was the Harry I met, just for a second. Right there in the back kitchens, in front of everyone, he grabbed my hand and started dancing with me; down the line of prep cooks, turning out of the way of a bus boy, easily side-stepping past a waiter with a tray full of sodas. His fingers had drummed against my back to the beat.

 

“I thought you didn’t dance!” I’d laughed.

 

And when he smiled at me… God, his whole face lit up. “I don’t. Not really. Just faking it.”

 

Always so humble. But he was good. Really, really good. He moved so naturally, his lead the perfect blend of casual laziness and an effortless precision, the music and the movement built into his body like he’d been born a Spaniard. He danced like my Dad, like it was in his blood. And he knew how to move it.

 

“Well you’re an amazing dancer!” I blushed. “Where’d you learn?”

 

He turned me around, smiling again. “Draco taught me.”

 

 

 

 

I went back to my room and proceeded to cry my fucking eyes out.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

The police hang around. Apparently some of the boys’ tattoos were gang-related? It was a stretch. But the story about guns found at the scene spread like wildfire. As soon as Merriton okay’ed the move from trauma to intensive care, the cops marched in, cuffing both boys to their beds.

 

It’s kind of amazing they’re alive. Really, they shouldn’t be. And we all know it. My shift is getting stranger by the minute.

 

They’re put in separate rooms. The nurses take to calling them “John Doe” and “John Cross,” since the taller of the two has a big tattoo of a Christian cross on his neck. It wouldn't be fair to call one bigger than the other—they're both whip-thin and nothing but muscle: athlete's bodies, through and through. They might’ve had six percent body fat between them.

 

There’s a police officer stationed outside each of their rooms now. It makes the doctors and nurses nervous, going in and out. This isn’t exactly the inner city. Nothing really happens here—just the usual car accidents, kitchen and yard-work blunders, infections, OD’s and your occasional alcohol-poisoned Kent State kid. Violent crime is at a three-year low according to the papers. So cuffing two unconscious teenagers to their beds seems like overkill, but we go with it. They know best. We're just here to treat patients.

 

Kevin and I walk past the guard, into little John Doe’s room. It’s time to check his vitals and maybe change the dressing on his leg. The surgeon took a few layers of muscle, and the look is brutal. Kevin holds the boy’s leg while I peel back the gauze. The skin graft is taking already. Strangely, it looks like he’ll be okay, but it’s hard to say until the venom works its way out of his system. He could’ve died from blood loss before now. The fact that he’s hung on this long is a good sign. The only possible explanation is a weak venom; because there’s a lot of it still in him, and not much blood left in his veins as he slowly bleeds out from the graft sites. It’ll be another half hour before the helicopter arrives with a transfusion of ultra-rare AB Vel negative.

 

I peel off my gloves; they’re sticky and red, and go  _splat_  against the bottom of the empty biohazard bin.

 

Kevin is looking at John Doe’s chart. It’s just dawn, and light is filtering weakly through the shades. Kev squints down at the stats, chewing his lip. There are still a whole lot of blanks to fill in—too many questions to ask if the little guy ever wakes up. It’s doubtful. Even though he’s doing better, God knows how, we’re still preparing ourselves for it.

 

Kevin leans against the foot of the bed, fingering the stethoscope slung around his neck. He flips a hand towards our patient. “One thing’s for sure: he’s hot.”

 

I smile because he’s right. John Doe is stunningly good-looking, from his muscles to his messy black hair, heavy stubble, and the rugged scars littering his unblemished skin.

 

“No crushes on patients, Kev.”

 

A sassy hand flies to his hip. “I’m in a committed relationship, not dead. Can’t I appreciate the scenery?”

 

We both look at John Doe—he looks so young; small, machines hooked up to his arms and chest. Like this, it’s easy to believe he’s fourteen. The only thing we’re missing is the mother and father holding each other, crying over their baby boy as he drifts away. I guess Kev and I will have to stand in their stead.

 

We’ve taken him off oxygen half an hour ago, trying to let him go in peace, but somehow he’s improving. He breathes just fine on his own. It seems impossible, knowing he should’ve died five times over. After everything he’s already lived through. The expression on his face is almost peaceful—but it’s tinged by pain. There’s still poison in him. It was impossible to get it all, and without knowing what bit him, there’s no way to make a sure-fire antidote. We had to pump him full of generals and then hope for the best. He’s sleeping soundly thanks to a cocktail of pain-killers. The drip-bags hang like a bouquet of clear plastic buds above his head—like the garlands of herbs and flowers ancient peoples used to hang over their sick and dying to ward off evil spirits.

 

I hope he doesn’t die. No one’s died on my watch yet, but it’s bound to happen sooner or later. I don’t want him to die because he’s young and beautiful. I know that’s petty, but I can’t help it. He’s gorgeous and he shouldn’t have to die.

 

“John Doe,” I say. “It sorta fits him. Have you seen his eyes?”

 

Kevin shakes his head. I come closer.

 

“They’re bright green, and huge. Like a black-haired Bambi.”

 

I lift his eyelid. Kev takes a noisy breath.

 

“Wow… gorgeous.”

 

“Jail bait,” I warn him. “Merriton thinks he’s a minor—under sixteen.”

 

“Shit...” Kev sounds normal but he’s still looking at the kid’s face, at those otherworldly green eyes, transfixed. I can understand why. It’s that color, like there’s something deep inside his gaze; something sure, glowing, something trapped and waiting to get out. It steals the breath right out of your throat. I’ve never seen anything quite like it outside of special effects in movies.

 

And there’s a gentleness to his eyes, a tenderness in their shape, in that leveled, unseeing gaze. It doesn’t match the rest of him—the scars, the sad, violent history of broken bones, confinement and neglect. The malnourishment. The beatings. The hard muscle. He’s a little soldier with these soft, incongruous eyes. Like a puppy’s eyes on a lion. It doesn’t add up.

 

I go to lift his other eyelid—I want the full effect, both big green peepers gazing blankly back at me. That’s when he moves.

 

Like lightning, his hand closes around my wrist. I hear the air whistling through his nose, a sort of half-grunt half-growl of surprise when he finds his right hand restrained by handcuffs. Still, his left closes hard and fast around my wrist, yanking my fingers away from his face.

 

He blinks. His eyes are fire. They’re so bright and alive; wider when he’s awake, and flooded with anger.

 

He hisses at us. Like an animal—like the snake that bit him. And then the sound goes human, clear, cutting.

 

“Uncuff me; or so help me God—”

 

John Doe is British. Like startlingly, crisply English. James-Bond-in-a-tuxedo-level British. Somehow this makes him even more attractive—despite the fact that he’s leaving bruises on my wrist. Someone his size has no right being that strong. His grip doesn’t feel comatose _at all_ ; fingers like steel, welding themselves, a human handcuff to rival the one holding him down. There’s no way I’m getting away from him. I try not to panic.

 

“Relax,” Kev tells him. He almost reaches for the boy’s shoulder but thinks better of it when those searing eyes turn on him instead. “It’s okay. We’re doctors. We’re here to help you.”

 

“You wanna help me, mate?” John Doe is dry, skeptical, and more than a note sarcastic. He raises his eyebrows, sitting up. He shouldn’t be able to do that: he should be unconscious! But here he is, snarking at us. Muscles in his neck strain beneath the hand-shaped bruises mottling his skin. He really has been tortured—poisoned and whipped and choked. His voice rasps as he barks an order; “Let me up. I’ll find my way.”

 

Kevin offers his palms. “You were hit by a farm truck out on County 46. Your injuries are very severe. We had to medically induce a coma to keep you alive.” Green Eyes’s reaction to this was deadpan. Most people would be stunned to learn they’d nearly died. This one seemed unfazed. He blinked at Kev as if to say, _go on_. “Do you remember anything about what happened? Why you were out there?”

 

“Let me go,” he spits back. “I've done nothing wrong. You’ve no right to hold me against my will.”

 

I don’t know much about English accents. Maybe he’s from London? There’s the tiniest of slurs in there—not quite the crisp British clip of the movies after all, but not exactly street either. Maybe he’s from the suburbs. He’s in no way mentally deficient, that’s for sure. His voice is mesmerizing; deep, confident, full of power and authority. John Doe sounds like he’s used to giving orders and getting his way.

 

“Okay,” I nod. I jerk my head for Kevin to go get the officer stationed in the hall.

 

John Doe wouldn’t let go of my wrist. His grip is painful. He really shouldn’t have that amount of strength with the drugs he’s on. He shouldn’t be awake, be talking. He should be drooling into his pillow, on his way out.

 

It only takes a second before the cop outside the door is charging in, a hand on the leather flap between him and his nine millimeter. Kev is with him, a hypodermic concealed in his coat pocket. It’s something they’ve taught us for uncooperative patients, but I’ve never seen someone actually have to do it before. John Doe-Eyes sees my gaze flicker—somehow catches sight of the perfectly concealed needle—and then he’s squirming to get away. He released my hand to better defend himself.

 

When the officer gets close enough—quick as a flash, John Doe kicks him in the throat. The cop’s Adam’s apple inverts into his trachea so he can’t breathe. John Doe is screaming from using his bad leg to deliver the killing blow. Pain doesn’t stop him, though. He’s like a machine. Somehow he’s gotten his right arm free of the handcuffs and immediately decks Kev. Uppercut, swift and mean. A knee to the already damaged jaw gives poor Kev whiplash and he stumbles back, dropping the hypo.

 

John Doe scrambles out of bed—God knows how. He’s got to be dying. But he’s fighting us—like a movie or one very bad dream. He rips out his IV, not even flinching. He’s standing on one foot, perfectly balanced, elevating his bad leg and ready to kick me across the bed, it looks like, if I so much as flinch at him.

 

The cop is writhing on the floor, mouthing silent for air. He starts crawling his way out of the room for help. He’ll probably asphyxiate before he gets to the door. Kev is on the floor too, clutching his jaw, blood down his chin. It looks like the blow might’ve severed a bit of his tongue. There’s blood everywhere—spattered down his scrubs and forming a big puddle under his face. So much carnage in eight seconds. I barely had time to gasp, let alone scream.

 

The _bip, bip, bip_ machines are going crazy now they’re disconnected. The EKG flat-lines in a high-pitched keen.

 

I’m not breathing anymore. Too scared. I’ve never seen a soldier in action before, but I know now that that’s what he is. He’s an assassin, and we’ve pissed him off. I put my hands up—high, empty, where he can see them.

 

“My name’s Cassie. I’m a doctor. I want to help you.”

 

Nothing. No reaction what-so-ever. He doesn’t seem to care. His green gaze flickers to the dying cop on the ground, then to Kev who’s still not moving, not getting up. 

 

John Doe spares a split second to look at the window—to see that it’s morning. He doesn’t react to that either. With a swift yank, he pulls the power cord for his machines. Everything stops at once—the _bips_ and the _pings_ and the screeching—and it’s silent by comparison. I can hear him panting. Somehow, I find that reassuring. Breathing means he’s human. Then those startling eyes are back on me.

 

I have to say something or he’ll stare me to death. His eyes are that sharp. “What’s your name? Where are you from? H-h… h….” I’m gasping for breath. I can’t help it. “H-how old are you? Are you a minor?”

 

But I can’t say anymore because his hospital gown’s fallen open in the front, and I’m trying so hard _not_ to look at him. But I can’t. God damnit, I can’t. The boy is fucking _hung_ , with caramel-cream skin and perfect abs, a line of jet black hair down the front of him that does nothing but force your eyes _down_ and hold you there, trapped gasping between the cut of his perfect hip bones.

 

Mouth open, I’m thinking about blowing him—I’m utterly failing as a medical professional… but I’ve never seen a man, jailbate or otherwise, who looks this fucking good. He’s some sort of drug-induced walking wet dream. There’s a handcuff dangling from his wrist, blood running from the crook of his arm, dripping over his tattoo: and he’s staring at me like he’s about to kill me and I am inexplicably, indescribably, irrevocably turned the fuck on.

 

He has his breath now. It fills out his broad chest when he speaks. “Where’s my partner?” he demands.

 

“The other guy, you mean? With the cross on his neck?”

 

His eyes flick to the side, marking the cop’s slow progress as he crawls in vain toward the door. We’ll be discovered soon; when the officer doesn’t go back to his post and Kev and I don’t finish our rounds. They’ll find little John Doe-Eyes in a room with a dead cop and then he’s finished. He won’t get another chance. He’s thinking about escape when he says, “Yes. Where’s Saiya?”

 

“Is that his name?”

 

“Saiya. Where is he?” John Doe’s voice is so deep—like there’s a much bigger person inside that little body, trapped and trying to get out through his vocal cords. He looks angry, staring me down. If looks could kill. He’s getting ready to end me: and I can’t stop thinking about how fucking _sexy_ his voice is. All of him, really. There’s blood running over his tattoo, a scrolling gothic script I can’t quite make out. It drips off his finger in a red line. Every drop he loses, we can’t replace.

 

“He’s down the hall.”

 

John Doe nods, just once. “Bring him to me, then we’ll talk.”

 

I bite my lip. “Um… he’s unconscious.” I’m biting my lip even harder in an attempt not to tack on, _just like you should be, buddy_.

 

“Then bring me to him.” John Doe-Eyes is insistent. It sounds like no one’s told him what to do in a _very_ long time. He doesn’t take well to being denied. Wherever he comes from, he gives the orders. He scares me a thousand times more than Merriton, or my dad, or anyone who’s ever bossed me around. I can barely get my words out.

 

“No one’s gonna let you leave this room,” I point out, my eyes flashing down to the cop—who at that moment gives a very real death rattle, collapsed on his side half way to the door. He’s clawing at his throat, fingers and lips gone blue, cheeks stained purple from oxygen deprivation. “Johnny Five-Oh here,” I point at the dying cop, “He was your ticket out. If he’s dead….”

 

Thoughts are taking form behind John Doe’s Bambi eyes—I can see the wheels turning, ideas and realizations forming on the other side of those freakishly light-up-green eyes. I can see the flash when he realizes that, yes, I’m telling the truth. If there’s one armed officer in his hospital room, there have got to be at a half dozen more milling around outside. Maybe more. Cops travel in packs, like girls going to the bathroom. He can’t leave his room without their noticing, can’t get to his friend without a couple guns pointed in his face.

 

A blood-rivered hand rises; John Doe brushes it through his hair, not even noticing he’s smearing himself with even more blood. It’s like he doesn’t care, like he’s been covered in his own blood a hundred times before and this is nothing serious, nothing to freak out about. He’s dying. He should be dead, but he can’t be assed to care. The blood makes his hair shiny, mating it down. His hair is midnight-on-a-moonless-night black—so dark that the burgundy shade of his blood is lost. A red smear trickles down his arm as he thinks.

 

“Fucking hell…” He swears. And damnit, he’s even sexier when he’s swearing. Not fair. He looks down at Kev, pointing in warning. “Don’t you move,” he tells Kevin before hopping and hobbling his way over to the cop.

 

“Inverted windpipe,” I mutter a diagnosis out of habit. Diagnostics is my specialty. “Fatal.”

 

John Doe doesn’t look up at me, but his shoulders hitch like he’s snorting, holding back a laugh. He has the nerve to purse his lips. “Nah.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

He’s already taken a knee, his bum leg splayed out to the side, using the side of his hospital gown to wipe the blood off of one hand before closing it over the cop’s throat. The officer doesn’t have anything left to fight with—he has a few seconds left, maybe half a dozen stilted gasps, before he asphyxiates.

 

I’ve never actually seen someone die before. We always managed to save them in time. I know what it looks like to save somebody’s life, too—the concentration, the fervored jerks of movement, no time to speak, only to act. That’s how little Doe-Eyes looks now. Like he’s saving a life.

 

He was muttering. “ _Episkey_ … bloody _Episkey_ … come on….”

 

The cop coughs. It’s another miracle. That kick to the throat snapped his windpipe—inverted his Adam’s apple, driving it back to obstruct his throat, suffocating him. I heard the break. There’s no way to repair that type of injury outside a surgical unit. But he coughs again, reaching for John Doe.

 

“ _Confundo_ ,” John Doe says next. And the guard’s eyes glaze over like a Krispy Kreme. He shivered, then twitched, then blinked placidly up at John Doe.

 

“How’d I end up down here?” the officer asks blearily. He’s talking. It’s a fucking miracle. I begin to suspect that John Doe-Eyes is secretly Jesus. Hung, ripped, tatted, under-aged British Jesus. Second coming of Christ. And hallelujah was he hot.

 

John Doe smiled at the cop. It was a fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You tripped, officer. Let me help you up.”

 

Green eyes flash at me as John Doe helps the cop to his feet. He looked at me, then behind him at Kev, still on the floor. The way the officer was facing, he couldn’t see Kev… and looked like he’d been concussed, and probably didn’t remember what he had for breakfast, let alone that there was an assaulted, bleeding doctor on the floor six feet behind him. John Doe was looking at me and I could all but hear his voice in my head, threatening me.

 

 _An eye for an eye_. Somehow brought back to life, the cop could leave by John Doe’s good graces; but Kevin stayed as a hostage. If I brought back John Cross, Kev would be free to go.

 

Seemed fair enough. I wasn’t about to argue with a pint-sized assassin. I nod, holding his gaze.

 

John Doe inclined his head, ushering the unsteady officer before him. He suggested to the cop, “Why don’t you escort the nice doctor on the remainder of her rounds?”

 

And, suggestible, the officer nodded, too.

 

John Doe glared at me as I left the room—I could feel his bright eyes burning through me like tiny green suns. I wondered whether Kev would be alive by the time I got back. It was hard to say. Maybe John Doe could cure Kev, too, and somehow engineer an escape.

 

With my stomach in knots, I march myself out of the room, cop in tow. In a flash, I was finishing my rounds; looking at mundane charts, not hearing a word patients said about their aches and pains, trying to piece together the last ten minutes of my life.

 

The officer was still with me—glued to my side. He was looking at my hand. He pointed, “You should get some ice for that.”

 

Sure enough, a bruise was blooming over my hand where John Doe had grabbed me.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Janice, one of the morning shift nurses, was in the break room eating a sandwich. Her eyes followed me as I went to the fridge and rooted around for an ice pack.

 

She knew something was off. Her head canted to the side, sandwich forgotten halfway to her mouth. She stared at me.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“I’m fine. John Doe grabbed my arm is all.”

 

Janice disengaged from her sandwich. “He’s awake? What the hell?!”

 

I waggle my eyebrows even though I’m facing the freezer and she can’t see my face. “I know, right?”

 

“And he had the where-with-all to grab you?”

 

“Yeah. His accent’s British, if you can believe it, so he’s probably a long way from home. I think he was mostly freaked out, waking up in a hospital, surrounded by strangers.” I say nothing about his perfect body. I certainly say nothing about his giant, perfect fucking penis. Because even though I saw it—salivated over it— _saying_ anything about it would be highly unprofessional.

 

“Yeah?” Janice’s eyes drift to the back of my hand, where there are three yellow spots forming in the shape of John Doe’s fingers. I pull my sleeve down to cover it.

 

I nod. “He’s just a kid. He’s scared, even if he won’t admit it.”

 

One of the interns, Nina, skids into the break room out of breath. “There’s some guy at reception. He’s asking about John Doe and John Cross.”

 

My mouth might be hanging open. “Why come to me? Where’s Merriton?”

 

Nina shrugs. “On the can.” She mimes drinking a bottle of booze, which Merriton is known to do in the privacy of his office.

 

“We’d better go,” Janice says. “Before the good seats are taken.”

 

I roll my eyes and follow her out the door.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

There’s a guy in full military fatigues at Reception. The first thing I notice is the dark camouflage fatigues, combat boots, and his perfect high-and-tight haircut. Then his neck flexes and I get an impression of how truly _built_ this guy is beneath his loose-fitting uniform. The way he moves is a statement; this guy is deadly with his bare hands. My breath catches in my throat.

 

I really need to get laid.

 

I cut ahead of Janice to get behind the desk, walking behind the long line of intake receptionists. They’re all eavesdropping, pretending to be on the phone or scribbling bullshit on their notepads. They’re listening in. This is probably the juiciest thing to happen during day shift in years.

 

“…two guys from my unit. They went on assignment and we lost contact. I’ve called every hospital and morgue in Ohio—and the woman on the phone said you’d found two John Does….”

 

He looks Vietnamese or Korean or something. Maybe it’s the racist in me, but I’m really bad at distinguishing between different types of Asian. The name on his uniform is Hitori, so maybe he’s Japanese.

 

Then he’s pulling out a photo and my heart just about stops. I’m blurting, “May I see that?” and yanking it out of his hands.

 

Sure enough, it’s John Doe and John Cross. They’re standing outside a tattoo parlor—somewhere disgustingly tropical like Venice Beach or Miami—showing off an arm-full of new tatts. Handsome John Doe wears nerdy, taped-together glasses and a plaid button-down with the sleeves rolled up. John Cross is a lanky sight beside him, half punk and half jock—System of a Down tshirt, piercings, basketball shorts and pristine Puma sneakers. They stood there in the sunlight, smiling, laughing, frozen in time. Maybe these are disguises; stereotypes and dissembling to hide their true identities. Or maybe this is really them, back before the horrors and the torture. But God they look happy. And young.

 

 _Too young to be military_ , I realize. At least in this picture. Because I can’t discount what I’ve seen—what little teenage John Doe did to that cop—how he wiggled his way out of handcuffs, ripped out his own IV and functionally killed a man, all while in enough pain to render anyone twice his size unconscious.

 

There’s more going on here than meets the eye, that’s for damn sure.

 

I hand the photo back.

 

“I think you’d better tell me what’s going on. Right now.”

 

The soldier flinches. “Ma’am, is there somewhere private we can talk?”

 

“You don’t need to call me _ma’am_. I’m a doctor,” I snip. “And FYI, one of your _boys_ practically murdered a police officer with his bare hands. He’s in a lot of trouble. You’d better come with me.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

It took twenty minutes for Hitori to summon his colleagues. They were the weirdest bunch of people I’d ever seen in one place.

 

There was a woman about my age with bubblegum pink hair, her accent as proper and English as John Doe’s. She looked sleep-deprived and was wearing patched-up men’s clothing. There was a very tall, very thin blonde woman who was pretty enough to be a super model. She wore a crisp black suit with a badge and a handgun clipped to her waist, and said nothing at all. Beside her was a grumpy-looking old man in a corduroy blazer complete with dark elbow patches that made him look like a professor. Even though he was old, fat and cranky, he seemed to be the one in charge of their rag-tag operation.

 

Then there were the brothers—two underwear-model-muscular guys who whispered between themselves in rapid Russian, faces all but identical and lined with worry. One brother had dark hair, his arm in a sling and bandaged as though recovering from second degree burns. The other Russian had sandy hair and was the grown-up, Papa Bear version of his brother—more muscles, more body hair, deeper voice, and a scaled-horse-like tattoo across his bicep that caught the light in a very peculiar way, the ink seeming to move as his muscles flexed. The optical illusion was freakish. My eyes flew to it even as the English-speaking members of their crew were talking to me.

 

“We can’t release either of them,” I insisted for the umpteenth time, cutting them all off. “The sheriff’s office is holding them for questioning. They have no I.D.’s. We don’t even know who they are.”

 

The old man and the woman with pink hair exchanged strange looks—hers nervous, his secretive. When the old man replied, he had a heavy Irish accent.

 

“Sorry, but we canna’ give tha’ information.” Again he waved his badge in my face. SOCOM, United States Special Operations Command. The badge looked official. The old man behind it did not. He looked like someone’s fat old grandpa who hadn’t slept the night for worry. He did have a gun though; black and shinny, holstered and ready at his hip. And that badge—it looked real enough.

 

I bit my lip. John Doe had Kevin as a hostage. That was the sort of thing a foreign operative would do in a hostile situation—gain leverage with which to negotiate. That had been John Doe’s move. It was time for my counter.

 

“I know one of them is a minor. Maybe,” I held up a hand. “Just _maybe_ , we could convince the sheriff to release him to a parent or guardian. _If_ you can produce one.”

 

“I’m ‘is, uh…” the Irishman paused to think. He actually had to stop and think about how he was related to John Doe. Seriously?

 

The woman with the pink hair touched the old man’s shoulder, stepping forward. “I’m a first cousin by marriage. How’s that?”

 

I don’t buy it. My eyes are narrowing. “Where are his parents?”

 

“Dead.” The old man is gruff. His accent is hard to understand, especially when he’s speaking so fast. “Since ‘e was a ween. Yeh gonna give ‘im to us ‘er not?”

 

I can’t help but notice everyone has been careful to name no names. Even John Doe-Eyes was hesitant to name his partner—and even that moniker, Saiya, sounded like a code name.

 

I shake my head. “I don’t think he’ll be released anytime soon. He’s in very serious condit—”

 

 _BAAANG._ The blunt sound ripped down the hall.

 

I screamed. Like a girl. And I wasn’t the only one. Several of the nurses were panicking, ducking to hide behind their stations. Doctors and orderlies slid into the nearest room and proceeded to cower.

 

“Oh my God!” someone shouted.

 

Another, “That sounded like gunfire!”

 

The old man and his mismatched crew were already running—not away from the sound, but towards it, drawing guns of their own out of nowhere. Maybe they were soldiers after all.

 

It was only when I started chasing after them that I noticed: while we’d been arguing, the Russian brothers had slipped away. Had the distraction been planned?

 

The supermodel and the pink-haired woman reached ICU first, slamming through the barricade of police officers, flashing badges, shouting orders and restraining any officer who lunged at the old Irishman.

 

I skidded to a stop, Keds losing grip on the linoleum.

 

They’d found John Cross’ room. Irish Grandpa had the officer guarding the door down on his knees, gun on the floor, arm broken. I followed the wounded officer’s line of sight.

 

The bigger of the two Russians was collapsed against John Cross’ bed. He’d been shot in the shoulder. Blood bloomed like a wet red rose against his white tshirt. He was half-folded over John Cross’s bed, slipping down to his knees over-side of the bed, holding tight to the sheets. And he and John Cross were staring at each other—the way people do in the movies when they see their child for the first time, or their spouse comes home from war. My brain started playing orchestral violin music.

 

John Cross was awake! It took me a second to realize. He was reaching out, long fingers digging into the Russian guy’s upper arm, preventing him from crumpling to the ground. They were clutching each other, staring like they’d die if they blinked… either completely oblivious to the scuffling and wrestling taking place in the doorway, or thinking it beneath their notice as they stared one another down.

 

John Cross’ lips moved. It took him a second to find his voice. “ _Srce moje… puţoi…_ ”

 

So he was Russian, too.

 

His friend, shot in the shoulder, finally slipped onto the floor. John Cross went with him; fell directly on top of him with a mutual grunt, his free hand moving to cover the wound, giving pressure. His IV line strained, several EKG pads unsticking themselves from his narrow tattooed chest. The machine went crazy.

 

John Cross skillfully pressed the bullet wound, stemming the bleeding. And his friend hissed in pain, screwing his eyes shut.

 

“ _Glup čovek_ ,” John Cross whispered. Then the clamor around him seemed to reach his ears and he glanced back over his shoulder. 

 

I saw his eyes and nearly screamed again. If John Doe’s eyes were sweet, then John Cross’ gaze was a threat unveiled—glacier blue and penetrating, scalpel sharp, angry. He glared at me, glared at the cops, glared at his group of rag-tag visitors like _what the fuck took you so long?_ Frustration rolled off him in almost visible waves, like steam rising off his body, rippling in the air.

 

The hallway is filling up with cops and weird foreign people screaming over each other to be heard. Badges are waved. Guns are unholstered. They were all shoving and posturing and screaming, holding each other back. I slipped under their arms and through the doorway.

 

You treat the patient in front of you. Doesn’t matter if he was trying to rob you at gunpoint five seconds ago and accidently shot himself in the leg instead. When someone is injured and needs medical assistance, you intervene. That’s part of what I believe, and I act on it.

 

I took a knee beside Saiya and his bleeding friend. “My name’s Cassie,” I told them. “I’m a doctor. I’m here to help you.”

 

The underwear model with a hole in his shoulder laughed softly at me. Slowly, Saiya removed his hand. Beneath the blood and the hole in his tshirt was nothing but tan, muscular flash. No bullet hole. Jesus! Russian fucking Jesus!

 

Neither of them seem perturbed. Meanwhile I’m quietly losing my grip on reality.

 

“Uh… Saiya?” I nearly called him _messiah_ , but whatever.

 

Frightening blue eyes glance up at me. He nods. “ _Nebojsa,_ _da_.”

 

My throat is dry. I have to swallow twice before I can talk. “If you’re, um, feeling up to it… your friend is awake and would very much like to see you.”

 

John Cross—Nebojsa the Russian—raised an eyebrow, like he knew there was more I wasn’t telling him. He could read me like a book. Mind-Reading Russian Jesus.

 

I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my lab coat, looking at my knees, mumbling from the side of my mouth. “He’s… holding another doctor hostage, actually. So I’d really appreciate it if you could visit your friend. I can get you a wheelchair or—”

 

“ _Niet_ ,” he replied, unfolding his legs and standing. He really shouldn’t have been able to do that, let alone as fluidly, as gracefully as he did. Upright, he was very obviously six foot two. His hospital gown was a smaller size to fit his narrow waist, and as such fit him more like a mini-dress, landing half way down his pale thighs. He flexed his bare feet against the linoleum.

 

Like John Doe, Nebojsa was swift and exact when it came to ripping his IV and tape off of his arm, pressing the pad of his thumb as he withdrew the needle, then wiping the bloom of blood. Like John Doe, Nebojsa didn’t react to the sight of his own blood.

 

He held his bloody finger out to his no-longer-shot-in-the-shoulder-Lazarus friend, who immediately and reflexively licked it, before Nebojsa pressed the wet digit to the crook of his arm, bending his elbow to further stop the bleeding. He did it all so casually—like he was used to bleeding, used to offering his blood to his friend like some kind of vampire.

 

It took me a second to realize what the instinctive licking-of-the-finger was about: they were gay, a couple, and therefore accustomed to licking and sucking on fingers before they were… inserted.

 

And all of the blood in my body rushed to my face.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Nebojsa the Russian set eyes on John Doe and promptly hissed. The same snake-like sound John Doe had made when he woke up.

 

He reached out a lanky arm, pulling John Doe to his chest—cradling the younger man’s head against him, stroking thin fingers through his blood-slicked  hair. Nebojsa kissed the top of his head like a brother, cradling the back of John Doe’s head, refusing to let him go now that they’d been reunited. They looked like two people who had been through hell and back.

 

With his head against Nebojsa’s chest, John Doe peered over at me. He caught my eyes and shrugged. “Take your boy,” he told me, meaning Kev.

 

 

 

 

 

It took two people supporting Kevin to get him out of the room. John Doe-Eyes just stood there, one bloody hand holding his gown shut, presiding over it all like a judge in a court room. He was used to being in a position of power, used to watching his orders executed in front of his eerie green eyes. It shows in the plain, unaffected lines of his face. He’s almost nodding as they drag Kev out the door, like he’s got what he wanted and this is a fair trade.

 

Beside him, Nebojsa said something in Russian and John Doe nodded. The taller man slipped out of the room, his bare feet padding almost silently on the linoleum. He was probably going back to check on his hot boyfriend and the mob of screaming people with guns and badges. I know that’s where I’d be.

 

I stay. John Doe’s big green eyes flicker up to me, calm, an air of _what the fuck do you want?_ passing over his features. He still has blood in his hair.

 

I’m vibrating thanks to an ear-ringing mental cocktail of adrenaline and exhaustion: meanwhile this seems absurdly normal to him. His vague detachment makes it easier for me to keep my own trembling shit together. Maybe he’s panicking on the inside but has learned to hide every outward expression of uncertainty—to make himself a better leader… or a better spy… or whatever he is.

 

I open my arm, silently asking if he won’t sit down. Of course he won’t. He’s a soldier, a military man; he’ll only take a chair if he’s literally dying, and even then he’ll look put out about it. So I park myself on the side of his empty bed, gathering my words.

 

“I need to tell you something… about your health,” I manage. “Please just… maybe try to contain your reaction… a little bit?” My eyes flash to the puddle of Kev’s blood still on the floor, inches from John Doe’s feet.

 

He exhales slowly. “Fine. What’s up?”

 

He sounds so bland saying that, so mundane. He sounds like a normal teenage guy. It’s hard to imagine he’s a killer when he talks normal like that. But I’ve seen him do it… I’ve seen him bring people back from the very precipice of death, too. He’s some kind of magical miracle-worker freak. Not to mention he’s inhumanly attractive. It’s hard to look at him and make words at the same time. I’m so distracted by my lady-boner for him that it’s hard to make my brain function.

 

I have a new-found sympathy for guys when they talk to supermodel-hot girls; this is really fucking difficult.

 

I swallow. “You, er, well… you have Chlamydia.” I reach into my pocket, slowly so he can see, and pull out two prescription bottles, placing them between us on the bed. “It came back on your blood work. Chlamydia doesn’t necessarily present any symptoms for men, but it can be dangerous if you don’t treat it. You and your girlfriend both need to take one of these pills twice a day for a week to clear it up. Okay?”

 

He’s looking between my face and the prescription bottles. I can’t read his expression because he’s back to being more machine than human.

 

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says slowly, eyes narrowed.

 

“Oh. I’m sorry. I just thought… with the ring and everything—”

 

“I’m married,” he corrects.

 

“Oh,” I’m stammering, repeating myself. “Oh God. Well, um, then your wife needs to take these. Untreated Chlamydia can cause fertility issues down the road.”

 

It’s hard to imagine there’s some lucky bitch out there, getting this guy’s dick every night.  I can’t help but wonder where she is, and why she wasn’t ripping the hospital walls down to get her man back. Maybe she doesn’t know he’s missing. That’s the only explanation, because this guy is like… the most precious, rarest substance in the world. And you don’t let go of him without a fucking fight. He’s too special.

 

I can tell John Doe is weighing his words. He’s silently surveying me as a human being, too; I can physically feel his eyes rake over me as he decides whether or not to trust me. It takes him a couple seconds before he says, brows furrowed, “I married a bloke.”

 

Can’t. Make. Words. My brain is utterly consumed by images of that glorious schlong of his up another guy’s rectum. That lucky bastard. I force a sound through my open mouth, something like “uuungh” because my jaw is on the God damned floor.

 

John Doe is looking less than impressed with my verbal skills. “Does that make a difference?”

 

I slurp. “N-nope. Just… both of you take the meds so you’re not snowballing the infection back-and-forth.”

 

 _Snowball_. I couldn’t have picked a better phrase? Because now I’m picturing….

 

And I think he’s picturing it too, because he’s looking up and to the side, kind of contemplative, with half a cheeky grin on his face.

 

“Question,” he says. It’s not a question, more of a statement; yeah, because he’s the fucking boss where he comes from, and everybody accepts that as gospel.

 

“Sure.”

 

“What exactly are those?” He points to the pill bottles on the bed.

 

“Doxycycline. An antibiotic. It’s used to treat lots of different types of infections.”

 

John Doe chews his lip. He’s hesitant with his words. He still doesn’t want to trust me, but a part of him seems to understand that his husband’s health is at risk as much as his own, and that fact tips him over the edge.

 

“My husband… he’s sort of in hiding. He doesn’t have ready access to a doctor—or, at least, nothing beyond basic medical treatment. There’s no way that he could have a bad reaction from taking these?”

 

“Oh, no. Some people have an upset stomach, but that’s it.” I make a pacifying gesture with both hands, pointing toward the antibiotics. “Try not to drink alcohol and avoid prolonged sun exposure if you can. And definitely use condoms until the antibiotics have run their course.”

 

He’s nodding, absorbing the information I’ve given him and storing it somewhere in his head like a computer writing to a hard drive. I can tell he won’t forget. He didn’t care when I told him he was sick, but as soon as he realized it could effect his spouse he went hyper-alert, absolutely vigilant. He may be young, but he’s a good husband. He cares down to his bones.

 

“So… the doctor I laid out.” He blinks, not looking the least bit sorry for assaulting Kevin. “And the constable.” He doesn’t look sorry for that murder-and-resurrection, either. “They’ll be alright?”

 

I nodded. “Yeah. Thankfully we’re in a hospital.”

 

John Doe snorts at my sarcasm.

 

I’ve gotta ask. I mean… he’s Jesus! And he’s what, sixteen? “How did you—”

 

“No.” He cut me off. And yeah, he rolled his eyes at me, knowing what I was gonna ask. Mind-Reading British Jesus.

 

“But…” I point to where the cop died on the damn linoleum. My finger is not exactly steady.

 

“Nope,” John Doe-Eyes told me, not unkindly. His face wasn’t hard. I could see the depths of him, some genuine wish to just be honest about his whole damn life, to spill his guts. And then I realized that look wasn’t intended for me. He missed his husband. That was the person he wanted to go home to, to purge his soul to. He was thinking of that lucky bastard who put a ring on his finger, and the story he’d have to tell when he finally made it home.

 

Irish Grandpa could be heard shouting at the top of his lungs. Cops were screaming back but they just couldn’t beat him for lung capacity.

 

“Your grandpa?”

 

John Doe-Eyes shrugged. “Fourth cousin once removed by marriage.” I said _yikes_ with only my eyebrows. “He’s my boss.”

 

That surprised me. I didn’t think deities had bosses.

 

“I should get back.” I stood. “I’ll see if I can get you visitors, if you want ‘em.”

 

Jesus bit his lip, considering. “Nah. Let the old man cool off a mo’. I need a shower.” He jerked his chin at the en suite bathroom. “And a drink.” Green eyes rolled.

 

Did he know about the bottle in Merriton’s desk? How far did his magical powers extend?

 

“Um,” I paused on my way to the door, looking back at him. The sunlight frames him through the blinds, blurring the edges of his gown and making soft waves of his hair. I realize all over again how handsome he is, how distinct and masculine and rooted, solid, how fucking unshakeable he is. “If you don’t mind… what’s your husband’s name?”

 

John Doe shows me his left forearm. He’s cleaned some of the blood off and I can read the tattoo now. Swirling black ink as dark as his hair spells out the Latin word for ‘dragon.’

 

“Draco,” he admits, grinning helplessly. “Weird name, I know. He’s French.”

 

“That’s really sweet,” I say, meaning his ink, and the conviction behind it. It takes a lot of faith to tattoo another person’s name down your arm like that; you have to believe that you’ll be together forever. I wish I could be half so sure about anything in my own life as he seems to be about Draco. Just saying his husband’s name gives him a strength I’ve never seen before… something ethereal, intangible, greater than this world.

 

He shrugs, running a hand absently over his ink, mumbling, “I always have him with me.”

 

\- - -

 

 

They gathered around Arturo Moreno’s orange McLaren in the hospital’s car park—black circles under their eyes and cups of coffee to-hand—well beyond earshot of any muggles.

 

“This has become an extraction,” barked Leon Harper. “We need to get Potter an’ Radic out of there, hot an’ fast.”

 

“Before the muggles manage to kill them with their medicine,” muttered Nymphadora Tonks.

 

It was too close to the full moon, otherwise Remus would have been right there at her side. She’d promised to Apparate back every few hours to keep him up to date. He’d sagged with relief when she told him they’d found Harry alive and in one piece; she had yet to tell him there was a chunk missing out of the Chosen One’s leg—details. And more easily fixed once they could get him into the hands of a practiced magical Healer. She hoped the muggles hadn’t done too much damage. There’s nothing worse for a wizard than muggles and their inconsiderate medical practices. Cutting off bits of wizard’s legs without their consent….

 

No one told Draco Potter. As far as he knew, Harry had never been missing in the first place; only out running a mission as per his usual. There was no need to agitate the recalcitrant spouse, especially now that they’d found Harry and were about to return him to loving, acerbic arms. What Draco didn’t know about couldn’t make him sick with worry. They’d all done enough panicking of their own, waiting for Harry to walk out of that Death Eater lair. He certainly had a knack for defying the odds, especially when they were stacked against him. Tonks hadn’t been the only one worried that Harry Potter might not walk out of this stunt alive.

 

 _Out of the frying pan and into the fire_ , as the muggles said. Harry’s entire life seemed like one dire scrape devolving into another. Now it was their task to get him out of this damn muggle hospital, and off to his next unscheduled misadventure.

 

“I can get a time-stop team,” Arturo offered. “We’ll cover the entire building if we have to.”

 

“And Obliviators,” added Hitori. “At least ten, maybe more.” He gestured towards the squat hospital building on the far side of the car park. “That’s a lot of memories to wipe in a short amount of time. Our team can’t manage it alone.”

 

Leon growled his agreement. “Call in every bloody favor we ‘got, lads. This happens within the hour.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

“You look like shit,” Kev mumbled. I look at his drip: Merriton gave him the good drugs.

 

I raise my eyebrows at him. “And you don’t?”

 

He digs around in his pocket, tossing me his keys. “Go sleep in my car,” he offers. “Since I’m bolted down here. It’s sunny out, so the car’s warm.”

 

 _And quiet._ That’s the important, unspoken part. Sometimes we sleep in the parking lot; it lets you get away for a couple hours of peace where nobody can find you and poke you awake for asinine shit. The backseat of a minivan is about as comfortable as the sofas in the break room, but without all the hospital noise. Sleeping in your car, you can at least hear the birds chirping and the cars rolling by. It’s peaceful. I need that to counter my oncoming psychological break after the fucked up shit I’ve seen.

 

“Thanks,” I smile at him, wiggling his keys in my hand. “You get some rest, too.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

The alarm built into my watch goes off at five minutes to four in the afternoon. A glorious three and and a half hours of sleep for me. I had just enough time to chug a flat bottle of Mountain Dew and race back inside before my shift started.

 

I see Kev on the ER floor, flipping through somebody’s chart. The first thought through my head is that I’ve slept through an entire day; because he’s back to work without a bandage in sight. John Doe busted his jaw up real bad.

 

I check my watch. Still Wednesday. What the fuck?

 

Kev sees me and walks over, chart in hand.

 

“You look like shit, Cass.”

 

My eyes narrow. “How’d your jaw heal so fast?”

 

“What’s wrong with my face? Did I cut myself shaving, or…?”

 

I’m blinking so fast it hurts. “John Doe punched you. Don’t you remember?”

 

“What John Doe?” Kev leans close, hissing, “Bitch, are you drunk?”

 

I shove him, hard, making for John Doe’s room. Except there’s no armada of cops standing guard, no nervous Sheriff wringing his hands at the coffee station, no weird British people lurking about… no sexy little body in the bed. It’s empty. The whole room is empty; no chart, no blood on the floor… like he was never there.

 

I whirl around. “Where is he?!”

 

“Who?”

 

“John Doe!” I point into the empty room. People are staring. “He was right there. He killed a cop and brought him back to life! They were trying to take him away—”

 

Kev takes my shoulder, steering me off towards the lobby at a steady clip. “Cass… I think you need to take a day. Go home. Get some actual sleep. ‘Cause _gurl_ , you’re seein’ shit.”

 

 

I stop at reception.

 

“Were there people from SOCOM?” I ask.

 

Deb and Katie look at me funny. “From where?”

 

“SOCOM. Special Ops. Military. There was this muscle guy….”

 

Katie shakes her head. “Nope. But if you see him, be sure to give him my number.”

 

Horovitz and the lab tech walk by. I stop them.

 

“Um, could I see those test results for our John Does?”

 

The lab tech gives me a blank stare. Horovitz looks pissed that I’m talking to her underling instead of her.

 

Deb shoots me a look from behind the desk. “We don’t have any John Does, Cass. Leave the poor lab guy alone.”

 

Then Kev is behind me. He pulls his keys from my pocket and shoves me out the door. _Swoosh_ go the automatic doors.  Kev has my arm in a vice grip, hauling me down off the curb. “You’re blitzed. I’m taking you home. Now.”

 

I’m protesting all the way through the parking lot. He muscles me into the backseat of his minivan.

 

“Not another word, Cass.” His eyes are piercing even reflected in the rear view mirror. “Let’s just hope Merriton doesn’t find out; he’ll fire your ass in a second.”

 

“I’m not high,” I tell him sternly. “And I’m not drunk. Fuck! I don’t know what’s going on here but—”

 

“Drop it,” he snips, starting the car. “I’m taking you home and putting you to bed, and that’s all there is to it.”

 

 

 

 

 

And I’m fucking seeing shit because, when Kev pulls over at the Sunoco for gas, who do I see looking at me from the back seat of an SUV, but John Fucking Doe-Eyes, healthy as a horse and nursing a Gatorade.

 

He waved at me. And I think that’s when I passed out.


	65. Caught Beneath The Landslide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco finds that unwinding after his whirlwind holiday is closer to a state of unraveling. Strange and unusual happenings at Hogwarts do little to punctuate his life, now a constant state of worry—fixated on himself and Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** language, plot, snark, voyeurism, recreational drug use  
>  **DISCLAIMER:** Lyrics of the title taken from “Champagne Supernova,” by the Brit rock band Oasis. Written by Noel Gallagher and released under Creation Records, May of 1996.  
>  The piece of music mentioned in Flitwick's classroom is “Memento” from muggle composer (though I suspect he is secretly a wizard) Arvo Pärt.

 

 Hermione chewed the inside of her lip.

 

This had to be rather serious, to warrant prefects from each house as well as the Head Boy and Girl in attendance. She tried not to allow her unease to show. Malfoy stood to her right, picking dirt from under his nails. Fresh from Quidditch practice, he stood aside from the rest of the prefects, his hair and skin still vaguely damp from the showers. The team was training hard for their next match, the highly anticipated Gryffindor versus Slytherin, coming up at the end of February—only a few short weeks away.

 

She could smell Quidditch leather and the expensive Italian talcum powder the blond captain used. It reminded her of Cormac Mclaggen, who used to bathe in cologne. She was happy to have Ron at her other side, running a hand absently over the length of his wood and metal wand. Ron seemed to have foregone his shower, ginger hair still sweaty and plastered to the back of his neck. At least he smelled better than the failed potions experiment of some third year, still smoking off in a corner of the dungeon laboratory—the cauldron too volatile to be disposed of just yet.

 

Seeing that they were all assembled, Professor Slughorn gave them the news.

 

“It would appear we have a thief in our midst,” the Potions Master began, folding his hands under his generous belly. “It has come to my attention that several ingredients are now chronically missing from our potions supply,” he gestured to the cupboard which all students had access to during class hours, “as well as a few items from my own personal store. At first I felt absent-minded, re-ordering Antimony and then Broomslang skin....”

 

Malfoy's lips twitched, looking as though he desperately wanted to make some snarky comment about Slughorn's addled old brains. He suppressed himself with a little thin-lipped smirk.

 

Slughorn shook his balding head, continuing. “But the quantities gone missing are worrisome. We've also had to restock school supplies of Sal Ammoniac and knotgrass at an alarming rate. Now who can tell me what potions can be derived from those four ingredients?”

 

Hermione's hand shot into the air before she could help herself.

 

“Nightbane,” Malfoy blurted beside her. Hermione started, her head swiveling to look at the pureblood.

 

That he even knew such a potion existed hinted at the type of education he'd received outside Hogwarts' walls. Hermione herself had only read about it once, in _Moste Potente Potions,_ on the page directly following the Polyjuice Potion. Nightbane was a terribly dangerous bit of magic, causing blindness to its drinker followed by periods of unconsciousness and, if left untreated, insanity—not to mention Nightbane was considered highly illegal under almost all Magical Law. Then again, Polyjuice Potion wasn't completely innocent, either.

 

It worried her. Deeply.

 

Hermione lowered her hand, adding, “Or Polyjuice, sir.”

 

Slughorn nodded. “Five points each to Gryffindor.”

 

Ron jostled Hermione's shoulder with his own, offering her a half smile. She rolled her eyes a little, too concerned by the situation to grin back. It had been a long time since any of them had bothered celebrating house points. Funny how the things she cared about had shifted in the last six months.

 

“Now I've updated the Security Spells to my storage,” the Potions Master advised. “But more must be done.”

 

Hermione nodded along with several other prefects. “I think we should scout the castle to see if we can't catch anyone brewing potions where they shouldn't be.”

 

“And search the dormitories for stocks of the rarer ingredients,” added Anthony Goldstein. “Considering Antimony is rather expensive. There aren't many students who would be keeping it in their trunks on a whim.”

 

“Spiffing,” Malfoy clapped his hands together, rubbing them against the dungeon's cold. The blond looked tired. “Shall we split into teams, then?”

 

“We ought to search one another's houses, out of fairness,” suggested Luna.

 

Malfoy readily agreed. “Of course. Granger, would you and Weasley care to take Ravenclaw? That portress and I have a bit of a history....” Luna covered her mouth with her hand, laughing. Michael Corner and Anthony Goldstein didn't seem to find it as funny.

 

“I'll go with you, then,” Luna smiled, reaching out and taking Malfoy's arm. “Hufflepuff or Slytherin?”

 

It didn't take them long to divide up into smaller groups—one male-female pair to search each house’s dormitories and the rest to scour the castle's unused classrooms, secret passageways, nooks, crannies, broom cupboards and loos, looking for evidence of potion brewing. Gathered around Professor Slughorn's desk and working together, the prefects compiled a sizable list of seldom-visited places and drew up a search plan, making sure they scoured the castle from top to bottom.

 

Hermione caught Malfoy and Luna on their way out.

 

“Um, Malfoy...” she glanced about, making sure no one was paying them any mind. She pitched her voice low. “You wouldn't happen to have Harry's map, would you? It would be a big help.”

 

Malfoy's pink mouth canted in a frown. “Unfortunately not. It's with Harry.”

 

“Does that mean he's coming back soon?” Luna asked hopefully.

 

Malfoy shook his head, patting Luna's hand atop his Dark Marked forearm. “I doubt it. You know how his schedule is.”

 

“So what does he need the map for? If he's not here.” Ron had snuck up on them from behind. He rested a hand on Hermione's shoulder, leaning close to keep their conversation hushed.

 

Malfoy snorted. “Would you believe he gets a kick out of watching us?”

 

It was Hermione's turn to laugh. “More like spying on _you_ ,” she corrected with a wink.

 

Malfoy laughed, too—a short, almost barking sound. It reminded her of Sirius, the way the departed man would burst out with that hard clip of his, holding his ribs as he chuckled. Draco and Sirius were family, after all. The association made sense. She'd simply never seen it before. But, especially around the eyes.... For the first time, Hermione suspected she saw some of what Harry fancied in Malfoy. He would never be her type of man, but at last she saw less of a conceited monster and more of the human being hiding behind his cold silver eyes.

 

Standing there with Luna Lovegood on his arm, being polite bordering on charming, Hermione could bring herself around to liking him. Just a little. Because he made Harry happy and—for better or worse—he made her life more interesting, too.

 

With parting waves, the two blondes left to search Slytherin house. She would be hard pressed to find a stranger or more unlikely pair of friends. Yet Draco and Luna got on swimmingly these days, arm in arm, smiling and laughing softly at any of their myriad of inside jokes.

 

Hermione didn't envy them one bit. They were breaching Slytherin Commons tonight—and all the luck in the castle to them.

 

But if there were ever a pair of prefects to descend into that dungeon lair, Draco Potter née Malfoy and the orphaned Luna Lovegood were just the right set. Malfoy was Head Boy, of course—they couldn't refuse him. He was a Dark wizard capable of holding his own if things got hairy. And Luna, with all her bright unusualness, would likely enjoy the experience. Where countless others would have cringed, Malfoy and Luna set out arm and arm, looking like a proper gentleman and demure lady out for a Hyde Park stroll—that was, of course, if you ignored the wands drawn, Dark Mark and swaying radish earrings.

 

Hermione shrugged. Draco and Luna had gotten closer after Mr. Lovegood's passing. Luna was an orphan now, like Harry... like many students would be before this battle was over, it seemed. It appeared Malfoy was the one Luna was most comfortable with—probably because he helped her forget, distracting as he was with his antics, his loud opinions and near-constant complaining. Luna tempered him somehow. They were a good pair of mates, those two. Hermione would never have thought.

 

Ron gave her reason to giggle, offering his elbow in an exaggerated fashion, imitating Malfoy's formal manners with a goofy grin on his face. She took Ron's arm and they made for the door, Prefects exiting after them in a mimicking _petite_ promenade.

 

 

 

 

 

Searching the castle turned up nothing of import—a few secret caches of dungbombs and several snogging inter-house couples, but nothing which assuaged any of their concerns over this “dangerous potion ingredients” business. Michael Corner was attacked by some rabid doxies nesting in an abandoned classroom near the Astronomy Tower. Michael had to be taken to Madam Pomphrey, Peeves serenading the young man all the way there in his usual rude fashion.

 

Michael's plight became the end of the search for the evening. Gathered around his hospital bed as the school nurse healed angry red bites from the Ravenclaw's swollen face, the Prefects vowed to keep vigilant. Success would not be immediate. It was agreed that whoever was doing this had to be skilled and devious, having kept their actions under the radar for so long. Bi-weekly dormitory checks were arranged and the Prefects disbanded for the evening. Hermione wasn't surprised when Luna went with Draco back to his room, deep in conversation about some Greek scrying theory he was researching for an Ancient Runes paper. Hermione bid them goodnight at the door to her own chambers, collapsing into bed with her shoes and cloak still on.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

It was quite a surprise when Viktor Krum appeared outside Gryffindor Common Room, carrying a pristine Firebolt and looking for Draco Malfoy. The Bulgarian's unexpected presence created no small amount of buzz around the castle. The legendary Seeker met Draco with a broad, hook-nosed grin and wasn't shy in asking almost immediately for a reprise of their last Seekers' game. Draco could hardly refuse. In all truth, he needed the practice before his upcoming match against Slytherin.

 

They wasted the afternoon away on the Quidditch pitch, snow swirling around them at times, kicked up by their swoops, dives and aggressive antics. Two members of the Order of the Phoenix, neither one of them recognizable to Draco, stood guard at the entrance to the stands, turning away those who had come to gawk.

 

On their way back to the castle—sweaty, winded and pleasantly exhausted—Draco inquired after Viktor's recent pursuits in America. He wasn't surprised to hear that his Bulgarian mate was enjoying his collaborations with Arty Lachlan of the Stonewall Stormers, not to mention his coordination of the Order of the Phoenix and various other resistance groups stationing themselves at the Manitoba Quidditchers sanctuary. Viktor reported seeing Harry there a few times, helping with the training of guards and ward construction.

 

“Ee's been very good to us,” Viktor said of Harry as they strolled. “And vot of zhe two of you? How have you been?”

 

Draco bit his lip, considering how to answer. His pace slowed to a crawl. Sensing the smaller wizard's hesitation, Viktor shot him a sideways look, concerned.

 

“It's nothin' bad,” Draco reassured him. “Jus'... well, I don't think Harry would mind my telling you. We haven't gone public with the news for various reasons, as you can imagine, but.... Harry and I got married. At Christmas.”

 

Viktor slapped him on the shoulder, a smile bursting across his hard features. “Congratulations!” he offered, nearly beating on Draco's shoulder in his excitement. “Vhere are you registered?”

 

Draco laughed—no one had asked before now, strangely. Theirs had been an unusual marriage, unorthodox from the very start. “Um, we're not.”

 

Viktor persisted. “But is zhere somezing I can get you?”

           

“A nice burial plot? Maybe a headstone?” said Draco, miserable.

           

Viktor cocked an eyebrow, stopping to consider Draco fully in the waning light. The setting sun threw shadows across his face, the largest of which created by his substantial nose, throwing all of one cheek into darkness.

 

“You... you don't zhink he vill survive zhis var?”

 

Draco's hands moved, listless at his sides. He heaved a sigh. “I don't know, that's the thing. The most rational part of me is screaming that we could both die at any moment, things being the way they are—him... doing what he is and me squatting here in the open with a target the size of Greenland Spello-taped to my arse.” Viktor winced in sympathy. “But the rest of me wants to believe in him, believe the hype, believe he's The Chosen Boy instead a' just, you know... my Harry.” Harry the bumbling virgin who had to be steaming mad or drunk out of his mind to kiss another bloke at first. Harry who could stop his heart with a single look, whether loving or “come hither.” Harry, who bore the weight of the world on his handsome, weary shoulders.

 

Viktor's jaw worked for words. He looked like he sorely wanted to offer Draco a hug. “I vouldn't be able to handle it,” he sympathized after a moment, giving in to emotion and slipping a comforting arm around Draco's shoulders.

 

Draco leaned against his friend, thankful for another young adult male, another pureblood, to hash this out with. He spoke to their Quidditch boots in the snow.

 

“I'm not sure I'm handling... anything, honestly. I try not to think about it. Sometimes he sneaks into the castle to see me an' he's bruised or cut up. I can heal him but tha's not the point. Since the fall, his hands smell like... some kind of acid. There's black powder under his fingernails. There are new scars, wounds he doesn't want me to know about. He thinks I don't see. I don't have a fucking clue where he is half the time. I have no idea what's going on. It's frightening and I hate it!” Draco's hand came up to cover his mouth. He'd never spoken like this to anyone—not even Harry since coming to Hogwarts. He wanted to be strong now, for the castle… and for Harry. But the words kept pouring out of him, unbidden. He couldn't help it. Once he began there was no stemming the tide. Small, frightened words slipped out between his fingers. “I hate not knowing. Sometimes I wish he was just a regular wizard... but then I hate myself because he wouldn't be _Harry_. This stupid savior-of-the-world fucking bollocks is in his blood, I guess. I can't fight who he is.”

 

Viktor's arms closed around him then, pulling him into that hug he so desperately wouldn't admit he needed. Draco linked his wrists at the smalls of Viktor's back, struggling to get his breath. He was either about to cry or on the verge of a panic attack—either was nothing short of mortifying. Viktor's warm hands stroked his back, tepid breath sneaking down the collar of his winter Quidditch uniform. Draco could feel the metal clips of Viktor's bracers as they made slow paths along his spine, moving soothingly until he could at last draw a full breath.

 

“'S alright, _p_ _riiatelyu_ ,” Viktor told him.

 

“Nothing is alright,” Draco muttered against the famous Seeker's chest. He buried his face. “How could anything _possibly_ be alright? I'm disowned. I'm in bloody Gryffindor. I'm married to Harry fucking Potter.” He was whinging and he knew it. By now he couldn't help himself. “I'm seventeen and married off like a sodding girl! And this time next year I'll be a widower—at best. I could be dead! Tortured and ripped apart and dead and... an’ Harry….”

 

Viktor stroked the back of his head. “You can't zhink about zhat,” the Seeker cautioned. “It vill be alright. You have to believe zhat, or you have nozhing.”

 

“I...” Draco stuttered, inelegant. “I have to stop myself from thinking about it. That's the only solution.” He pulled back, looking up at Viktor's face. There was so much concern there. He was looking down at poor Draco Potter as though the former pureblood heir had finally gone off the deep end. The Janus Thickey Ward was an owl away.

 

“I'll manage,” Draco told him in a false-cheery voice. “I have to. Not much else I _can_ do. Coursework, give head, and wait.”

 

Viktor snorted. The mirth didn't quite reach his eyes. “Harry iz a very lucky man.”

 

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

February was a mind-numbing circle of Quidditch practice, classes, and Prefects rounds. The month slipped through his fingers.

 

Valentine's day passed without incident. There were hardly enough students for the customary singing missives, candy distribution and other holiday-related nonsense to cause any noticeable blockades in the castle's corridors. Even Peeves the Poltergeist minded his manners, only throwing confetti at students as they exited the Great Hall after meals. Someone had charmed the glitter for him—it only stuck to unpartnered individuals. You knew someone was single when they arrived to class frantically brushing sparkly red and pink bits from the shoulders of their robes.

 

Draco was pleased to note that any nauseating antics—those overly romantic in nature—were kept to a minimum. He especially enjoyed when buxom Ravenclaw Galina Vïtols, a transfer from the defunct Durmstrang Institute, stood up in the middle of the Great Hall at lunch time and declared her affection for fellow Ravenclaw Mandy Brocklehurst. Draco found himself joining in the applause as the brunettes engaged in an enthusiastic snog. First to congratulate the sapphic couple was Galina's brother, Czeslaw, first string Beater for Slytherin. The Beater was big enough to scare off anyone with something unpleasant to say about his sister's relationship. Still, Draco stationed his prefects closer to Ravenclaw that evening, just in case anything happened while Czeslaw wasn't there to protect his pretty sister and her new girlfriend.

 

Harry stumbled in that night—slightly past midnight but he made it, crawling into bed to envelop Draco in his heavy arms. He'd even brought flowers. Real ones. Draco kept them on the window sill, casting a Stasis Charm so he might look at them long after they should have withered away.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Draco woke to an odd dip in the bed. Half asleep, he recognized the warmth of another human body and rolled toward it, finding Harry sitting very still at the edge of the mattress. Draco curled his body—and his morning stiffy—around Harry’s warm bare back, trying weakly to pull him back into bed.

 

“Shit! Careful, luv.” He heard the wince in Wonder Husband’s voice and reluctantly opened his eyes.

 

Draco nearly jumped out of bed—out of his own skin. Harry was in his shorts, his left thigh heavily bandaged in white gauze, into which he was shooting a muggle needle. The thing had to be two or three inches long. Draco scrambled back until he made contact with the headboard. Pillows flew off the sides of the bed, blankets kicked aside.

 

“Wha’ the fuck is _that_?”

 

Harry made his “just a mo” face—a tight, fake smile that pressed his lips thin, straining his neck. He slowly pushed the plunger on the syringe attached to his needle, shooting drugs into the wound on his leg.

 

“Sorry,” he said, pulling the needle out and banishing it when he was done. “Been doing it while you’re asleep. Didn’t want to scare you.”

 

Draco’s arms folded across his chest. “Doing what, you deceitful pillock?”

 

Taking a deep breath, Harry started to unwind the gauze concealing his wound. Draco shuddered. Fresh skin had recently begun to grow over what was a gaping wound in Harry’s thigh—a significant chunk missing, the equivalent of half a large-grapefruit-worth of muscle and sinew ripped from Harry’s body, apparently by the jaws of an animal. Draco had to look away before he threw up.

 

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged helplessly, winding the bandages back. “I didn’t want to send you round, luv. It’s almost healed… was much worse before.”

 

A fist pressed over his mouth, Draco merely nodded. He didn’t trust himself to breathe until the wound was safely packed away once more. The sight reminded him too much of the chunk of flesh missing from his own side, stirring up memories he’d much rather forget.

 

Harry was speaking. “The needle is muggle drugs—steroids are the best known treatment for poisonous snake bites.”

 

“Poisonous…” Draco repeated lamely. He swallowed, mind racing, taking the pieces of what he knew for certain about Harry’s life outside Hogwarts and connecting them to what he’d imagined in nightmares and sleepless nights. He didn’t fancy the result. “That snake, Nagini?”

 

Biting the inside of his cheek, Harry nodded.

 

“Did you…” Draco had to clear his throat. He’d hated that snake—always gave him the creeps. “You got it? It’s dead?”

 

Harry kept nodding. “Yeah,” he tacked on, his voice scratchy.

 

“Good.” Draco snagged a pillow and pulled it over his stomach, making a place to rest his chin. He peered at Harry. “So the muggle drugs are working? They help?”

 

Harry’s lips twitched; a non-committal expression. “We tried magical treatments, but it turns out I get the most relief from the steroid, so that’s what I’m sticking with.” He blinked, as though deciding how much he wanted to tell. He seemed to settle on the whole truth. “After I was bitten I was treated by muggle doctors. They prescribed the steroid. Their surgeon had to cut away a lot of where Nagini’s bite was in order to stop the spread of poison and dying tissue. By the time Leon, Tonks and the Ionescue brothers got to me… the damage to my leg was already done. So I’m healing more from the surgery that saved my life than from the venom or the bite itself.”

 

Harry glanced down at his leg, rubbing his palm against the bandage he’d just changed. It was fresh and white, ready for the day. “It’s worse in the morning, when I wake up, so I shoot up then. I didn’t mean to keep this from you,” he scoffed at himself. “But I didn’t want to worry you. Or freak you out. It’s muggle damage, and dark magic… better not to mess with it. I’m getting better—I’ll be good as new in a few weeks.”

 

Draco knocked Harry in the back of the head with the pillow he held. “Next time _tell me_ , you bastard,” he intoned, waiting until Harry had righted his glasses before hitting him with the pillow again. “Even if there’s nothing I can do to… help.” He waved his hand absently, indicating his strange new healing powers. “I’d rather know. It’s far more unnerving to wake up to you secretly doing drugs next to me. Well,” he ammended, bobbing his head in admission. “Doing drugs you can’t share, that is.”

 

Chided, Harry stood up; passing the movement off as stretching his injured leg rather than admit he was in the wrong and suffer his due repercussions. Then he went into his bag at the foot of the bed and proceeded to throw something at his nosy husband—a bottle of some sort, with hardened little white capsules inside.

 

“Wha's this?” Draco asked, rattling the bottle.

 

“Take one twice a day until you run out,” Harry replied tartly.

 

Draco’s brows pinched, skeptical. “But what _are_ they?”

 

Draco was expecting at least a chosen eye-roll for his impertinence. So it surprised him when Harry wouldn't look at him. “They’re antibiotics.”

 

Draco’s lip curled involuntarily. He dropped the bottle, no longer intrigued. “Muggle medicine? For what?”

 

Harry's eyes were very dark. His jaw was tight. He still wouldn't meet Draco's eyes. “Think of it as a hanger-on from your time in service to the Dark Lord.”

 

Draco's head canted to the side, eyes narrowing. His time as a Death Eater was a less-than-pleasant subject at any time of day, let alone before his morning coffee. And it made no sense why Harry would be connecting that part of his past to more muggle drugs of all fucking things. “Don't follow.”

 

Harry gave his answer looking at the ceiling. “You told me that Death Eaters fuck muggles. And Death Eaters generally wouldn't use condoms, I'm assuming, since they're raping the muggles anyway. Adds to the ‘mental anguish’ as it were. So somewhere in all that raping and inter-Death-Eater fuckery,” Harry flipped his hair out of his eyes with an annoyed puff of air. The look on his face said he’d rather run the Triwizard Tournament all over again than say what he was about to. “Draco… someone gave you Chlamydia.”

 

Insouciant, Draco blinked. “Kla-wha'?”

 

“It's a muggle sex disease.”

 

Draco's mouth worked open and closed like a fish out of water. “I... I have a muggle sex disease?” He sounded no less than mortified. He reflected, “I’ve always said muggles were filthy—I can’t help but feel… vindicated?” He sneered, his nose wrinkling, a picture of his old Prince of Slytherin self. “And violated.” He looked up at Harry, blowing his own hair out of his face, an unconscious mirror of his husband’s behavior. A second later his eyes softened. “I’m sorry, I… had no idea.”

 

Harry forced a stiff nod. He pointed to the bottle of pills at his husband's side. “I'm not mad. There's no way you would’ve known. Just... take those, stop drinking for a week, and we’ll be fine. We can’t have sex for a while but—” Draco made a startled, affronted noise. Harry lifted his hand, tolerating no arguments, brushing away Draco’s protestations before he could start. “Let the medicine do it’s job. We’ll be fucking about again before you know it, okay?”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Draco was walking the halls after lunch one afternoon when Hades broke loose... in the form of Peeves.

 

“Yoo hoo!” the little floating fat man crooned like an old bitty, waving his bowler hat like a handkerchief. “Oh Malfoy!”

 

Draco drew his wand from his robes, turning on his heel to stride in the opposite direction with a purpose. He raised his chin, flicking his wand threateningly.

 

“What?” he growled through clenched teeth.

 

Peeves pointed down the hall, in the direction Draco had originally been headed. His chubby face simpered, rolling his bowler hat in his hands like Cornelius Fudge used to.

 

“Wouldn't go that way if I were you,” the poltergeist advised.

 

Draco cocked his head. “Set off another bag of Dungbombs? Or is it one of the Weasleys' Portable Swamps this time 'round? You remember what McGonagall said about those.”

 

Peeves looked guilty—or worried. His beetle-black eyes shifted beneath his brows, as though Invisible Ears were listening. The last thing Draco needed was more damned Weasley products in his castle of mayhem.

 

Draco put a hand on his hip, brandishing his wand in an almost bored fashion. “Out with it, then.”

 

“They...” Peeves swallowed visibly. And then his mouth opened wide, his eyes wet, bawling. “They've kidnapped my song!”

 

“Ugh,” Draco threw up his hands. “I don't have time for this.”

 

He made for the end of the hall at a quickened pace. Whatever was waiting for him between here and the fifth floor music classroom, he'd rather have it over and done with, so he might go about his day.

 

Peeves zoomed after him, garish bowler hat back on his head. “You won't like it!” The poltergeist warned loudly. “It hardly rhymes!”

 

Draco swatted the creature away with a flick of his wand. Peeves bounced away, howling and clutching his elbows as they bumped against the rough stone. Draco could hear voices ahead over Peeves' howling—a good-sized gathering in the main stairwell. He recognized the tune as it traveled: _The Dragon Song_.

 

He hung around the corner, out of sight and listening, until the new verse emerged.

 

 

 

_“He bows to the Golden Idol_

_with a fervor that's nearly bridal._

_Will we see him in white,_

_tucked in Potter's bed, tight?_

_Oh, the Dragon! Oh, he comes!”_

 

 

 

Peeves was right—it didn't exactly rhyme. The pesky poltergeist usually did well enough to use a rhyming dictionary or consult one of the brighter portraits before concocting his foul verses. Draco resisted the urge to spit right then and there.

 

Instead he strained his hearing—ignoring the embarrassment and rage bubbling somewhere deep in his chest—hoping he might recognize one or two of the ringleaders' voices above the noise of the others. He thought one might be Ginny Weasley... but then again, he wasn't familiar enough with the sound of the Weasley girl's voice to pick her out of a crowd. That laugh, there—that one was Lavender Brown. Too stupid to string the new verse together, though. He heard the off-key humming of Tracey Davis, and Ernie Macmillan's awful laugh. None of them truly had reason... none except Weasel-chit.

 

Draco had stolen her boyfriend, as far as the twit was concerned. She'd never kept her dislike for Draco a secret, nor had he hidden his mutual lack of affection where any Weasley was concerned. But why would she drag Harry into all of this? What purpose did humiliating her ex serve? Vengeance? Vindication? It wasn't logical. Then again, she was in fact a woman. Sometimes logic did not apply to the machinations of the fairer sex—it was what made them dangerous, unpredictable, and bloody sexy.

 

He was pondering this when a mass of giggling girls came round the corner, catching him on the opposite side of the wall. Their shrieks quickly alerted the others to his presence and the corridor rapidly began to fill with gawkers and lookers-on, strumming up the tune, out-of-key and off-time as ever. Hogwarts truly needed a larger music department.

 

Draco recognized a fight he could not win. He turned tail, gathered his robes in his fits and ran.

 

He made his way to Professor Flitwick's music classroom without further incident. It was a relief to tuck in behind the familiar school piano, waving his wand in a series of practiced flicks in order to tune the old instrument. He had to do this almost twice a week, else its strings go sour.

 

The newer pianos had charms worked into their innards to help preserve pitch, of course, but Draco wasn't about to research that particular branch of magic simply to save this battered wreck they had the nerve to call an instrument of music. When choir lessons were held in the Great Hall, Draco packed up his own trunk piano and levitated it down six flights of stairs. But he couldn't be bothered to bring the Black Family instrument to the fifth floor for twice-weekly rehearsals; besides, this was muggle music class, only requiring minimal accompaniment—mostly to scold students when their voices went off pitch. He brought the Black piano to the Great Hall for the acoustics alone, often keeping the instrument there well into the night, savoring the sound. His late-night concertos were attended by the Hogwarts ghosts, Moaning Myrtle and the Bloody Baron taking front row. Nearly-Headless Nick once tipped his head off his neck in a macabre, “hats off” of approval which Draco could have done without. Several of the female ghosts seemed to agree. He'd cut that performance short.

 

This week's undertaking was an aggressive one, Draco thought, flipping through the music to reacquaint himself with the timing. There was something about it which almost touched the wizarding classics—though Flickwick assured them the composer, one Arvo Pärt, was one hundred percent muggle. Draco harbored theories Pärt was at least a Squib. One had to be a wizard, to have that understanding of sound and space. The piece conjured long landscapes and arduous journeys over sand and sea. The way its dissonance echoed was a thing of beauty. 

 

Draco twisted his fingers, hoping the students were up to the challenge.

 

He was let down less than thirty minutes later. Professor Flitwick beat his wand against his music stand, hopping and red-faced as he shouted for the entire bass section to stop.

 

“No, no, no!”

 

Draco wiped his palms along the tops of his thighs, listening, gazing out the window as the tiny professor went on.

 

“You're early! _Again!_ You're always early!” When his wand hit the metal stand, a shower of purple sparks flew out, splattering over several surprised second sopranos in the front row. “What about the silence? Hmm? You must let the sound die. Let it dissipate. Then you mourn the sound—be bereft of it, feel its loss. Come to a place of complete silence within the music. And then from the silence, from nothing, comes sound again. Am I talking to myself?!”

 

There were vague mutters of ascent.

 

Irate and puffy-cheeked, Flitwick turned to Draco. “Is there any other way to put it?” he asked rhetorically, flustered. Draco shrugged his agreement—with the exception of a few Ravenclaws, the room was all-in-all a hopeless case. Flitwick dropped his wand against his music stand with a _clang_ , insisting, “Tell them, Draco.”

 

The Head Boy sighed, ruffling the hair at his brow with that long breath. It fell right back, nearly covering his eyes in a white-blond fall.

 

“It's like Professor Flitwick says. You have to gauge the shape of the silence around the sound. Sometimes the silence is invisible; other times, silence is all there is, like a shadow's size changes with the position of the sun. Music needs balance between the two. A lot of it is timing. Eventually you'll get to a place where you can sense the proper silence between the notes. For... well, I...” and he trailed off, turning to the Charms Professor. “You wouldn't happen to have a qin lying around, would you?”

 

The guqin was a Chinese instrument of the zither family, though an untrained eye might mistake the simple wooden board with strings for a harp at first glance. In truth, it stood very close to a lap-style guitar, traditionally strung with seven twisted-silk strings and played with many stylized, plucking and brushing motions. A good qin player played the space between notes, often pushing stationary fingers against the strings after music and vibration had ceased. Notes regularly died into silence. There was a new music, almost a second melody in the sound of fingers and silk rubbing against the wood.

 

Qin had been popular amongst ancient magical communities. There were probably a handful of purebloods left who played; Draco and his mother were two of them. Flitwick smiled knowingly, but shook his head. It had been a shot in the dark.

 

Draco's mother played the instrument with considerable skill—Draco's own paled in comparison, of course, but he hadn't had her decades of practice, only a few short years of tutelage. He wondered if she could still play; now, as she was. Were her instruments doomed to the same dust, the same darkness which had taken her mind? Perhaps her collection of instruments had been destroyed. He wouldn't be surprised. They'd lost everything else in this fight.

 

At any rate, the idea of strings rubbing against wood being interpreted as music was perhaps another concept which would sail over the heads of his intended audience... as the importance of silence had.

 

He tried again. “When you're trying to make a point in an argument, which is more effective—shouting every word until your opponent gives in, or biding your time and coming in at a lesser volume with one essential, irrefutable point?” He waggled his brows. A few of the Slytherins appeared to be on the same page, at least. “Sound in this piece has more impact when it's sparse, when it's carefully chosen, laid down at precisely the right point in the larger scheme of things. The silence is the breath you take before hammering the final nail. The more space there is, the more silence you build, the more effective your point will be—and less overall effort, less volume and fanfare are necessary, with the balance of silence to back it up.”

 

The Ravenclaws were nodding as well, a few reaching for their quills and marking a breath on their sheet music. Generally, the room appeared marginally less dazed.

 

“Now, bases,” Professor Flitwick picked up, giving Draco a fond nod of approval, “when you come in early, breaking that silence too soon, you ruin the moment. Watch for my signal. Don't come in a second before! It's better not to open your mouths at all if you're not going to pay attention here.”

 

The tiny professor scooped up his wand once more, waving it about like a conductor's baton. Draco played the notes for each section, running up the scale from bass to treble, the student singers humming their pitch after it was played to keep the note fresh in their mouths.

 

Draco's gaze went once more towards the window as they picked up again, this time minding Professor Flitwick's hand, minding the silence and the space between notes. At last, the piece could breath properly.

 

Draco let his mind drift in the now perfect quiet.

 

There was a value to silence. He'd learned it in his youth, from politics with his father and many tutors; and again during music lessons with his mother. But he'd failed, for many years, to translate that knowledge to life at Hogwarts. Here he had the propensity to spit everything out at once, not minding his silences. He was a jester, an entertainer, merely a passing amusement. Rarely was he expected to be profound. It was a reputation he'd earned from the impetuousness of youth—and of course his hatred of all things surrounding Harry Potter.

 

In his early days at Hogwarts, Draco really hadn't been able to help himself. Harry Potter—even the mere idea of him—infuriated Draco. He'd had a nasty tendency toward running his mouth whenever he and Harry were in the same classroom or corridor. There were many things he could examine in retrospect and wish he'd possessed the sense to hold back—statements which made him appear asinine, self-centered and vain. Childish, thoughtless pranks. Rancor and malaise which he’d taken out on Harry, mostly because the Chosen One was there. And while some of those words and actions may have been true to his nature at the time, it was painful to admit he'd acted in such a way—without thought, without caution, without foresight. He’d thought himself more clever than that. How wrong he’d been, how naive.

 

And look where not using his head had gotten him. Marked and scarred and broken. But put back together again, like the shattered egg in the muggle nursery rhyme. Put together again, the impossible made manifest, by Harry.

 

Silence had immeasurable value. Now, it held a place of high honor in his life. There were so many things of which he dared not speak—lest he think about them, lest they overwhelm his thoughts. He'd never get out of bed if he considered some of the secrets he kept. They were Harry's secrets. Draco held some of the deepest, darkest moments of the man's life, cupped in his palms like water; made responsible for them, trusted to keep them undisturbed, safe. He was the keeper of these sacred weaknesses—the blessing and curse of marriage, of intimacy, of sharing yourself so completely with another human being.

 

There were parts of Harry he sometimes felt were only for him to know; shy, quiet pieces, sly winks and snake-tongue whispering in the dark night of their bed. Moments wrung out in tequila and sweat, pealing like bells through his bones. Harry was a bruise left forever on his skin—a tightness in the marred expanse of his chest, so tender his eyes shut tight with only a glance. And though they were silent now, he could always, always, hear the music of them ringing through his ears. Like trumpets, like morning, like vows.

 

They could only be kept quiet for so long.

 

There was a chance—just a vague chance—that they were being far too Slytherin about this. The secrecy, and their big secret. Him and Harry both. The Dark Lord already knew of their affection: and Hogwarts had yet to fall. There hadn't been genocide in the streets the last he'd heard. Not yet, anyway. All of this hiding, this stress and keeping mum, could well be for nothing.

 

What was the harm in asking? The worse Harry could say was “No, you sodding git. We shouldn't publicly announce our marriage—that's a horrible idea. Please don't mention it again,” and then they'd have a snog.

 

Draco resolved to send Fawkes with a letter—he had time before dinner and his evening rounds. He could stand to be a Gryffindor for once and broach the subject. Being direct wasn't likely to kill him. If there was even a chance... they could take it. One less secret to keep. One less spark of information to have tortured out of them at the end.

 

Silence was one thing: it had its place. But there was a time for sound, for proclamations and muggle hallelujahs shouted from rooftops. And there had never been a time when Draco wanted to scream more—scream for happiness, for dearness where there had once been only fear. He couldn't secret away that damned incalcitrant, soul-born scream for much longer.

 

Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't have to hide.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Draco clasped his hands at his back and waited. The fire was warm and his schoolwork completed: he could stand to enjoy the silence of the Headmistress' office. He stared absently into the orange flames, recalling that this was the only fireplace in the castle to be connected to the new, make-shift floo system. He dreaded those flames going green—the color only brought bad news these days. Behind him, McGonagall was completing some paperwork, her head cradled in one hand as she stared down at her parchment as though the page had done her some grave personal injustice. Breath left Draco's body in a slow, metered exhale.

 

“Alright.... Mr. Malfoy?” McGonagall said at length.

 

“Every time someone calls me _Malfoy_ , I expect to find my father nearby. _Draco_ is fine.”

 

He turned to catch a flummoxed look flicker across the woman's face. Above her, the portrait of Albus Dumbledore was suspiciously devoid of its snoozing occupant, nothing but a velvety background of Gryffindor red. _Intriguing._ Draco was effectively side-tracked.

 

“Dumbledore?” he gestured to the empty frame.

 

McGonagall nodded. “Awoke a few days ago, yes.”

 

“And already has a social calendar, I see,” Draco rolled his eyes, sauntering over to the Headmistress' desk and seating himself in one of the utilitarian armchairs. “Pray, where might your gallivanting predecessor be this fine evening?”

 

He was shocked to hear the stern witch give a dry laugh. And was that—yes, she’d rolled her eyes as well.  Draco leaned forward in anticipation.

 

“On the second Thursday of every month, there's a gathering of portraits at the French Ministry archives—a _festival_ of sorts,” and she snorted in what could only be an amused but flustered fashion. “They observe the art of camp.”

 

A bark of laughter escaped Draco's lips before he could help himself. His dog-like sound rang in the quiet of the room.

 

“I take it you are familiar with the practice,” McGonagall raised a single brow.

 

Draco was familiar—not because he was half queer but because he'd been a Slytherin for six bloody years, and a Malfoy all his life. In pureblood society, and nowhere more-so than in Slytherin, theatricality and exaggeration were used as methods of insult. It was under the Slytherin banner that Draco developed his Dumbledore, Snape, and Golden Trio impersonations; for it was those who did the teasing, they who prodded and poked and earned the loudest laughter, who were seen as trend-setters and potential leaders of Salazar's noble house. No one wanted a dictator who couldn't make you laugh. Draco, with his vaudevillian acts, his satire and his raunchy humor, had been their darling Prince for many years running.

 

What the Headmistress made reference to was “camp” in the jargon of homosexuality—an ostentatious and grossly exaggerated femininity utilized not just for insults but for seeking attention... for being the biggest, gayest queen of them all.

 

Draco could see it in his mind: silver-haired paintings gathered in a dank Parisian hallway, gossip mongering, discussing the good old days and hurling catty barbs at any office aid unlucky enough to pass by. _Festival of camp_ , indeed.

 

Draco swallowed back the laughter which pinched his cheeks. “I find myself... as a semi-gay man, vaguely ashamed.”

 

“Draco,” McGonagall flashed him a warm smile. It seemed to burn up what little energy she had left, gravity returning her face to a patchwork of worry. “I have been a teacher at this school long enough to realize what goes on in that dungeon. And you have nothing to be embarrassed for. A sharp mind and the ability to laugh at yourself will take you far.”

 

He managed a mumbled, “Thank you, Professor.”

 

She cleared her throat, dismissing the subject if only for her Head Boy's comfort. He'd never done well with compliments. “Now, I believe you were here about the Gryffindor Quidditch roster, if I'm not mistaken.”

 

“Indeed.” He retrieved the folded sheaf of parchment from his school bag, handing it to the woman over the expanse of her desk. They were both dwarfed by the massive piece of furniture. McGonagall regarded his neatly looped writing for several moments before turning her gaze back to him.

 

“You're quite serious, Draco?”

 

He nodded, repeating, “Quite, ma'am.”

 

“You've thought this through?” she pressed, waving the parchment. “Discussed it?”

 

“Yes. The decision was mutual.”

 

“Well,” McGonagall waved her wand, duplicating the parchment's contents. “I'll have copies sent to Professors Firenze and Slughorn for their approval.”

 

“So...” Draco drawled, seeking concrete confirmation. “You're not going to fight us on this?”

 

The woman let out a sigh, regarding Draco over the rim of square-shaped reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

 

“Over the years, I've ultimately found it easier not to interfere with the machinations of a Potter—nothing will turn out to my favor should I stick my hand in this. Faced with two Potters... well,” she sighed again. “Best not to involve myself.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Word traveled fast at Hogwarts. Perhaps it was the magic in the air. Perhaps it was the gossiping mouths or, he now reasoned, the portraits' monthly camp festivities. By lunch the following day, he was accosted with stupid questions.

 

“It's _Harry?_ ”

 

“Harry's coming?”

 

“No,” Draco intoned blandly. “Longbottom's changed his surname. We're sending him onto the pitch with naught but a prayer. Slytherin will filet us. I'd say the match ought to be through in... under two minutes! We're goin' fer the record, ya see.”

 

Several people laughed. Draco noticed Czeslaw Vïtols, a Slytherin Beater and Durmstrang import, hovering nearby. The man's heavy features shook as he struggled to contain his mirth. Those Durmstrang lads appreciated a darker humour than most. Apparently Vïtols was no different.

 

Draco waved away their ruddy questions with a dismissive hand, striding down the corridor.

 

Yes, Harry's name was in Gryffindor's starting line-up; listed last, the position typically reserved for Seekers whenever starting players were publicly announced pre-game. Again, Draco had written only surnames on the list given to Professor McGonagall, and the information had leaked exactly as written. Everything was going according to plan.

 

Truthfully, he didn't know whether Harry would make it in time for their game against Slytherin. There had been regular letters but something in his last made it sound as though Harry would be unreachable for the next few days. Presumably he had something to take care of before the frivolities of Hogwarts and Quidditch. Draco didn't want to know—because it didn't matter whether or not Harry showed. They were of one mind in this, as he'd told McGonagall. He'd do it whether Harry was there with him or not.

 

He strode into NEWT Ancient Runes, seating himself beside Anthony Goldstein. The normally quiet fellow turned to Draco, hands folded in his lap and a curious expression on his face.

 

 _All over again_ , Draco thought irritably. He bit the inside of his cheek for patience.

 

“So Harry's coming back, then?” the Ravenclaw chap posed. Goldstein was a righteous prat. In conversation, they'd exchanged precisely thirteen words in the last fortnight, the majority of them being, _Might I borrow your ink? I seem to have misplaced mine_. The other two were “sure” and “cheers.”

 

Draco twirled his wand between his fingers. “Harry Potter and the Triumphant Return? Whatever makes you say that, Goldstein?”

 

“He's on your Quidditch roster, isn't he?” the fellow pressed, hitching his glasses up his long nose. “Playing Seeker ahead of you. I reckon only Harry Potter could get you to put his name before your own for a starting spot.”

 

Goldstein had a point. Not that Draco would admit to that, of course. Instead, he shrugged dismissively.

 

Goldstein tucked his quill behind a protuberant ear. “So when's he back? I was considering going to one of those Defense Association get-togethers you host. If Harry's teaching with you—well, that'd be a spectacle I wouldn't dare miss.”

 

“You should come anyway,” Draco asserted, Summoning his text book with a silent swish of his wand. “The more the merrier an' all tha'.”

 

“Quite a few girls?”

 

Draco smiled ruefully. He met Goldstein's hopeful expression with a half-smirk. “More than I know what to do with. They're bollocks for spells, 'a course, but you know how it is.”

 

Goldstein bloody winked at him. “Sure, mate. It’s on Wednesday night you said?”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Angelika kept watch out her window, peering every so often at the unmistakable form of Draco Malfoy standing out there in the cold. The Head Boy and Gryffindor Quidditch captain had a terrace connected to his quarters. And the man had been out there for a while, now, sipping from a nearly-empty bottle of spirits and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette.

 

She put a finger down to mark her place in her Arithmancy textbook, devoting her focus to Malfoy.

 

The bottle hadn't been that near to empty when he'd stepped out into the evening snow. He'd been gazing into the distance, towards Hogsmeade village. As the night got darker and the snow began to swirl up around the tower, Malfoy began the process of getting sloshed in earnest. He leaned against the banister now, taking slow swigs of a clear liquid packaged in a pretty, smoked-glass bottle. Wearing only Seekers gloves on his spindly hands, the man fiddled with the bottle's label for a time before ripping it off and stuffing his hands under his arms, the bottle left empty on the stone railing. From his pocket, he pulled a loosely-rolled cigarette and lit it with the tip of his wand.

 

“What are you looking at, Angie?”

 

She started. Natalie was sitting at the foot of her bed, helping her and Amy with their Arithmancy—though Amy was the one who needed the instruction. Angelika understood just fine but knew Amy would be too shy to ask any of the upper years for help. Being on the Quidditch squad together, Natalie was the first person Angie had thought to ask. They were just getting to know each other but Nat was wicked. She would love Malfoy's inebriation far too much.

 

Angelika smiled, swallowing to stall for composure. Her voice still came out as a giggle. “Malfoy's drunk on his balcony.” She jutted her chin.

 

“Hecate's Hymen!” Nat dropped her textbook with a thud, scrambling to look out the window. Her jaw dropped. “Sam! Demelza!” Natalie called a moment later, signaling the other Quidditch girls. There were so few people in the dormitories, they tended to hang around in one another's rooms just for the company. Ginny was there, too, braiding Emma's hair. It was a logical assumption that Gin wouldn't have an interest in _anything_ having to do with Malfoy. Between the humiliating way she'd been kicked from the Quidditch team for intolerance and her subsequent slew of break-ups—she'd dated just about every boy in the castle, meaning she'd gone with a couple of Durmstrang chaps, including that boorish Slytherin Beater, Král, not once but _twice_ —it was hardly surprising that the normally bubbly red head just wasn't herself these days. Her fire was still there, but smoky and bitter.

 

“Malfoy's on the terrace? Tell me when he jumps,” Ginny snorted. She ignored the commotion as everyone piled on Angelika's bed, her window affording a perfect view of Malfoy out on his private balcony.

 

Malfoy took a healthy drag on his cigarette, holding his breath, holding the smoke in his lungs.

 

Demelza gasped. Then laughed hysterically.

 

“Malfoy's smoking pot!” she declared. “He's lashed and smoking muggle marijuana!”

 

Malfoy was really leaning into the railing, too, trusting his entire weight to the stone barrier as he looked down at the mounds of snow piled up against the castle. Only one tip-toe was still in contact with the ground as he leaned precariously, peering out into the night. He righted himself, releasing the smoke from his lungs in a rush. The cloud running off him was dense, the smoke combining with the mist of his breath in the winter cold. It was starting to snow in earnest, too. The fluffy whiteness blended seamlessly into his pale hair and skin but was noticeable on the shoulders of his black cloak.

 

“Somebody open the window!” Samantha squealed. “I won't believe it 'til I smell it!”

 

“It's snowing,” Emma complained, rubbing her arms for good measure. “Leave the window shut.”

 

Natalie's nose was pressed to the glass, fogging it, Arithmancy forgotten. Angelika told her to back up, adding, “I can't see.”

 

“What's there to see?” Ginny snapped. “Malfoy's tanked. Big fucking deal. He's an alcoholic, everybody knows that.”

 

Out on the terrace, Malfoy cast a Tempus Charm, checking the time. He didn't like what he saw. After a second puff, he left the blunt held tight between his teeth. Wand in one hand, he snatched up the empty liquor bottle with his other, hurling it over the balustrade with all his strength. Through clenched teeth, he screamed. The bottle shattered against the outer wall of the boy's dormitory. Shards of glass flashed through the air, tinkling down the side of the castle—it was a long way down—littering the snow far below with broken glass flakes.

 

“Uh oh,” Samantha muttered. “He's angry about something.”

 

Ginny scoffed loudly, finishing Emma's hair with a violent flourish. “Malfoy throwing a tissy? Call _The Prophet_.”

 

“I think he looks fit when he yells,” Amy put in quietly. It wasn't like her to speak up. But she had a bit of a crush on Malfoy. Most of them did—on Malfoy, on Potter, or both... or both together. Wasn't that a thought? They'd looked lovely together, necking in the Common Room at Christmas. It was hard not to imagine them doing... other things.

 

“Yeah,” Samantha jumped in. “You see his muscles more. And his cheeks go all red, like he's been snogging.”

 

“I like it when he and Harry have a snog in public,” Angelika voiced. Ginny and Demelza gave her weird looks. “What? I'm not afraid to admit it! They're two of the best looking blokes in school. They like to snog. And I'm not the only one who fancies it whenever they do.”

 

Ginny peered at the window, sulking worse than Moaning Myrtle. From her seat on the floor, she wouldn't be able to see much more than the sky and the edge of the black forest. “Where's your precious Malfoy, then? Thrown himself off the tower yet?”

 

Angie checked on the man. “He's... swearing... more swearing. Okay, he's going inside.”

 

Amy waved her wand, casting a mild Amplifying Charm so they could all hear what the blond on the other side of the castle wall was getting up to.

 

They heard Malfoy's voice, muttering to himself. “Fucking Wonder Boy. _I'll be there, luv. I promise,_ ” he imitated Harry perfectly. “Bullshit, every las' word of it. Merlin, where's tha' _bloody_ bourbon?”

 

“Alcoholic, huh?” Demelza said mildly. “I hadn't noticed so much.”

 

“Well it's not as though he wanders into practice drunk. Or the D.A.” Angie wasn't quite sure why she was defending Draco Malfoy. It felt natural, though. So what if the man fancied having a few drinks in his personal time? He was an adult.

 

There was more cussing, followed by the sound of Malfoy tripping. By his strained hissing of “ow, ow, ow,” Angelika guessed he'd burned himself on his cigarette. A half-arsed _Episkey_ followed a moment later.

 

“Jus' yeh an' me, mate,” Malfoy slurred, plunking a few notes out on his beautiful heritage piano. The sound was a jazzy little riff which fell sour as Malfoy's hand became less attentive. Eventually he stopped and presumably sat at the bench. Under his breath, Malfoy began to hum an unfamiliar tune.

 

“Merlin, he's gonna play for us,” Emma mock-swooned, falling back onto her bed with a plush _fwump._ She sprawled out, relaxed and ready to listen.

 

“Not 'for us,' silly,” Samantha corrected with a wink. “We all know who he's playing for.”

 

A scandal-worthy _oooooooh_ went round the room. Ginny looked like she wanted to Bat Bogey Hex all of them simultaneously. Only the fact that they had access to her sleeping quarters stopped her.

 

“Wait, wait,” Demelza shushed everyone. “How is it we can hear him? Isn't he supposed to use a Silencing Charm? I heard Hermione threaten to hex his bollocks off if he was heard again.”

 

Malfoy had put up a superbly constructed Silencing Charm around his suite, as well as a Privacy Ward. It had taken days to whittle a hole through his complex, layered magic—like a muggle prison break facilitated by spoons, slowly tunneling out. Or in the girls' case, tunneling _in_. Then again, it wasn't like they had anything better to do, with Hogsmeade weekends canceled and nothing but bad news from home... that was, when the owls finally arrived. Spying on Malfoy had become the highlight of an otherwise miserable day-to-day existence.

 

Angelika waggled her eyebrows meaningfully. “He put one up. And we took care of it.”

 

Emma sighed wistfully, hands folded behind her head as the first few chords of Malfoy's song washed into the room like ocean waves lapping at the beach.

 

“We like to hear him play. Especially at night. When you wake up from a bad dream and it's just so silent... it's nice to know there's someone there. Even if he's not playing for us.”

 

Malfoy touched the ivories slowly, building, one note at a time, as though he'd never put the melody to keys before. Testing himself, the sound began to build—harder, harsher, with trills as though his fingers needed something to do, to occupy themselves else they go mad in idleness. He built a left-handed chord, steady like a bass guitar, tying everything together.

 

And then, with broken courage and booze-soaked lungs, he sang. “ _How many special people change? How many lives are livin' strange? Where were ya while we were gettin' high?_ ”

 

“He's... singing,” Demelza said lamely. She sunk down to sit on Emma's trunk, listening. “Didn't know he did that.”

 

“Me neither,” Sam shrugged.

 

Angelika flourished her wand at them. “Shut it! I wanna hear this.”

 

“ _Someday-ee_ ,” Malfoy's baritenor nearly broke on the higher note, “ _you will find me caught beneath the landsli-heh-ide... in a champagne supernova in the sky. Someday-ee...._ ”

 

“Pretty,” Amy whispered.

 

“Muggle song?” Nat inquired, her ears perked.

 

“Shut. _Up_.”

 

 _“Wake up the dawn an' ask her why_  
A dreamer dreams she nev'a dies   
Wipe tha' tear away now from yer eye   
Slowly walkin' down the hall   
Fasta than a cannonball   
Where were ya while we were gettin' high?”

 

“...Getting high,” Nat repeated, giggling.

 

Malfoy's lyrics were muzzy, falling in slurred bursts from his tongue. He sang his foxed little heart out, though. In his pauses, he could have been sniffling.

 

Emma brushed at her cheek. Her eyes were red. “Sounds like Harry broke his heart.”

 

“I think Malfoy just... misses him, you know?” Amy said quietly. She listened to another wavering musical phrase from the blond before continuing. “I know how much _I_ miss him. Imagine how hard it is on his boyfriend.”

 

Ginny shot to her feet and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.

 

“Bugger,” Demelza smacked herself on the forehead in disbelief. She shot Amy a quelling look. “Shouldn't of said that.” And she went after Gin, closing the door far more quietly in her wake.

 

Malfoy reached a higher section of his song, the break, his voice straining for the pitch. It sounded like he'd have sung the words regardless of their note, just to have them out of himself. Angie could picture him slumped over the grand piano, cloak half-on, half-off and his necktie hopelessly crooked, hair disheveled from pulling at it in furious emotion, those long fingers pounding out his frustration and rage upon keys the color of his pallid skin.

 

 

 _“'Cause people believe tha' they're gonna get away fer the summer._  
But you an' I, we live an' die, the world's still spinnin' 'round.   
We don't know why.  
Why, why, why, why?”

 

 

Those last words were a plea—a sob made directly to Harry, to Merlin and Mordred and the gods of heaven and hell. Half-screamed, half-cried. His fingers stilled a moment as he composed himself in silence.

 

And when his song returned, it was soft as it had ever been. First simply the even fall of soprano notes, then the filler of restless fingers. He moved up and down the melody, feeling the quiet between sound as much as the notes themselves. Last was a resonant bass, lower than before, more mournful. His playing was slower, too, as though the drugs in his system were finally achieving potency, relaxing his burdened mind.

 

“ _How manyyy special peeeople change?_ ” He asked the music. Angie would've put money on his face being within licking distance of the black and white keys. “ _How manyyy lives 'r livin' straynge? Where were you... we were...?_ ” He petered off.

 

Just the highest notes kept on, two or three fingers worth, keeping time.

 

Another voice took over for him. “ _Someday you will find me...._ ”

 

A good singer this fella was not. His voice was too heavy, too clumsy for the casually articulate tenor of the song. He didn't even attempt the next note—it would've been too high, cracking his voice as sure as Malfoy was drunk off his arse. The foxed voice was still better than this awkwardly sober one.

 

Malfoy's playing cut off abruptly, so the man was singing without accompaniment. Perhaps that played a part in why he sounded so painfully tone-deaf. It had to be Harry. Had to be.

 

Hurried footsteps struck across the stone floor. Malfoy was running.

 

“Ya righ' miserable...” Malfoy spluttered. He didn't exactly sound upset. Not a tiff, then. Just missing each other something fierce.

 

“Don't stop, luv,” Harry said quietly. The sound of their kissing was crystal clear. One of the boys moaned—it was impossible to tell who but the noise lacked awareness, all inarticulate and needy.

 

“Bed,” Draco muttered wantonly. More kissing. More moaning. A grunt. The squeak of bed springs.          

 

In the corner, Samantha fanned herself, eyes closed and cheeks flushed. “Hot!” she mouthed to no one in particular.

 

Harry was speaking between the wet smacks of kisses. “Draco, you're... drunk....Gods! Fuck me,” Harry growled. And God damn, The Boy Who Lived had one achingly sexy, tremble-inducing bedroom voice.

 

From under the covers, Amy let out a tiny girlish squeak. She'd probably never heard a man talk about sex in her entire life, let alone demand it like that. The notion was new for Angie, too. She weighed the sincerity of Harry's character with the bluntness of the terms he used. Maybe the love was in his face, his eyes or the touch of his hands, since it wasn't present in those words. Maybe this was just their bedroom talk, what got them going.

 

There was a scrape and a _bang—_ the boys' bed frame dragging along the floor and hitting the wall with all the ferocity of their very physical affections. There were weak-kneed whelps and deep, muffled murmurs as clothing was discarded.

 

“Haaaarr- _eeeeee_.” Draco was pleading. The floorboards beneath their bed gave an answering groan.

 

Harry was panting when he spoke. “Gonna suck you off first. Then we’ll see.”

 

Every jaw which was not already on the floor became so. Because it was one thing to secretly imagine Harry Potter with a prick in his mouth, and quite another to hear him ask for it—demand it like that. Fantasy and reality were not different sides of the same coin; there was a very real boundary between the two, with landmines and muggle guns and boys shoving their pricks up each other’s bums. A line had been crossed. And it would be wrong of them to listen to another word, another moan or sigh or easy slurp of suction.

 

“Alright, _that's_ our cue!” Angelika announced, plugging up the hole they'd made in Malfoy's Silencing Charm. Plugging it very, very tightly… like Harry Potter was about to be; plugged, very tightly. “Everyone off to bed. The Malfoy Show is over.”

 

Natalie snickered. “I think The Malfoy Show was just getting started.”


	66. Beretta: What If This Storm Ends?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Americans experience a breakthrough in technology. To repay a friend, Harry embarks on an adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** guns, violence

 

 

_What if this storm ends and I don't see you as you are now ever again?_

_Perfect halo of gold hair and lightning sets you off against the planet's last dance._

_Just for a minute the silver forked sky lit you up like a star that I will follow._

_Now it's found us like I have found you. I don't want to run—just overwhelm me._

_What if this storm ends and leaves us nothing? Except a memory, a distant echo._

_I want pinned down. I want unsettled; rattle cage after cage until my blood boils._

_I want to see you as you are now every single day that I am living._

_Painted in flames, all pealing thunder. Be the lightning in me that strikes relentless._

 

“The Lightning Strike”

Snow Patrol

 

 

 

 

 

Leon poked his head out from the indoor shooting range, orange ear-coverings slung down around his neck. He beckoned excitedly. The tan age spots decorating the backs of his leathery hands were nothing but a blur as he waved.

 

“Harry! Hanson figured it out! You’ve gotta see this.”

 

Harry shrugged, conjuring a pair of earplugs and slipping through the heavy steel door before it closed with a clang.

 

In a nearby stall sat their prototype, a Beretta M12. The thing was a monster, forty-round magazine hanging low past the trigger, a second grip out front near the end of the barrel. The gun was meant to be cradled against the shooter’s shoulder with the aid of a detachable stock—a sub-machine gun with respectable firepower. Weighing a full three and a half kilograms and black-lacquered all the way down, the M12 was a terrifying sight to behold. Harry always caught himself wanting to back away when the old man carried the thing around, dangling from one hand or slung over his shoulder like a child’s rucksack. To Harry’s muggle mind, the M12 simply looked unsafe.

 

The prospect of guns combined with magic both unnerved and excited him. It was just the sort of unexpected, unorthodox thinking that was needed. Bullets moved too quickly for a wizard armed only with a wand to counter. And by adding magic to the speeding projectiles, they were only adding fuel to an already raging fire, ensuring their success.

 

Aided by Fred and George, Hanson had come up with bullets which could explode with Ash4 on impact, bullets capable of seeking the heat of a werewolf or the cold dead flesh of an Inferius. He even had a prototype which could house a spell, already cast inside the bullet’s casing and piqued to engage on impact—any spell, such as Eptir Eldr or even the Killing Curse, the spell activating  _inside_  its target, limiting the chance of unintended casualties. This meant someone like Harry could fill a twenty, thirty five or even forty round clip with ready-to-go Eptir Eldr and then hand it off to... say, Lavender Brown, someone who couldn’t cast the spell on her own in a million years—the talent and mental acuity just weren’t there. In theory, all Lav-Lav would need to do was point and shoot. Instant defence with almost no magical skill required and minimal training. It could turn the tide of the war immeasurably in their favor.

 

The problem was with their delivery system. They needed more magical capability from the gun itself, the ability to use it as a wand, to ignite the magic inside the bullets, not just the ordinary gunpowder propelling the bullets forward. Having Eptr Eldr inside of a bullet wouldn’t do them any good if the spell didn’t have a way out—they needed magic, needed to be able to cast a spell while pulling the trigger if their bullets were going to be anything more than your standard, muggle-made projectile. If Hanson had truly figured this out, it could very well be their ticket to defending Laughlan’s Sanctuary, the Order’s safe houses, Hogwarts... everything.

 

It was a big “if,” Harry knew. Hanson and Leon had struggled with this for more than two years. They’d made progress on the bullet front these past few months—they’d moved forward by leaps and bounds thanks to Yuri, Gregorovitch and the Weasley twins—but that final breakthrough still eluded them. Cramming his earplugs in place, Harry couldn’t help wondering if this might be it, their ticket—success.

 

Harry peeked over at Hanson Tokko. The petit Korean man was giddy with excitement. He could barely contain it, fingers jittering in the pockets of his snug herringbone-patterned trousers. Harry had to hand it to him; of the entire team, Hanson had the most distinct sense of style—even more so than Maddie with her green-tipped bob and gothic clothes. Hanson pretty much announced that he was homosexual. In the most polite, old-fashioned, put-together way. The two-tone, white contrast collar Oxford dress shirt, the horn-rimmed glasses paired with tight woolen trousers, stitched leather shoes and vintage pastel bow tie said it all; he even styled his thick black hair in a dramatic side part, slicked over and with a little wave to accommodate the high rim of his glasses on his tiny round face. Hanson Tokko was as gay as Harry was un-gay. And they both spent their days playing with magic and guns. The two of them only proved you couldn’t judge a book by its cover.

 

Leon stepped up to the stall. “Part one,” he smiled, hoisting the hefty M12. It sat comfortably in his large hands. The Irishman held both grips, right hand back at the trigger and left hand forward, pointing the weapon out towards his targets. He was aiming at a plastic jug filled with color-dyed water. It was a vivid orange so they could gauge the effectiveness of the weapon by knowing, in part, how far the water flew once its housing was punctured.

 

Leon incanted something under his breath... and the weapon’s shoulder stock appeared out of thin air, already locked into place. Harry felt his eyes dry out with surprise. But he couldn’t let himself blink lest he miss something. Hanson’s fingers came out of his pockets, rubbing together with anticipation and delight—a firstie at Honeydukes with pockets full of galleons.

 

“And part two.”

 

Leon jiggled his left shoulder, inclining his head to gaze down the weapon’s sight. Just as he’d instructed Harry, old Mr. Harper took a full breath, expanding his stomach against the checkered cowboy shirt he wore, letting it out in a long stream which whistled slightly as it wriggled through his stuffy nose. Before the air was out, Leon’s bullet was away with a nerve-tweaking, eye-popping  _bang_.

 

When the bullet made contact with the water jug, there was a flash of light and a second, ear-splitting  _bang_. Harry blinked away the sparkly, black and purple spots dancing across his vision.

 

“What the hell was that?!” he shouted over the ringing in his ears.

 

Leon grinned. “I told ya, lad—we did it!”

 

“That’s fantastic,” Harry murmured. He turned to Hanson. “It’s casting as well as a wand. How’d you figure it out?”

 

The petit fellow blushed as pink as his paisley bow tie. “I modeled it after that golden hand you brought me.”

 

Voldemort’s own handiwork, quite literally turned against him.

 

Harry felt his heart stop. A beat later it was back, pounding out a less-than-steady rhythm in his ears. “I’m glad it was useful. I... had a feeling.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry kept his voice to a whisper. “What do you think?”

 

Chereshko Toleanu bit his lip. “Zhey need me here…”

 

“I vill go.” Viktor Novikov stepped forward. As big as he was shy, it was unusual for the fellow to volunteer. And Harry’s proposal was a risky one at best.

 

“Do you know the area?”

 

“Vell enough,” Vitya shrugged. “Yoo cannot go alone.”

 

Secretly, Harry agreed. Wandering around the Death Eater-controlled back-roads of Romania wasn’t the brightest idea, especially for Harry Potter. But he wanted to do it. It was the right thing to do.

 

Harry licked his lips, speaking softly. “Please don’t tell Yura. I mean, not yet. Not unless we find something. I don’t want to get his hopes up.”

 

After everything Yuri Batushansky had done—for Harry, for the Order, and for the Sanctuary—Harry wanted to say thank you. The man had put his search for his missing fiancée on hold in order to rush to America, taking up his old job as Pavel Gregorovitch’s assistant… the elderly wandmaker being his girlfriend’s grandfather. Her absence had to weigh on all of them, yet Yuri hardly mentioned her, devoting himself to his new purpose without fail. Even now he was out on patrol around the Sanctuary, securing the wards. Harry wanted to do something in return. Because a note, “thanks for letting your hopes and dreams for the future die,” didn’t really cut it. Yuri needed his future wife. And Harry wanted to help find her.

 

“Ve understand,” Chern nodded.

 

Vitya folded his massive arms over his chest. “Vhen do ve leave?”

 

“In two days. Leon will have weapons for us by then.”

 

Vitya raised a brow. “Veapons?”

 

Harry didn’t say anything more. He figured he’d let Leon’s work speak for itself.

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

 

The road—little more than two parallel ruts in the earth—was like something out of a muggle history text book, Pre-Industrial Revolution. There was farmland, barns and livestock, waving fields of wheat and vineyard grapes, with the dim outline of mountains far, far beyond.

 

At the edge of the sea of swaying farmland, Harry swore he could make out some kind of hut, complete with thatched roof and a weathered wooden door hanging off its hinges. The hut had no glass in its windows to catch the afternoon sunlight. Everywhere was tan and beige and brown, dirty with mud and winter. The road, sticky and especially brown, was little more than a disturbance in the grass, winding around the occasional tree or rock outcropping as it meandered its way into the distance.

 

Beside him, Vitya took the measure of the wind, licking his finger and sticking it up in the air while staring fixedly at the position of the sun.

 

“You know where we are, right?” Harry muttered. He turned up the hood of his sweatshirt.

 

Stone-faced, Vitya shrugged.

 

“That's encouraging,” the Englishman snipped.

 

“One goat path looks like every ozher goat path.”

 

Not wanting to be an ass about it, Harry waited in silence. If he'd been Portkey'ed into any random section of farm country outside Hogwarts, he'd be equally clueless—if not more so. It took only a matter of minutes for the great Chaser Vitya Novikov to get his bearings. With a hand shielding his eyes, he pointed off into the distance.

 

“Zat vay is Odessa  _i_  zhe Black sea.” Finger still outstretched, he turned about ninety degrees to his right. “Zhere ees Moldova, vhere Chern  _i_ Yura gvrew up—yoo can almost see zhe mountains.” A thick haze of clouds hung in the distance to the south, obscuring their view. He rotated perhaps another seventy degrees. “Zhere is Uman', Ukraine. If ve go north-northvest, ve should find zhe river, _Pivdennyy Buh_.”

 

“Let's go, then,” Harry shrugged.

 

They walked for several hours. Vitya cast a Translation Charm on Harry so that he would speak and understand the local dialect. When the sun was at its highest, they passed an elderly couple tending the farm outside their home. The old people welcomed the travelers inside, offering them borscht, some pan-fried salted beef, and vodka. The couple asked if Harry and Vitya were brothers. Mouths stuffed with beet and cabbage soup, they nodded. The old couple bid them safe journey, waving at them from the front of their modest little house after stuffing a bottle of water and a biscuit in each of their hands.

 

Harry had just cast _Augamenti_ into his water bottle for the tenth time when Vitya held his arm out, bringing the shorter wizard to a halt. He pressed a thick finger to his lips. Harry nodded. He tossed his water aside, drawing his wand with one hand, his other hovering over his modified Glock 18, still in its holster beneath his jacket.

 

Vitya pointed into the distance. Harry saw little more than dead, swaying crops, distant mountains and an overcast grey sky. The wind whipped across the fields, and Harry smelled nothing suspicious on the air.

 

“What?” he mouthed.

 

Slowly, Vitya shrugged. His shoulders uncoiled, earlobes unhooking from his mighty shoulders as he lowered his wand.

 

All at once—a dozen telltale  _snaps_  and  _pops_  of wizards Apparating all around them. They stood no chance. Vitya dove: Harry dropped. Dirt billowed up as spells struck dry earth; brown dust obscuring the ground as they scuffled, feet digging, cheeks scraping the ground, trying to wriggle away in the confusion. Silt filled his nose, tiny stones kicked up, pinging against his glasses. A spell grazed his forehead. Blood bloomed down the side of his face as he hastily erected shields. Vitya fought to do the same, rolling them for the cover of a nearby scrub bush.

 

Death Eaters shouted. Harry could make out the black of their robes through the din, spells lighting up the white masks covering their faces. The overcast day was made bright with a volley of colored spells, like fireworks erupting in the middle of nowhere.

 

“ _Potter!”_ one of them screamed. “ _I saw Harry Potter!_ ”

 

“ _Get him!_ ” another bellowed.

 

“Cover me,” Harry ordered. He unholstered his Glock.

 

Vitya didn’t need telling twice. He rose to a knee, loosing a volley of protective spells. Harry laid out in front of him, a shoulder braced to the ground as he took his forty-five degree upward shot.

 

The first Death Eater to clear the dust took a bullet to the chest; the second and third men through the haze both got it between the eyes. Bodies thumped heavy against the road, blood and anger thudding hard in Harry’s ears.

 

He was a good shot, and he knew it. Their spellwork was swift—Durmstrang graduates, the lot of them—but Harry’s trigger finger would always be faster than even the most practiced casting. His focus bloomed from the line of his sights, seeking out his next target.

 

Death Eaters fell back, stunned. They were purebloods, unaccustomed to the sight of muggle firearms. The Death Eaters watched stunned as their comrades crumbled, torsos and heads melting on impact. A fiery burst signified the death of a werewolf—Harry’s bullets were plated with silver. He thanked every star he could recall the name of that Leon Harper was such a paranoid old codger. Paranoia, or “constant vigilance,” was saving his life.

 

He emptied his clip into the swarm of attackers. The front line fell, and then the second wave.

They seemed to retreat, pulling back to a stand of grubby little trees at the roadside. As the dust cleared, Harry pumped his last bullet into a fellow’s back. The fleeing wizard fell face-first into his Death Eater mates. They let his body fall, backing away.

 

“ _I have to re-load_ ,” Harry warned. He’d blown through a standard seventeen round magazine in what felt like seconds.

 

Vitya rose, slinging spells around their heads like a fairy-tale sorcerer summoning a gale. The day seemed to darken, clouds called to shield them. Distant stones began to shake. Lying as he was on the ground, the vibration came through Harry’s shoulder, tightening his lungs with dread.

 

He reached down, opening one of the many side pockets of his canvas trousers. His fingers closed around an extended thirty three round magazine.

 

A growl. And then a roar. A lone Death Eater charged them. He tore back his mask and hood, the skin of his face rippling before their eyes.

 

He was, very clearly, Vitya’s twin brother. And then he wasn’t. Brown tufts of fur sprouted from the sides of his face, claws extending from his fingernails, huge body swelling to half-again its normal size. His Animagus form was a bear. Before Harry or Vitya could react, he charged.

 

“ _Zoran!_ ” Vitya screamed. He held out his arms. “ _Zoran, niet! Fratele!_ ”

 

Harry closed his eyes... and emptied his clip.


	67. Beretta: February

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Catching up with Dudley Dursley and the occupiers of Grimmauld Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** violence, adult language, **minor character death** , boys snogging, bigotry  
>  **DISCLAIMER:** Translation of Boris Pasternak's “February” is quite liberal, done by yours truly.

 

 

_Под ней проталины чернеют,_

_И ветер криками изрыт,_

_И чем случайней, тем вернее_

_Слагаются стихи навзрыд._

 

_A thawed, blackened patch of earth underfoot,_

_The wind is gutted with a scream._

_True verses are the most haphazard;_

_violent, rhyming out the heart._

 

"February"

Boris Pasternak

  
  


 

           

“Run!” Dad yelled. “Dudders, Petunia, quick!”

           

Dudley didn't understand what was going on. One minute he'd been watching tele and the next, the whole front wall of their sitting room had been ripped off like a giant smashing the front off of a doll house, light and smoke and splinters everywhere.

           

Dad was in the doorway to the kitchen, screaming over the sound of cracking timbers, sort of holding the door frame up as the house shook, falling down around them. The fire alarm went off. Outside, there were sirens in the distance, getting closer by the second.

           

There was a ribbon-clad bottle of port in Dad's hand. It was the bottle from Harry and his stupid blond boyfriend.

           

Now the house was surrounded, caught up in a gale, wind and bright flashing light, dirt clouds everywhere. He could only make out the silhouettes of people. They wore black cloaks and carried sticks. Wizards. _Wizards_. Shit, they were in so much trouble. He froze, panic setting up shop in his guts.

           

Mum pushed him. And he fell on Dad, both of them crashing down to the linoleum. Dudley hit his face on the floor. He tasted blood.

           

Scrambling to get up, he looked behind him.

           

Mum was on her knees by where the front door used to be. Now it was just a big hole, wood and busted-up plaster falling everywhere, sparks from severed electric lines and water from the pipes dripping. There was a big man with scars on his face pointing a wand at Mum. He was screaming something at her. But in the noise and chaos, Dudley couldn't hear. He couldn't even read the man's lips.

           

“Mum!” Dudley shouted, trying to go to her. He didn't understand why. It wasn't like there was anything he could do. Dad barely held him back with an arm clamped firm around his neck.

           

“Dudders! Dudley!” Dad shouted. “You have to hold onto this!” And he shoved the port wine into his son's hand, still holding tight to the bottle neck. It all seemed so strange, so sudden, so wrong. A nightmare.

           

Dad was sobbing.

           

Dudley had never seen his father cry. He'd seen his father in towering rages, in anger and in violent, howling fits. He'd even seen his father happy a few times over the years. But he'd never seen Dad cry. Not until now.

           

“Petunia...” Dad whispered, choked.

           

Looking up into the wild wizard's face, Mum spat. She cursed at him.

           

There was a burst of bright green light, like a flash bomb, blinding them all.

           

And then Dudley felt a tug from behind his navel, like a baby in his stomach had seized his intestines and was jerking them, pulling them back towards his spine. Everything spun. He decided he was going to be sick.

  


 

 

           

They landed with a thud, expelling dust.

           

Dudley couldn't help the vomit burbling up his throat. It escaped him in a heave. He fell sideways, emptying the sweets in his stomach onto a very worn wooden floor. He examined the baseboards, their peeling white paint and ancient scuff marks, as the sick came again and again, relentless.

           

There were heavy footsteps. Dudley's stomach heaved, raw and furious. He saw two pairs of boots approaching down the dark hallway. They were big boots, black leather and shiny, military-looking. Where they hell were they?

           

“ _Gle kurtsa ti u slamnatome sheshiru!_ ”

           

“ _Ko su oni?_ ”

           

“ _Ya ne znayu_.”

           

The sound of a door opening. More footsteps. Dudley swallowed back the vinegar bile in his throat. It felt like his vocal chords had been acid-burned. Dad rubbed his back, still clutching that port bottle in his other hand.

           

“ _Noi ar trebui să-i omoare_.”

           

Dad held up his hands, nudging Dudley to do the same. It took a minute for him to right himself, hands aloft, with open-splayed palms like he was being arrested. He scanned the faces of the foreigners—what country were they in? The blokes seemed close to his age or perhaps a few years older, all with dark facial hair and mean looks, everything close to their bodies. Their plain shirts and trousers were tight, showing off thick, heavy muscles. Their hair was cut short. They had tattoos and piercings. And they carried _wands_.

 

There was an especially long one pointed in Dad's face, looking like a birch switch. The wielder was quite a stocky fellow, likely no more than a stone under Dad. But this fellow’s weight was all carefully sculpted muscle. He had fists like a prizefighter—thickset, heavy, scarred. Dudley gulped.

           

First Mum. Not Dad, too.

 

Dudley's head swam. He thought this must be what fainting felt like.

 

Dad was spluttering something about not meaning any harm. He waved the wine bottle around, saying something about a “portal key.”

 

Dudley took a closer look at the men's arms. After Harry and his gay poofter husband had come for Christmas, Dad had taken him aside and showed him a sketch—a skull with a twisting snake emerging from its mouth. He'd said that if Dudley ever saw that mark on a person's arm, he was to run; run as fast as he could and get to his family so they could escape. Together.

 

Except Mum hadn't made it. The man with the wand in her tear-streaked face... he'd had that terrifying symbol on his arm.

 

Dudley looked for it now; searched high and low over every centimeter of exposed skin. But none of these men bore the mark. There were a great many others—suns and moons, crosses and the workings of wizards—but there were no snakes, no skulls, no indicators of a swift, aching green death.

 

“Please...” Dad was begging openly now. Wet gobs of tears stood fresh on his face. “ _Please_. My wife... my son....”

 

Dudley couldn't blink, couldn't breathe. There were not one but two wands on him—one at his forehead and the other pressed to the side of his throat. He couldn't help but think the slender man towering above him had eyes like the sky—like looking up into a vast and steady blue, undisturbed by so much as a single cloud. Their color was just blue and blue into the distance. And he stared Dudley down, unblinking.

 

Dudley's mind spun, convulsing through memories like a slide show on the fritz. Images of himself as a young lad flew by, banging sticks against fences and chasing Harry up trees. With a little tremble, he coughed up clouded scenes of his father screaming, a belt slapping across Harry's scrawny back, owls zooming in and out of windows, and coldness in Magnolia Crescent.

 

The wand was removed from his forehead and Dudley collapsed face-first to the dusty floor. He panted, fighting for a breath which wouldn't seem to come. It felt like there was a hand _inside_ of his throat, choking the very life out of him. His eyes began to water.

 

“... Potter,” Dudley managed as his vision narrowed. All he could see was a pair of large, shiny boots. It wasn't what he expected to see when he died. Nor did he expect to have his cousin's name on his lips. “Harry... Potter... cousin.”

 

“Yes!” Dad chimed in, pincushioned by wands as more men poured from the woodwork, surrounding them. “Harry Potter is my nephew! And the blond one, too! By marriage—ruddy hell-raiser! ‘Drago’ or some nonsense. He's the one who sent us here!”

 

The tall, skinny bloke above Dudley was suddenly crouching down, yanking Dudders up by his hair with shocking strength. Those keen blue eyes flickered between Dudley and his father, assessing them anew. There was something unerringly cold in this foreigner's gaze. Dudley thought that was what killers' eyes were supposed to look like—hardened and steadfast, like he could slit your throat without blinking a long, pretty lash. This close, the skinny bloke was as pretty as any girl—what with the way his lashes curled and that arresting, icy blue stare, it was difficult not to notice.

 

This man seemed to be their leader. And he'd perked up at the mention of cousin Harry's partner in uphill gardening.

 

The skinny fellow released his hold on Dudley's hair, getting right in his face and demanding, “ _Zmeulet?_ Zhe Dragon? Yoo have met him, muggle?”

 

A deep voice interjected, “ _Ubit' ikh._ ”

 

But the tall man hushed the swell of bodies behind him, slapping his wand tip against Dudley's cheek as though his next few words might settle the matter—either in information or in a swift execution. Dudley tried to nod as the wand traced over his lips; if he moved too much, the thing would go up his nose.

 

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Draco the Dragon. Met him over Christmas hols.” Dudley managed a shaky breath when the skinny bloke's skinny black wand began to pull away. “Prickly fella. Right pisser. Perfect fer my cousin.”

           

Again with the flashes in his mind. He was beginning to think the ringleader was using magic on him, the way thoughts of Christmas treacle sprung to the forefront of his mind, sparkly-wrapped presents, a crackling fire, carols on tele and cousin Harry sitting there, bold as brass at his husband's feet. They'd held hands. And the sickening, bloody emotional _poofter_ way they'd looked at each other from two sodding feet apart....

 

Skinny overlord flicked his hand, commanding his troops with an effortless, almost bored élan.

 

Brutish hands came out of nowhere, hauling Dudley and his father to their feet and frog-marching them into a nearby parlor. The room wasn't quite as dusty as the hall, looking as though it saw slightly more use. The space was filled with old-fashioned furniture appointed in varying shades of worn blue velvet. The curtains were pulled open and for the first time, Dudley caught sight of the outside world, sunny and lively.

 

They were in London, judging by the muted brown stone of the houses visible across the way. And there—that was the sound of a car horn further down the street. The postman walked by. It was all so normal out there; like nothing had happened in Surrey, like mad wizard terrorists weren't out there _murdering_ people, looking for... well, whatever it was they wanted. Probably Harry and Draco Potter's heads on pikes.

 

Dudley was shoved onto the sofa, the deft flick of a wand summoning heavy chains which bound his arms to his sides, locking his ankles and knees, metal slinking up to secure him to the heavy piece of furniture. Dad was given much the same treatment, bound to a nearby chair by the same sort of magic.

 

Their skinny leader barked more orders, one of his men heading into a smaller room off of the parlor. The rest took off, thundering up the stairs or down the hall to what was likely the kitchen. Dad stared at his lap, eyes fixed on the chains binding him to the spot. Someone had been kind enough to remove the traces of sick from Dudley’s hands and the front of his shirt. They hadn't been benevolent enough for any teeth-brushing magic but Dudders wasn't quite up for complaining.

 

He chanced a glance at his captors.

 

There were two of them left—the boss and the prize fighter with the birch switch of a wand. They stood close, near the door, speaking softly. The burly fellow had a deep, smooth voice, while Skinny was more of a tenor. The boss smiled a little and shook his head, resting a hand on the shorter man's chest. Then Skinny leaned, kissing him. Their lips met, open, with tongue. As though they were the only people in the room and their homosexual bed was a foot away.

           

“Bloody poofs,” Dad said swiftly, as though he were spotting a flat tire on the motorway.

           

The men backed off their snogging, heads turning at the sound of Vernon Dursley's voice.

           

The stocky one spoke first. He kept his arms around Skinny's waist, looking up into his partner's face. “ _Šta je_ 'poof'?”

 

Skinny's gaze of ice slid over Dad's face before coming back to the man he'd been kissing. His explanation to his lover was concise. “ _Barhotka_ ,” he translated simply, nonchalant. “Faggot.”

 

The stocky man hardened, muscles flexing, as he rounded on Dad—pulling away from his gay-boyfriend's embrace and looking like he was ready to throttle every non-magical in the room.

 

Skinny's hand tightened in his partner's sandy hair, restraining him with a hiss.

 

That sound sent shivers down Dudley's spine. He'd heard it only once before; when Harry had hissed at that snake at the zoo. He'd suspected, then, that Harry could talk to snakes. Maybe this wizard could, too.

 

Magic, he decided, was a very powerful and frightening thing. One which, if given the chance, he would prefer never to encounter again so long as he lived.

 

“Dad,” Dudders warned. He widened his eyes, looking between his father and the two strong blokes reaching for their magic wands.

           

Skinny gave Dudley a commanding once-over, assessing him. With a shrug, the tall fellow flipped his wand, conjuring a thick cotton gag for Vernon Dursley. He took up his boyfriend's hand with his free one, placing a kiss to hairy knuckles, his eyes leveled at Dad.

           

“Vait here,” he ordered.

           

Like they had much choice. Still, Dudley nodded his agreement, silently begging his father not to put up any more of a fuss. If they kept quiet, they might just live through this wizard business.

  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **For The Curious: Translations**  
>  _“Gle kurtsa ti u slamnatome sheshiru!”_ – “A dick in a straw hat,” an expression of surprise (Serbian)  
>  _“Ko su oni?”_ – Who are they? (Serbian)  
>  _“Ya ne znayu.”_ – I dunno (Russian)  
>  _“Noi ar trebui să-i omoare.”_ – I say we kill them (Romanian)  
>  _“Ubit' ikh.”_ – Kill them (Russian)  
>  _“Šta je...?”_ – What is...? (Serbian)  
>  _Barhotka_ – “ass-boy,” slang, derogatory term for the bottom in a gay male relationship (Russian)


	68. Beretta: The Sunlight Through The Flags

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter wakes up where he shouldn’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNINGS:** violence, noir, blood

_“These accidents of faith and nature—they tend to stick in the spokes of you._

_But every now and then the trend bucks, and you're repaired by more than glue._

_Worry not everything is sound. This is the safest place you've found_

_The only noise beating out is ours.”_

 

“The Lightning Strike”

Snow Patrol

 

 

 

Harry awoke, achy and stiff. It felt as though his head had been filled with Bubotuber puss. He could barely open his eyes; and when he did the world was hazy, all greenish-grey. He went to touch his head. He couldn’t raise his hand more than a few centimeters from wherever he was lying. It felt like a bed. A very hard one.

 

He took a breath and opened his eyes again. No glasses. That was why he couldn’t see. Someone had removed his glasses while he slept. For how long? He felt groggy, hungover—though he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had a drink. Where were his glasses? He lifted his arm once more. And this time he heard the rattling of chains.

 

That sound brought him wide awake.

 

He lay handcuffed to a muggle hospital bed. The first thing which ran through his mind was, oddly,  _Fuck. Not again_.

 

Secondly, he wondered where the hell he was.

 

His shoes had been removed, along with his jacket and sweatshirt. His undershirt was cut open down his side, as though a medic had seen hastily to his injuries. There was dirt and a bit of blood down his front. It felt like his lip had been split; every time he licked at the cracked, dry surface, his head would spin like a leaf trapped in a whirlpool. He groaned, falling back against the stiff mattress. His restraints gave an answering clatter.

 

“ _Scuze, Zaytsev. Pacienţi meu este treaz_.”

 

Harry turned his head at the unfamiliar string of syllables. What language were they speaking? Last he knew, he was in Romania. Vitya’s Translation Spell should still be in effect... unless they were speaking Russian but.... No. That didn't sound right. Romanian was definitely a dialect of Russian. Something would have filtered through with the spell's aid—a word or a phrase, something, anything. He should still be able to understand, if only in parts.

 

There was a second voice. “ _Bine. Voi lua pe bărbat să inchisoare._ ”

 

Harry recognized only one word, “ _bine_ ,” and it sounded like the Italian word for “good.” But there was nothing good about this situation.

 

They were definitely speaking Russian, he decided. That meant two things: either he’d been unconscious long enough for the Translation Charm to wear off... or Vitya was dead.

 

Harry held his breath, waiting for the nausea to pass. With his eyes screwed shut, he heard footsteps drawing near. Needing something to do, some distraction, he analyzed the sound of their footfalls against the floor. Two people, both men, one in trainers and the other in heavy boots. The space was long and echoing, their steps blurring together as they neared.

 

Harry let his breath out in a steady stream. When he judged the men close enough, he tested his voice, asking, “Where am I?”

 

“ _Aşa mic tâmpit este Engleza?_ ”

 

“ _Mereu mi-a plăcut sunetul accentului lor..._ ”

 

“Where am I?” Harry repeated, louder.

 

“ _Îmi datorezi patruzeci de leu_.”

 

“ _Mănânci căcat, Zaystev._ _Cineva vorbeste aici Engleza?_ ”

 

The voices went back and forth, ignoring him. Meanwhile, Harry took stock of himself. It appeared his wounds had been tended to in muggle fashion. He could feel stitches running down his back, pulling at his skin whenever he moved. There was some kind of bandage over his forehead—he sensed the weight of it as he turned his head from side to side. He was wounded and still weak, that much was certain. But was he completely defenseless?

 

He tried a silent Summoning Charm on the hazy outline of a chair near the foot of his bed.

 

Nothing. They’d taken his wand. Likely his gun, too. It was too much to hope that they'd just hand over his weapons and send him on his way. They'd chained him up for a reason.

 

He decided that, for now, it was probably best to play dumb. He'd likely suffered a concussion at the very least. His head was a veritable fog. And any muggle doctor worth his salt would have sedated him before stitching a wound which ran half the length of his back. Residual drugs in his system were a likely cause for his fuzzy head and drowsiness. He'd play it up as long and as best he could. He blinked and squinted, trying to make sense of the sage and grey shapes which melted before him like pooling candle wax. It was as useless an endeavor as trying to read tea leaves in Professor Trelawney's stuffy classroom. Without his glasses, he was as good as blind.

 

Soft hands settled the familiar weight of his glasses mid-way down his nose—scrubbed-clean hands, with no traces of dirt under the fingernails, no calluses or distinguishing marks save the worn-down golden band of a wedding ring. They were the hands of a doctor or nurse, clinical and serene. Harry let his vision expand, taking in pale green scrubs, white trainers and matching bleached lab coat, a name tag printed entirely in Cyrillic, and at last a brown-bearded face, peppered with gray hairs. His attending physician. The man’s face was wrinkled and tired; he had to be at least seventy.

 

Harry's vision slid sideways.

 

Beside the doctor stood a distinctly burly fellow with an unpleasantly smug cast to his features, as though he'd made the face for so long that the expression had fixed itself into his bones. His eyes were narrowed to slits, invisible to Harry even with his glasses on. Hands clasped behind his back, this second fellow waited in military fashion, a navy uniform covering his impressively built form, constable’s truncheon at his hip along with a comically large ring of keys which would likely jangle like a tambourine when he walked. An emblem was embroidered over his chest pocket, the lettering foreign and illegible to Harry’s eyes. But the huge man wasn’t a constable or a militia officer of any kind—there were no marks of rank on his shoulders, no badge. Just a weapon and that ugly face.

 

The man in the navy uniform barked something at him, voice rough, signaling with his hand for Harry to sit up. The doctor began examining the stitches decorating his back with practiced, clammy fingers.

 

“Where am I?” Harry repeated, more vehemently. “ _Rumyniya?_ ”

 

“No,” the doctor told him. “Moldova.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

Harry was still panicking as the sausage-fingered guard marched him down a narrow hall.

 

The fellow had both Harry's shoulders in a vice grip, towering over him. That wasn't exactly hard, though. Half the Weasleys were a head taller than Harry or better. Even Ginny had a few inches on him in her high heeled shoes.

 

As he was herded down the long, cement-walled corridor, an unstoppable assortment of images flashed through his mind. He saw Mrs. Weasley's clock, with its nine hands pointed every-which-way. If he had his own hand, would it be flipping back and forth between _Mortal Peril_ and _In Prison_ , or would it pick one status and stick with it for the sake of simplicity? He saw Ginny's long red hair, and the pattern of freckles at the back of Ron's neck, Neville's eyebrows singed off after Potions lessons, then monstrous squid tentacles emerging from the Great Lake, and the clanging of bells shaking snow loose from the Hogwarts eves... the way huge clumps of snow and icy water would plunge down, catching students off-guard and sliding down their necks like cold honey. Everything swam past his eyes like a video cassette on fast-forward. He blamed the pain killers still working their way through his bloodstream.

 

He flashed on his mother, the shape of her mouth when she laughed. He wished he could remember the sound.

 

He tripped. And the guard hauled him along by his shirt collar after that, the fabric making little ripping sounds of protest when Harry's feet couldn't quite keep up with the big man's gait.

 

The halls seemed to go on forever, with nothing to mark the space save for a few evenly spaced doors, each outfitted with a heavy lock and a small white plaque beside it, signaling its use in clean Cyrillic typeface. There were no windows either; just the neat shapes of hundreds of cement blocks which made up the walls, all painted over in dull gunmetal grey. The even lines carried his eyes forward, to the eventual end of the corridor. He gasped, choking on air like he'd forgotten how to breathe.

 

The gate up ahead... bars, thick metal and heavy, blocking the way. It really was a prison. They were locking him in prison.

 

He struggled to get his feet under him: his captor just yanked harder, dragging him along.

 

“I... I can't!” Harry gasped. “I have to... Draco....”

 

A door opened and Harry was tossed into a dank little room. The space was as equally windowless as the halls, smelling of damp and dust, the stone floor softened only by the passing of many feet over time. A track had been worn in the floor, a lightened pathway coming from the doorway and dispersing itself throughout the room.

 

There were two people—a man and a woman, standing behind a table. The woman held a clip board, the man a briefcase, bristles of his mustache twitching as he laid eyes on Harry. The woman's eyebrows rose slightly, her gaze flicking over his person as though she were expecting someone bigger. Looking scared, her eyes returned to the clip board.

 

The man with the briefcase spoke. His voice was high, nasal. He sounded confused. “ _Acesta este omul?_ ”

 

Harry's guard grunted in reply.

 

The men went back and forth, talking about him. The briefcase fellow's voice was giving Harry a headache, while the guard's timbre vibrated his chest, rattling around in his aching head. The sensation made him vaguely nauseated. Or maybe that was the medication. Mr. Briefcase gestured repeatedly to Harry, shaking his head as he spoke, tone rising.

 

Harry took a step forward. “I'm not—”

 

The rest of his sentence was cut off as the guard struck him at the side of the neck, bringing him down to his knees. Behind her clipboard, the woman flinched. Mr. Briefcase's mustache ruffled, though the expression on his face made it clear he was glad Harry got no closer.

 

From the floor, Harry put his hands up, ducking his head, signaling he meant no harm. A meaty hand clamped over the top of his head, holding him down. The stone floor bit at his knees with cold. But he stayed where he was.

 

The guard and Briefcase exchanged a few curt sentences. Harry was getting the impression that Briefcase was either his court-appointed barrister or some type of government official responsible for his welfare. Harry couldn't tell how much the man was actually on his side. Both Mr. Briefcase and Clipboard Woman seemed almost absurdly frightened of him. He was a tiny, unarmed English bloke by all appearances; drugged, beaten up and wandless, he didn't reckon himself much of a threat.

 

Eventually, the woman spoke. “ _Onu_ _jachetă de piele,_ ” she said, reaching into a box on the table and pulling out his leather jacket. She continued in Moldovan, indicating several long rips along the back of the garment, pointing each one out with the tip of her pen. She highlighted a hole running through one pocket. Harry recognized it as caused by a spell but to a muggle, it probably looked more like a bullet hole.

 

Next the woman produced Harry's gun and wand, the latter enchanted with a sophisticated Notice-Me-Not Concealment Charm so that muggles would only see a gun rather than a wand. With his military-issue Glock, the extended magazine had been removed and placed in a smaller, separate plastic bag—like evidence from a crime scene. Were they prosecuting him? He didn't dare open his mouth to ask. He had a feeling that speaking up would result in his guard crushing his Chosen skull with one hand. And he'd never make it out of here with multiple head injuries.

 

Unlike the Glock, his wand was in its own solo bag. By the look on the woman's face and the way Mr. Briefcase gestured, it appeared the muggles saw some type of pistol thanks to Leon's charms, but couldn't remove the ammunition from the gun-image they saw, as there were no detachable portions of his wand to mimic removable parts. Probably flummoxed their ears off. They certainly looked it.

 

He thought of Summoning his wand to-hand like Draco—like Luke Skywalker calling his trusty light saber to his side from across the room. With a wand, surely he could escape! But he was too drugged, too groggy to even try, and the guard would probably break his arm—if not his neck—should he move a muscle without the giant man's consent.

 

Next out of the box was his water bottle and sweatshirt, also torn at the back by animal claws. With each item, the woman made a note on her clipboard, tallying his possessions. They were taking an inventory of his things.  _Taking everything away_ , Harry thought,  _before they lock me in a cell and throw away the key._

 

It wasn't long before the guard was wrestling Harry out of his shirt, trainers and trousers. He was knocked on his arse, socks removed, and then his pants—boxers tugged down his pale, hairy legs with a rather rude amount of force. Harry did his best not to fight the man. His neck still throbbed where he'd been hit last; his stitches lit themselves on fire every time he moved and he didn't need to black out from the pain.

 

His arse was freezing on the cold stone floor but he stayed down, hands where they could be seen. The guard hooked hard, meaty hands under Harry’s armpits, hauling him back to his feet.

 

The woman blushed upon seeing his bits. She turned away, using her wooden clipboard to shield her eyes; but then she peeked over the top of it, ogling him. Mr. Briefcase's mustache gave a quiver, his brows rising.

 

There was a plastic  _snap_ —the guard pulling on a purple latex glove. He gave Harry a funny once-over look. It left his skin crawling.

 

Without ceremony, Harry was bent over the rickety table, the guard's unforgiving hand to the back of his neck, holding him down. It squeezed, vice-like, menacing, advising him not to fight. Harry suspected this vindictive bull of a man might enjoy that type of thing. The guard's other hand—the one with the medical glove—was at Harry's hip, tracing down, over the curve of his bum. Suddenly, before his drug-addled brain could catch up, a meaty finger was shoved inside him.

 

“Woah! I don't even get a kiss first?” Harry spluttered uncontrollably, snark escaping his lips. He couldn't help himself; it was a reflex. When touched  _back there_ , so intimately, he had no choice but to be himself.

 

He felt his magic kick in, then, relaxing his muscles and even—to his mortification and the guard's utter confusion—providing a dash of lubricant. Now slippery, the guard's digits slid further inside him without resistance. Harry felt his face pinkening. The guard would think he'd been taking it up the rear—rather recently! The burly man cleared his throat, loud, his fingers freezing in their duty. Darkly, Harry sort of wished he could see the expression on the man's ugly face. “Shock” wouldn't begin to describe....

 

Harry's eyes flittered around, unfocused, while his captors rooted around inside him for contraband. There was writing on the side of the box containing his personal items; tidy, even penmanship in a combination of Latin and Cyrillic alphabet. He couldn't make enough of it out. In front of him, Mr. Briefcase's trousers were a tad loose, bunching under the belt at his waist. The woman had turned away. Harry observed the ample sway of her backside as his own was probed.

 

Of course his magic was helping him now, with this: not before, when his life was on the line, or back in the medical wing, where he might've managed an escape before his formal incarceration. Perhaps it was because he'd practiced sex magic longer than all the spells Leon had taught him. Or perhaps it was because this was the type of magic he liked best, felt most comfortable and intimate with. Maybe it was just his body kicking in, protecting him, like that time he'd accidentally Apparated to the school roof to escape Dudders' gang. This was only slightly more embarrassing.

 

Harry's eyes began to water when the guard spread his fingers, giving them a twist to make sure Harry wasn't hiding anything up there—drugs, or perhaps another wand. He wished he was. Draco's prick was the length of a decent wand. Harry could probably hide one if he tried... might walk a little funny, though. He tried to breathe as best he could as the guard worked his fingers around.

 

Their thickness pulled away at last. Harry sighed, muttering darkly, “Normally I have a two-drink minimum....”

 

That flip earned him a punch to the tailbone and a curt warning.

 

Another big man beating on him, trying to frighten him, to put him in his place. Wasn’t that the story of his life? Except he wasn’t afraid anymore. Somewhere in the war he’d lost that child who cowered at raised voices or clenched fists. Even wandless, naked, Harry refused to cower for even a second.

 

He was done blaming other people for his situation—because blame gave them power.

 

A cold fury-fire busrt forth, flooding his veins. Harry knew his power was in his other-ness; wizardry, magic, the occult… and his terrifying new weapon, his budding homosexuality.

 

Squaring his shoulders firmly, Harry stood upright. He turned around—looking the guard right in the eye—and smiled coquettishly.

 

“We should do this again sometime,” he smirked, waggling his brows, a soft sway to his hips.

 

All three Moldovans looked absolutely mortified. While they didn't understand his words, his tone and body language were nothing short of blatant. They were all thinking he was a poof, a pillow-biter, shirt-lifter, uphill gardener. And their thoughts didn't bother him at all. The fact that he was different gave him power. And he reveled in it.

 

Flirting with the man who’d struck him was surely an indication of madness. He was either crazy, or he simply did not give a shit what they might do to him. Either way, he was unstoppable. Now they knew, they might cage him, they might strip him and beat him, but they stood no chance of controlling him.

  

“Draco.”

 

Harry's head snapped around—he couldn't help himself at the sound of that name. Any mention of his wizard-husband set his veins on fucking fire. Harry's heart slid up to lodge in his throat. Mr. Briefcase pointed from the tattoo on Harry's forearm, to Harry's face, to the clipboard. The man was trying so hard to disregard Harry's nudity, the exposure of his bits and wounds and ugly scars.

 

“...Draco,” he repeated, his finger jumping back to Harry, almost accusatory.

 

They had no ruddy idea who he was. So they were calling him Draco. Likely because the name was written on his arm—his only identifying mark besides his glasses, perhaps, and his collection of scars; a lightning bolt, Draco's teeth on his shoulder, whip marks and cuts, and the words “I must not tell lies.”

 

Briefcase used his pen to point at some papaerwork, raising his eyebrows. “Draco. _Balaur. Zmeu_.” The last was a word he recognized.

 

Harry winked at the man. “ _Da._ Z _meuleț._ ” He’d heard the word from Dmitry. It was Romanian for  _little dragon_. It was what Dima called Draco. 

 

A slow smile creased Harry's lips. “Draco. That's me.”

 

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Dressed in a plain, ill-fitting uniform of grey cotton, Harry was shoved head-first into a cinder block cell. He stumbled, catching himself against the bars as they slammed shut.

 

He wasn’t alone.

 

“ _Rodion_ ,” the guard barked. “ _Acesta este Zmeu_.”

 

A lanky fellow rose from the lower of two bunk beds. He wore the same baggy uniform, though his was at least the right length in the legs—not rolled up at the cuffs like Harry’s. The man had short, unevenly-cropped dark brown hair and a very round face. The lines around his mouth and eyes put him near forty. Harry thought the chap belonged in a library, not a muggle prison. But appearances could be deceiving. This man’s slouch could be for show. He could be concealing a knife. That slow smile moving over his features could be a killer’s grin.

 

He extended his hand. It was empty, his palm open and relatively clean. “ _Eu sunt Rodya_. _Care este numele tǎu_?”

 

Harry shook his head. “ _Puzhalsta_. I don’t speak Moldovan.”

 

“Engleesh!” the fellow’s face lit up. He smiled with a mouth full of slightly crooked teeth. The expression took a dozen years off his face. Harry quickly amended his assumption of the man’s age; he couldn’t be more than thirty. “Hello, hello! I am called Rodya.”

 

He offered his hand once more, emphatic. Harry took it. “I’m...” he thought better of giving out his name. “It’s probably best you not know my name, actually. I don’t plan on staying long.”

 

Rodya let out a short laugh. He dropped Harry’s hand, ruffling his own through his hair. He gestured towards the wall—towards outside, Harry realized. There were no windows in their little prison cell. The wind was whipping outside, blowing leaves and such against the other side of the cement walls. Wind rattled the roof in places, echoing down the long cell block. There were no windows anywhere that he could see, only concrete and steel and a sea of shadowed men in gray rags.

 

“Zhey call you Zhe Dragon.”

 

Harry shrugged. “It’s because I have a tattoo.”

 

Rodya’s head cocked in confusion. “ _Puzhalsta_. Ahh, vot is _tattoo_?”

 

Harry rolled up his sleeve, showing his arm.

 

“Ahh,” Rodya nodded his understanding. “ _Draco_ iz Latin vord. _Zmeu_ , Moldovan vord for dragon. You are _Zmeu_.” He pointed to Harry’s forearm even as he rolled his sleeve back down. “Iz special to you?”

 

Harry didn’t respond. Instead, he walked over to the bunk beds and began climbing to the upper mattress. He moved quite slowly, one peeling, rickety ladder rung at a time. Rodya didn’t move to stop him. But Rodya seemed like an agreeable-enough fellow. Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, letting his feet hang off the side. From this height, he was half a head taller than his cellmate. He met the fellow’s brown eyes, frankly looking him over.

 

“Er, what are you in for?” Harry asked to fill the mounting silence. He wasn’t sure if asking was a good idea, of course, but that didn’t stop the words from flying out of his mouth. Draco would have called it his damnable Gryffindor curiosity.

 

Rodya smiled sadly. “My brozer rob a bank. Zhen he comes to my house, to hide. _Politsiya_ chase him, he escape, and I am arrested at my vork.”

 

“So you didn’t exactly do anything wrong, then.”

 

Rodya folded his arms on the mattress next to Harry. He rested his chin against his wiry forearms, hunching, looking away. “My brozer is not good man. I know zhis. I did not know he steals from a bank but… I know my brozer. I hide him anyvay, knowing vot I know. Vos my choice.”

 

Harry understood the sentiment. “He’s your brother.”

 

Rodya exhaled, slow and noisy. His gaze was vacant, staring at the stone wall. It was dark, with no light in their little cell. They relied on a bare bulb hung several meters down the hall. Weak light filtered through the bars, making lines on the foreigner’s face. Or perhaps Harry was the foreigner, trapped here in a strange land. It was serendipity that his cellmate even spoke English.

 

Rodya let out another long sigh. “I am old enough to know. But perhaps not zmart enough to act. Zo I am here, and my brozer runs.”

 

He pushed away from the cot, gathering his hands at his back. He leaned against the wall instead, tall and worn, considering Harry at length. “And vot did zhe Dragon do to get himzelf in a cage?”

 

Harry considered his words carefully, saying only what was necessary. “I was attacked and injured. Hurt. I couldn’t get away fast enough.”

 

Rodya smirked at him; an owl’s grin, all cocked head, crooked smile and big eyes cutting through the dark. “If zhat iz how you like... zhat iz vot I vill believe.”

 

Harry needed to change the subject before his cellmate poked any deeper into his story. “What did you do? For work, I mean.”

 

“I do not know zhe English vord,” Rodya stretched his hands over his flat stomach, drumming on the muscles there as he searched his memory. He worked his long fingers in a way which reminded Harry of Draco—long digits twisting against one another, bending, cracking, knuckles protruding, veins visible. Harry had to look away, off through the bars. “My vork iz a greenery. Ve grow plants to zell. I make zhe flowers to be different colors, or grow bigger, or be alive in zhe cold.”

 

“You’re a botanist,” Harry filled in. “At a greenhouse, or a nursery, maybe.” Rodya nodded. Harry licked his lips. “I have a friend called Neville—he’s a botanist of sorts. Works with some unusual plants. Got attacked by a vine, once....”

 

Rodya brows pinched. It took him a moment before he offered, “You do not zay vot  _you_  do, Dragon.”

 

“Like I said,” Harry replied. He cracked a grin; it was entirely for show. “I’m not gonna be here long. So don’t get attached, yeah?”

 

Rodya laughed.

 

Down the block, a deep voice gave a brusk shout. Then the lights shut off, electricity rattling around the bulbs in a sudden pitch black.

 

Harry rolled back onto his cot, pulling a flimsy, smelly blanket over himself—as though he were back in his cupboard at the Dursleys, curled into a ball to keep warm.

 

Rodya sat down on the mattress beneath him. The bed frame creaked. Harry felt his perch sway as the taller man settled down for the night.

 

“Goodnight, Dragon,” Rodya teased in a sing-song voice. “Goodnight moon and goodnight stars. Goodnight to clouds, to Orion, to zhe dog, and thrones in zhe sky.”

 

Against his better judgment, Harry smiled. “Goodnight, poet. I’ll probably be gone in the morning. Try not to miss me.”

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

Harry woke. There were no lights or clocks or even an outside to tell time by. Instinctively, he reached for his wand, ready to cast a Tempus Charm. Then the cold from his fingers and toes crept up to his bollocks and he shivered—a hard twitch which set the bed frame to creaking. He remembered where he was with a sudden jolt.

 

He was trapped in a third-world prison. He would have to escape. The haze of muggle medication was fading with morning, and he could finally assess his situation properly. He was wounded and unarmed in a muggle prison: escape was his only option.

 

Leon would be furious if he left their prototype gun behind; but Leon’s rage could be dealt with. It would be difficult to get his wand and gear back, but near impossible to engineer an escape without it. He needed magic. That was his only way out.

 

Harry let the dark wash over him—slowed his breathing, putting all of his energy into engineering his escape.

 

Apparating would be fastest, he decided. But his magic would be weak without a wand to focus it. He would need magic, though, if he hoped to get his wand back. They would have it in storage—probably an evidence locker of sorts. Hopefully it was on-site. He would have to make inquiries. Meanwhile, he had only wandless magic with which to defend himself; and he would have to defend himself sooner or later. This was hostile territory. As if his size didn’t make him enough of a target, he was noticeably injured, too—a bandage at his temple, stitches all along his back and likely a limp, judging by the stiffness radiating from his knee up to his hip. His wounds burned, slowing him down. The moment the bars of his cell opened, he would be everyone’s first target.

 

He had to get out. The sooner the better. But he would need magic if he wanted to make it alive.

 

It was best to start with something small, then. He glanced down, twisting the wedding ring on his finger, spelled to be invisible. Draco had placed the charm to conceal it when they’d parted. The spell was like carrying a tiny piece of Draco along with him. And though he was loathe to undo it, he knew his husband would understand.

 

He exhaled, focusing himself to the task at hand.

 

“ _Finite Incantatum_ ,” he mouthed. “ _Finite Incantatum_.” Until the lights came on, he tried.

 

 

\- - -

 

 

 

The lights were too bright at first, after a night of darkest black. Cell blocks sprang to life. Big, hairy men who stank like shit rolled out of their beds, some shirtless, most painted in swirling lines of crude prison ink. They lumbered out of their cells to wait in the hall, meaty hands outstretched. They were each handed a piece of fruit or a slice of bread. Harry was given an apple, Rodya a small pear. The men began to eat as they were marched down the hall. The sound of their feet trudging and the guard’s taunts echoed down the long corridor. Aside from the guards in uniform, no one spoke. They chewed and they walked.

 

Dirt crunched under his feet. They had yet to give him shoes.

 

Head ducked down and keeping low, Harry watched men communicate with their eyes. With huge hands, they swapped food and contraband beneath the guards’ noses. Harry smelled tobacco and smoke, saw the metal flash of a needle. He averted his eyes, looking straight ahead and seeing nothing.

 

They were lined up, backs against the wall, hands clasped at their fronts, eyes down. Harry mirrored the pose of the other men, keeping a low profile beside Rodya. He curled the core of his hastily eaten apple in his palm.

 

A guard came by with a clipboard. He sauntered down the line, calling names. Men stepped forward. Suddenly Rodya shouldered Harry forward, stepping up beside him a second later.

 

The guard barked at them: Rodya held his hands up, gesturing between himself and Harry, speaking rapid and low. Harry kept his gob shut until the guard looked at him, brows raised, expectant.

 

“ _Puzhalsta_ ,” Harry articulated slowly. “I don’t understand.”

 

Down the line, someone cat-called him. A guard surged forward, punching the fellow in the gut. He doubled over and didn’t speak again. His mates snickered.

 

Rodya acted as Harry’s translator. A few more words, spoken quick and even, and the guard rolled his eyes in consent, gesturing Harry and his cellmate through a doorway with heavy locks.

 

Through an unlit hall, they were delivered to what had once been a cafeteria. The room held several round lunchroom-style tables with corresponding stools, all bolted to the floor, and in the distance Harry could see a kitchen stripped of appliances. All meals would be raw, it seemed.

 

Their escort shoved them down at a table in the corner, next to a window covered over in bars. It was like being at the Dursleys—a child, locked up and helpless, all over again. It made Harry’s blood run slow and hot, pulsing in his neck. Harry left his hands on the table, fiddling with his apple core until the guard walked away.

 

Outside, the wind whipped. It looked like rain.

 

“What was that about?” Harry whispered.

 

Rodya leaned. “Your accent. You are foreign, have education. Zhey zhink you do not belong here.”

 

Harry kept his face like stone, showing no reaction. “And what do you think?”

 

Silence. Rodya licked his lips, head down. Harry peered around for guards but found none.  

 

“It has been a long time, _Zmeu_ , zince vot I think counted for anyzhing. _Spatsieba_.”

 

“ _Puzhalsta_ ,” he replied. The word meant both _please_ and _you’re welcome_.

 

Harry folded his arms on the table, pillowing his head. He hadn’t slept well, and his back hurt almost as much as his leg. Whatever they’d given him for the pain had clearly worn off. Every stitch pulled at his skin. He’d favored wizarding medicine before; now, anything less seemed barbaric in comparison.

 

“You came with me,” Harry observed. “As my translator? Or because you’re curious?”

 

Rodya showed no emotion, either. Strange, as he seemed like a man full of feeling. Prison had hardened him, and in public he was like Harry—without feeling or sentiment, since an ounce of either could get you killed.

 

He shrugged. “A little of both, Dragon.”

 

Soon a door at the other side of the hall opened, and civilians entered. It was almost strange to see colors other than navy and gray. They were surrounded by it. A mustached man in a dress shirt, checkered tie, and yellow jumper made a beeline for Harry. It took him a moment to recognize the fellow without his briefcase—the man from yesterday, when he’d been strip-searched and admitted to prison.

 

“ _Zdravstvujtye_ ,” the fellow greeted Harry first.

 

“ _Zdravo,_ ” Harry answered, rising to shake the hand he was offered.

 

“ _Dobroye utro,_ ” Rodya extended his hand a moment later, hastily explaining his presence. Once again, he gestured between himself and Harry, murmuring many of the same low, quick words. The newcomer nodded, indicating the stools bolted to the floor, that they might all sit down to talk.

 

Rodya turned to Harry. “Zhis man iz Mr. Guzun. He iz, how-you-say, for insurance of prison zafety. He iz speaker for prizoners to zhe courts.”

 

“One man,” Harry balked, “for this entire prison?”

 

“Guzun is for three prisons. Ve are lucky....”

 

“Fucking hell,” Harry puffed.

 

Mr. Guzun tapped Rodya’s arm for his attention. His chin jutted towards Harry as he spoke.

 

“Guzun vants to know vot he should call you,” Rodya explained. “Papervork cannot go vithout a name.”

 

Harry held his cellmate’s gaze. “Wodda ya think?” He raised a solitary brow.

 

Rodya swung back to Guzun. “ _No,_ ” he announced, followed by something which made the man’s mustache twitch as he laughed. He shuffled his papers a moment, checked a box with a ratty muggle pen, and then looked up. There was no more mirth in his features as he spoke.

 

After he finished, the botanist translated.

 

“He zays he iz zorry for zhe vay you have been treated. Does zhat make zense?” Harry nodded. “He zays iz clear you are not accustomed to prisons. He zhinks you are vealthy foreigner, zhat zhis might be... mizunderstanding?”

 

Harry blinked. “Damn right.”

 

Guzun spoke again. The more he said, the straighter Rodya sat, until it was as though there were a board strapped to his back, forcing him to strictest attention. He blinked rapidly before rounding on Harry.

 

“Zhey found you vith dead men?!”

 

“They attacked us first,” Harry blurted. Defenciveness was an automatic reaction of his after years of being barked at by Uncle Vernon and Severus Snape. It was hard to keep his mouth shut sometimes. Quickly Rodya relayed his words. “Fuck,” Harry murmured. His head fell once again to his arms.

 

Rodya was back. “Vot vere you doing in Moldova?”

 

“I wasn’t  _in_  Moldova,” Harry replied tersely. “We were near the border but on the Romanian side. Where we belonged.”

 

Rodya and Guzun put their heads together. Twice it seemed, Rodya refused to ask a question—or insisted Harry wouldn’t answer should he bother to ask it. They settled on something, and Rodya opened his mouth. Harry was getting used to watching those crooked teeth as they deciphered the world for him.

 

“Vhy did you come to  _Rumyniya_ , zhen?”

 

Harry told the truth... at least, a part of it.

 

“We came looking for a young woman—Darya Gregorovitch. She disappeared about eighteen months ago. I’m a friend of the family. I hoped I could get a lead, maybe find out what happened to her. We were going around asking people in the area if they’d seen or heard anything. Then we were attacked on the road.”

 

“Ve?”

 

Harry nodded. “There was another man with me. Big fellow, brown hair—he was wearing a blue jacket. Ask Guzun.” He jerked his chin. It was only fair: information for information.

Upon hearing, Guzun shook his head. Rodya translated even as the older man spoke.

 

“He vos dead vhen zhey found you, Dragon—everyone vos. Bullets, and wounds like a bear. Zhey brought you to ‘ospital. Maybe zhat iz how you cross zhe border? Guzun zay you almost die.”

 

Harry looked away. He’d cost Vitya his life; Viktor Novikov, up-and-coming Chaser for Ukraine National. Friend. Brother. And now martyr. Harry felt numb. His brain wouldn’t take the information, like a vending machine spitting his pound note back at him. Something inside him refused to believe. But it had been two dozen against two—Death Eaters versus teenagers—and one of their opponents had been Vitya’s own brother. They hadn’t stood a chance.

 

Harry’s guts churned. Apple stung his throat, and this time the flavor held no sweet memory of Draco. It burned.

 

“Who vos he?” Rodya asked. Guzun was leaning forward, looking equally concerned. “Vhere should zhe morgue zend his body?”

 

Harry chewed his lip. He took off his glasses, rubbing his face with his hands. His fingers smelled like apple. Spots danced behind his eyes, silver and red and white. His leg throbbed, back ached, head spun so violently he wondered how he’d fare when he stood. He could feel the world crashing down around his ears, swishing like owls wings and robes in narrow corridors, his victory carried away. They were losing. Witches and wizards were dying all around him with no end in sight. His hands shook.

 

“I can’t tell you,” he managed. His voice came strangled and thin. “I honestly can’t... they would find me—the people who attacked us. They’re worse than the thugs in here—they’d kill every last man and break down the walls, just to get to me. And believe me, they could.” He choked down the panic rising like vomit in his throat, put a clamp on his emotions, bringing himself down enough to think clearly. He had to protect himself, had to stay alive, to have any chance of getting out.

 

The muggles couldn’t help him. He had to do this on his own. He peeked through his fingers at Rodya, sitting close, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to hear this shit. I’m sorry you’ve been dragged into this. I’m sorry you’re the only person who speaks fucking English in this Goddamn  _piss hole_  country.” He pounded a fist against the table, and the apple core rolled. “But the less I say, the better. The less you know, the better. My friend... his name was Novikov.” It was a very common surname, like Williams or Brown. There were probably thousands of them. Harry felt safe in saying it.  “He has no family left—burn his body. His possessions, too. That’s what he would want. He was Orthodox, so give him a proper burial. You know, with a priest.”

 

Harry stood. “That’s it, then. We’re done here.” He turned to go. Guzun grabbed his arm, jibbering.

 

“He vants to know,” Rodya swallowed, “if zhey hurt you?”

 

Harry didn’t have to think. “I’ve had worse.”

 

 

~ * ~

 

 

Outside the crumbling old prison building was a large patch of dead grass and concrete surrounded by three meter high fencing which presumably passed as a prison yard. There were perhaps three or four park-bench-style tables and precious little shade to be had. Tall concrete towers marched along the fence line at regular intervals. The prison guards atop those towers were armed with rifles, binoculars, and attitudes nearly as bad as the prisoners milling about below their watchful eyes.

 

After their interview with Guzun, Harry and Rodya were delivered to this cold, damp yard. The wind whipped, bringing with it the smell of the nearby mountins and the promise of more rain.

 

It felt like the day he’d arrived at muggle primary school—small and broken, wearing too-big hand-me-down clothes, all eyes turning to survey him with what was now life-threatening calculation. This time, rather than feeling his guts drop into his knees and wanting to hide, Harry met each gaze as it raked over his body.

 

Wand or not, he knew how to fight. Injured or not, he’d put up his fists. That was just who he was—his damnable Gryffindor stubbornness and pride, as Draco would call it.

 

The other prisoners reacted as one; subtle shifting of weight from their heels to the balls of their feet, the shaking and limbering of muscles, slight gestures and eye movements to their fellow gang members that fresh meat had arrived.

 

Beside him, Rodya moaned softly. He attempted to take Harry’s arm and lead him to the side of the yard, where they might be less obtrusive.

 

Harry snorted, easily sliding his elbow away, deflecting the six foot Romanian man as though he were a child asking for Harry’s attention. Standing in the corner wasn’t going to deter attention. At a hundred and sixty five centimeters tall, eleven stone, and injured as he was, Harry was about to be everyone’s favorite punching bag. Didn’t matter where he stood.

 

All eyes upon him, his head held high, Harry strode into the very center of the yard, allowing a rare beam of sunlight to find his back, a physical heat to match the stares which followed him.

 

His eyes scanned the yard, assessing his odds. There were at least fifty men. They stood in cliques of five or ten, each gang seeming to have a leader—or at least a hot head whose orders the rest followed. The leaders of each group began to eye each other rather than Harry, waiting to see who would approach first.

 

From a tiny patch of shade in the yard, a man stood; like a boulder unfolding, he seemed to rise out of the ground. Even without the benefit of sunlight, his muscles seemed to glisten as as he stepped forward. The man was over six feet, with dark hair and a scarred face covered in part by an overgrown beard. Apparently only certain prisoners were trusted with shaving razors, and this man wasn’t one of them. He flexed his huge body, cracking his knuckles as he made his way across the yard. The men with him followed dutifully, stretching their own limbs, ready for a fight.

 

The only thing Harry’s training told him was that he didn't stand a chance. Not without magic, anyway. He was injured—perhaps more severely than his looks let on. He could already feel himself weakening from the lack of his regular steroid shot compounded by the beating he'd taken out on the road. By the ache in his bones, it had to have been two days ago. He couldn't be sure. But the telltale stiffness and sluggishness of reflexes had set up in full-force. Perhaps, at his peak condition, he might have been able to outmaneuver the man in hand-to-hand. But it his current state.... No. Magic would be his only salvation.

 

And here he was without his wand.

 

What was it Draco had told the Ravenclaw door about a man without his wand? That he was reduced to a muggle, frightened, powerless... or in love. Because emotion, Harry knew, made people do some rather crazy things. Unthinkable things.  _Impossible_  things. Like wandless magic—Endopathotic magic. That was what he would have to do: let his instincts take over and hope that, when the time arrived and his body sensed he was in danger, his gift would kick in and save his hide as it had done when he was a child. This was perhaps more severe than Dudders' gang or a bad haircut courtesy of Aunt Petunia and her overzealous shears. He hoped his magic could take that into account and respond accordingly. He didn't fancy having his face smashed in by the Welcoming Committee.

 

Harry stood his ground as the big man neared, and began to speak. His voice was so deep Harry felt it in his bare feet against the wet earth; a soft vibration which might rattle any fragile objects nearby. The men behind him jeered.

 

The big fellow cracked his knuckles. He was Serbian.

 

Harry Potter knew a sum total of four phrases in Serbian: _hello, bitch, mother fucker_ , and “I am fucking your God out of the Heavens with my penis.”

 

None of these were going to help him.

 

Harry spoke to Rodya through the side of his mouth. “I feel it’s only fair to warn you that we may be murdered in our beds tonight.”

 

His bunkmate nodded grimly. “Make it good, zhen.”

 

Harry let fly his fight-inducing phrase of choice, “ _U pitchku materinu!”_ Literally,  _return to your mother’s cunt_.

 

It had the desired effect. He was ducking a mighty fist before anyone could blink, before Rodya could break out laughing. He shifted to avoid the second blow, popping up to land a solid cut to the fellow’s bearded chin. A meaty fist swung, missing his own cheek by centimeters. The Serb was fast for a big guy… but not quite as fast as Harry, even injured as he was. He could dodge just about anything the man threw, sneaking in for a hit of his own and then back out of striking range before the brute knew what had broken his rib.

 

Then he heard heavy footfalls—the guards, summoned by the cheers and shouts breaking out around them, the hooting, fist-pumping and clapping. Money was tossed to the ground, betting on who would win.

 

Shots rang out from the observation tower. Each guard carried a loud, fully automatic assault rifle; their bullets sprayed the dry dirt of the yard, kicking up dust around the prisoners’ knees. Every man dropped to the ground, face-first into the dust clouds. Rodya, blood on his lips, took Harry by his collar in an attempt to drag him down—and avoid getting shot.

 

Harry got one last strike. Using the inertia of Rodya’s pulling, Harry pivoted, his torso dropping to give force to a rising kick. As the Serb lunged forward for one last punch, the hard heel of Harry’s foot connected with his temple. The huge man slumped in an unconscious heap that shook the ground as Harry let his momentum carry himself too down to the dirt.

 

Bullets struck the ground half a meter from his face, kicking up splatters of mud so thick it was impossible to breathe without getting muck up one’s nose. Harry wished for a Bubble Head Charm as the taste of dirt hit his lips. Rodya covered his head, curling into an impossibly small ball. Harry did likewise. He had plenty of experience with the fetal position after the arse-kickings he used to take from Dudders, his gang, and occasionally Uncle Vernon. Except these bullies had firearms.

 

Another spray of bullets. If ever there was a time for spontaneous Apparition... damn Endopathotic magic! Never there when you needed it.

 

Someone was yelling over a megaphone. Rodya tugged Harry to his feet, demonstrating how he should put his hands to the back of his head and join a queue. The prisoners were trudged back indoors, their recreational time ended for the day.

 

Harry was never so relieved to hear a cell door slam shut. Locks and iron meant no muggles could kill him. Confinement and anonymity were the only things keeping him alive.

 

But he needed to get out. Before someone in here managed to kill him. Or worse—if the Death Eaters managed to find him here, unarmed and functionally helpless. His time was running out.

 

His cellmate peered at him in the dim light cast by the single bare light bulb in the hallway. The tall, thin man was silhouetted by it. Rodya looked markedly like Sirius had after breaking out of Azkaban—grizzled, dirty and hard. Hardened by the things he’d lived through, the creatures he’d lived with, and by the heavy heart of a man wrongfully punished. A place like this could steal the humanity from even the kindest of hearts. And still Harry could see the concern on Rodya’s face.

 

“You are good fighter, Dragon. Very good.” He licked blood from his teeth, searching for his next word in English. “Dangerous. You study fighting many years, yes?”

 

Harry said nothing in reply. The less anyone knew the better.

 

Rodya pressed on, peering to make out his face. Harry stood in the darkest part of the cell, furthest from the light. “So, vhere you come from… how many people vant to kill you?”

 

 _Hundreds_ , Harry mused. How many Death Eaters were there? Maybe two thousand, no more than three or four thousand the world-over. And every last one of them fanatic enough to slit Harry Potter’s throat as he slept if they had the good fortune to find him defenceless in bed one night.

 

Then he thought about it. There were a lot more than Death Eaters who wished him dead. The simple detail that he fancied Draco’s prick up his bum tended to make a great many people irrationally angry, considering he wasn’t doing it with their todgers or bums. There were a lot of people out in the world who would let him starve and die just for that fact.

 

But it was best not to tell his cellmate he sucked a mean dick. Poor Rodya might get the wrong idea.

 

“Most people I meet develop the urge sooner or later,” Harry pointed out instead—taking a queue from Draco’s social smoothness, deflecting any comment that came too close with a strong dose of humor. “Must be my personality.”

 

He expected to get a laugh for that. Instead Rodya was at the bars, waving his arms to get a guard’s attention. Harry tried to drag the man back into their cell, but his stitches twinged something awful and he retreated, gasping.

 

Rodya swore fantastically. The guard arriving shortly there-after swore, too. That was when Harry registered that the growing dampness causing his shirt to cling to his back was not mud or perspiration but in fact blood. His own blood. It trickled down his arm, dripping off his smallest finger. He must’ve ripped his stitches open fighting in the yard.

 

The guard opened their cell, gesturing Harry and Rodya out into the hall.

 

Standing at the mouth of their safe-haven, a silhouette in the dim golden light, Rodya extended his arm, wiggling fingers, smiling sadly. “Come vith me, stoopid Englishman. Back to ‘ospital.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations: For The Curious**  
>  “ _Scuze, Zaytsev. Pacienţi meu este treaz_.” Excuse me, Zaystev. My patient is awake.  
>  “ _Bine. Voi lua pe bărbat să inchisoare_.” Good. I’ll take him to his cell.  
>  “ _Aşa mic tâmpit este Engleza?_ ” So the little fucker is English?  
> “ _Mereu mi-a plăcut sunetul accentului lor..._ ” I've always liked the sound of their accents...  
> “ _Îmi datorezi patruzeci de leu_.” You woe me forty leu.  
>  “ _Mănânci căcat, Zaystev. Cineva vorbeste aici Engleza?_ ” You’re full of shit, Zaystev. Do we have anyone who speaks English?  
> “ _Acesta este omul?_ ” This is the man?  
> “ _Acesta este Zmeu_.” Meet the Dragon.


End file.
